9/8/2007, 1:06 am
Party Member Resorts
The Labor Day Weekend brings a tear to this Old Socialist's rheumy eyes. Memories of May Days of yesteryear, the barricades, 1789 which I remember as though it were yesterday. Dear Danton and Robespierre--such good company, always buying drinks for me with other people's money. Why once we ate so much rich food that we used Louis's lace to wipe our bums. Ah. Oh those were the days.
Ah. Those were the days. Versailles had its points, sure, and once I had the Hall of Mirrors reglazed to suit me I liked it a lot better, but I must confess that it did set a standard that I have come to expect, one that is fitting to un membre de partie de good standing, and one who has survived by the usual means while others have not. And there's the problem; more anon. The really difficult thing about la Belle France then was Marie Antoinette--Bruneau Gâteau de Boeuf got bitch-slapped by that silly little tart when he was trying on some of her gowns and the silly BEQ burst some of those seams. They didn't have good Chinese slave tailors then. The shrieking--quelle horreur! and Marie was nearly as loud. I had to be very firm with them both. Finally I'd had it with Louis, since he couldn't control that silly little tart--Roi du soleil shines out my ass--and gave my approval to Danton. A rather humorless chap you think at first, but that's before you get to know him. Why, his plans for a large gallows--24 gibbets, no waiting--wasn't improved on for centuries. And he only needed a little nudging, you know. At first it was le Compte this, le Duc that, heads will roll, yak, yak, yak, but soon I had convinced him that people with really bad hair ought to go too. And people who name their dogs Buddy or cats Soques.
(I just realized. Is Bruneau why Marie Antoinette said "Let them eat cake?")
But the fruits of those gibbets. How fat the birds got then off the carrion. The French will eat anything, you know. I spared some of Louis' chefs just for that purpose. Chickens fed on blueberries have nothing on this.
I know that you must think me remarkably well preserved, to have seen all this, but Vlad Tepes, the Impaler, and I ain't talking John Holmes, while he was having such a jolly time with those Ottomans, bodies on pikes you know, told me a secret while we were feasting in his castle redoubt, "It's the blood, Theocritus; it's the blood." Actually he had a pet name for me, Digiti Glutinosi because for some reason while we were wandering over all those Transylvanian mountains, the gold cups kept disappearing, but I didn't do it. I swear one of these days I'll get rid of that silly tart Breaucesceu. One day, while we were beating a hasty retreat, er, going to a vacation home, Breaucesceu had five pack horses so laden that two of them died but I fed them to the peasants who were so grateful for fresh meat that there is a stone cairn in a mountain pass praising my beneficence to this day.
Anyway, Vlad of Wallachia told me how to keep young, and I've followed his advice religiously, and I do mean religiously for if there's one thing that I'm religious about it's the great me; but for me the earth would fall into the sun and the galaxy would collapse into the black hole at its center and so far it's resisted that temptation with Rosie but that's just because I've kept her busy with a Needless Markup arc-welder.
It is the blood, you know, and the more the better and the more virginal the better. The equation is pretty simple: one rich white Republikkkan trust-fund heiress is worth a thousand Madonnas.
I passed this on to Countess Elizabeth Bathory--and it worked. But the silly woman just didn't go far enough afield for her peasant girls, and when she got the best maids on my Hungarian estate, I didn't care if she was a Bathory, I had her immured. Bathory Schmathory. Poach my proles, will you? But for me she'd have gotten away like Teddy K. I will not have my proles poached and I give fair warning to all of the Party Members.
But I still love you all. With the finest of Socialist Love. Come sit next to me. Bring your wallet.
It's this knowledge, hard won, but not for me of course--I'm a Party Member, perhaps the Party Member--Bruno what the hell did you put in that Harvey Feirsteinbanger?---that I'm now passing on to Our Many Titted Empress Hillary, a favor that I'm sure she will not forget after she is elevated to the godhead, with encomia showered on her by the Moonbat Flight. Yellow Rain. For after all, how else can she be Emerald Empress for Eternity for Ever and Ever? E5 has promised me my pick of the extras in Hollywood; she's very chummy with Michael Moore, you know, and he doesn't care because eating them doesn't interest him.
I went to Dallas over Labor Day to stay at the Adolphus and was horrified to find that they had actually booked other people while I was coming. Now I ask you: is that the way to treat The, er--Bruno! Goddamn it!--this lowly Party Member? The brass balls. I know how to stay at these places; that old fool Lawrence Walsh was just a piker. He'd book rooms over and below him, and on either side to cut down on the noise, but what about people walking in the hall? That's disturbing too especially if the carpet is thing. And also, what about the servants? I personally insist on ball gags so that they do not accost me with unwelcome sounds. Ask me if I've had enough? Don't they breed them to know anymore? Fortunately Bruno always travels with a large assortment of ball gags.
I was looking for granite for the Rancho del Rio Grande's tables. I got all of that gemstone-quality stuff that they had in Florence and Venice, but I just couldn't make the patterns work. Too busy, you know, and I tested the porosity. I really don't think that I could get them cleaned up after Mr. Reno, H8, Rosie and Babs Mikulski had a feast. Anna Quindlen was sobbing in a corner, but come to think of it she may have seen a dead fly and felt so sorry for it that it meant the world As We Know It would end and it was part of the Reagan/Gingrich/Bush/Ashcroft/Motel 6 terror. She's like that. The last time the Hag Ladies they came over for a feed, Bruno was sniggering about Skeksis but he'd just watched The Dark Crystal but I gotta hand it to them: there weren't any more coyotes to knobble my Limousin calves, but then there weren't any more calves to knobble either. Something there, I think. Must consider it when Bruno hasn't been serving me so many Kopechnes. (That's a drink dear Teddy taught me: Everclear and cubic zirconium served in an Oldsmobile-shaped shot glass. Utterly lethal.)
Anyway I got the granite, convincing them with my great powers of persuasion, and threat of suit if they didn't hold it, and soon it will be installed, if I can get the coyotes to pack in those stone masons from Oaxaca.
And this is a standing invitation to drop in. And I've even invited Barbra to sing. Bruno utterly hates that--her voice makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up but then it sure does clean out the rats and the roaches, and if you saw the state of the play room after the last usage of the Hildo Hydra 7.1, you'd really appreciate that. Of course the rats were looking a little peaked and beneath their usual form, but still, if it works, it works.
Y'all come!
The Labor Day Weekend brings a tear to this Old Socialist's rheumy eyes. Memories of May Days of yesteryear, the barricades, 1789 which I remember as though it were yesterday. Dear Danton and Robespierre--such good company, always buying drinks for me with other people's money. Why once we ate so much rich food that we used Louis's lace to wipe our bums. Ah. Oh those were the days.
Ah. Those were the days. Versailles had its points, sure, and once I had the Hall of Mirrors reglazed to suit me I liked it a lot better, but I must confess that it did set a standard that I have come to expect, one that is fitting to un membre de partie de good standing, and one who has survived by the usual means while others have not. And there's the problem; more anon. The really difficult thing about la Belle France then was Marie Antoinette--Bruneau Gâteau de Boeuf got bitch-slapped by that silly little tart when he was trying on some of her gowns and the silly BEQ burst some of those seams. They didn't have good Chinese slave tailors then. The shrieking--quelle horreur! and Marie was nearly as loud. I had to be very firm with them both. Finally I'd had it with Louis, since he couldn't control that silly little tart--Roi du soleil shines out my ass--and gave my approval to Danton. A rather humorless chap you think at first, but that's before you get to know him. Why, his plans for a large gallows--24 gibbets, no waiting--wasn't improved on for centuries. And he only needed a little nudging, you know. At first it was le Compte this, le Duc that, heads will roll, yak, yak, yak, but soon I had convinced him that people with really bad hair ought to go too. And people who name their dogs Buddy or cats Soques.
(I just realized. Is Bruneau why Marie Antoinette said "Let them eat cake?")
But the fruits of those gibbets. How fat the birds got then off the carrion. The French will eat anything, you know. I spared some of Louis' chefs just for that purpose. Chickens fed on blueberries have nothing on this.
I know that you must think me remarkably well preserved, to have seen all this, but Vlad Tepes, the Impaler, and I ain't talking John Holmes, while he was having such a jolly time with those Ottomans, bodies on pikes you know, told me a secret while we were feasting in his castle redoubt, "It's the blood, Theocritus; it's the blood." Actually he had a pet name for me, Digiti Glutinosi because for some reason while we were wandering over all those Transylvanian mountains, the gold cups kept disappearing, but I didn't do it. I swear one of these days I'll get rid of that silly tart Breaucesceu. One day, while we were beating a hasty retreat, er, going to a vacation home, Breaucesceu had five pack horses so laden that two of them died but I fed them to the peasants who were so grateful for fresh meat that there is a stone cairn in a mountain pass praising my beneficence to this day.
Anyway, Vlad of Wallachia told me how to keep young, and I've followed his advice religiously, and I do mean religiously for if there's one thing that I'm religious about it's the great me; but for me the earth would fall into the sun and the galaxy would collapse into the black hole at its center and so far it's resisted that temptation with Rosie but that's just because I've kept her busy with a Needless Markup arc-welder.
It is the blood, you know, and the more the better and the more virginal the better. The equation is pretty simple: one rich white Republikkkan trust-fund heiress is worth a thousand Madonnas.
I passed this on to Countess Elizabeth Bathory--and it worked. But the silly woman just didn't go far enough afield for her peasant girls, and when she got the best maids on my Hungarian estate, I didn't care if she was a Bathory, I had her immured. Bathory Schmathory. Poach my proles, will you? But for me she'd have gotten away like Teddy K. I will not have my proles poached and I give fair warning to all of the Party Members.
But I still love you all. With the finest of Socialist Love. Come sit next to me. Bring your wallet.
It's this knowledge, hard won, but not for me of course--I'm a Party Member, perhaps the Party Member--Bruno what the hell did you put in that Harvey Feirsteinbanger?---that I'm now passing on to Our Many Titted Empress Hillary, a favor that I'm sure she will not forget after she is elevated to the godhead, with encomia showered on her by the Moonbat Flight. Yellow Rain. For after all, how else can she be Emerald Empress for Eternity for Ever and Ever? E5 has promised me my pick of the extras in Hollywood; she's very chummy with Michael Moore, you know, and he doesn't care because eating them doesn't interest him.
I went to Dallas over Labor Day to stay at the Adolphus and was horrified to find that they had actually booked other people while I was coming. Now I ask you: is that the way to treat The, er--Bruno! Goddamn it!--this lowly Party Member? The brass balls. I know how to stay at these places; that old fool Lawrence Walsh was just a piker. He'd book rooms over and below him, and on either side to cut down on the noise, but what about people walking in the hall? That's disturbing too especially if the carpet is thing. And also, what about the servants? I personally insist on ball gags so that they do not accost me with unwelcome sounds. Ask me if I've had enough? Don't they breed them to know anymore? Fortunately Bruno always travels with a large assortment of ball gags.
I was looking for granite for the Rancho del Rio Grande's tables. I got all of that gemstone-quality stuff that they had in Florence and Venice, but I just couldn't make the patterns work. Too busy, you know, and I tested the porosity. I really don't think that I could get them cleaned up after Mr. Reno, H8, Rosie and Babs Mikulski had a feast. Anna Quindlen was sobbing in a corner, but come to think of it she may have seen a dead fly and felt so sorry for it that it meant the world As We Know It would end and it was part of the Reagan/Gingrich/Bush/Ashcroft/Motel 6 terror. She's like that. The last time the Hag Ladies they came over for a feed, Bruno was sniggering about Skeksis but he'd just watched The Dark Crystal but I gotta hand it to them: there weren't any more coyotes to knobble my Limousin calves, but then there weren't any more calves to knobble either. Something there, I think. Must consider it when Bruno hasn't been serving me so many Kopechnes. (That's a drink dear Teddy taught me: Everclear and cubic zirconium served in an Oldsmobile-shaped shot glass. Utterly lethal.)
Anyway I got the granite, convincing them with my great powers of persuasion, and threat of suit if they didn't hold it, and soon it will be installed, if I can get the coyotes to pack in those stone masons from Oaxaca.
And this is a standing invitation to drop in. And I've even invited Barbra to sing. Bruno utterly hates that--her voice makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up but then it sure does clean out the rats and the roaches, and if you saw the state of the play room after the last usage of the Hildo Hydra 7.1, you'd really appreciate that. Of course the rats were looking a little peaked and beneath their usual form, but still, if it works, it works.
Y'all come!
