By CHRIS PACKHAM
David Paul Kuhn at The Politico peers into his political crystal ball and huffs some jenkem from his political mayonnaise jar and wonders why Barack Obama's lead in the polls over John McCain isn't even larger, without explaining how he knows what Obama's poll numbers "should" be. If Kuhn's such a sideshow psychic, shouldn't he be fighting his addiction to fermented sewage while using his powers to help the police capture a vicious serial killer who preys on poor, yet telegenic women and who leaves the ace of diamonds at the scene of every crime? Coming up next on CSI: Jenkem Psychic Unit. Also: Via the M.C. Escher logic that suggest that it's bad for Obama to be ahead in the polls, shouldn't Kuhn also explain why it's really, really good for McCain to be behind in the polls? I freely admit that I am no pollster, and I totally do not know how to calculate the standard deviation, but it's also true that I never huff jenkem, except maybe socially, if they're passing a mayonnaise jar around at a party.
Not to change the subject, but last night I had a dream that I was fitted for, and bought, an expensive double-breasted suit made out of denim. First of all, you guys, obviously, denim! But I also genuinely hate double-breasted jackets, and would never have worn something like that in the first place. All of this is part of my new policy of transforming Daily Briefs into my "dream journal" — because I love shaking things up with game-changing surprises! After the jump, I reconsider and just say some shitty things about Phill Kline and a writer for Forbes — business as usual, pretty much. Click here, or on poor old Phill Kline:
You Shall Know Us By Our Dorky Personal Transportation: The filthy hemp-wearing hippies at Forbes have mounted another tree-hugging assault on the suburbs. In a boring example of "stunt journalism," whereby a reporter attempts to do something really unconventional for a predetermined length of time, Andy Greenburg spent three days tooling around Durham, North Carolina on a Segway. The unsurprising conclusion is that it's impossible to get around on a Segway in the suburbs, which jenkem-huffing psychic Nostradamus predicted 500 years ago.
I'm on the Mo side of the MoKan divide, and I used to vote at the retirement community near my house. Those old people did something to piss off the precinct officials this year, and now the election board has moved my polling place into the new Grand Slam liquor store. They swore in a bunch of homeless guys as poll workers. The store's staff functioned as independent poll-watchers, monitoring the impartiality of the voting process while activating the gas pumps, selling scratchers and making change. If you've ever imagined casting votes for Jackson County Sheriff or Missouri Attorney General inside of a busy gas station, it was pretty much what you'd expect. No surprises there. The homeless guy passing out the "I VOTED" stickers only had one arm, and he was peeling them off the roll with his front teeth. I said no thanks, bought a bottle of Smirnoff vodka and went home to wait for the returns.
Turnout was light in the MoKan primaries last night, and the heartbreaking news for people worried about the carryings-on and ruckuses and whatnot inside of other peoples' uteruses is that Johnson County District Attorney Phill Kline lost the Republican primary race to Steve Howe, a man he fired two years ago, HAHA. Guess Kline should have kept him on the payroll a bit longer. Given him a raise and some more responsibility. Let him take unmonitored bathroom breaks, or whatever. It wasn't even close; it was a 60-40 landslide. The results couldn't be more poetic unless they were actually in iambic pentameter, had "O!" and "betwixt" in them and rhymed. Tip for budding poets: Fetus rhymes with both treatise and margaritas. See what you can do with that, I guess. Tip for free-verse poets: Get a job, hippie.
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Wumble --
Super Flea is � no shit � a magnificent and terrifying flea market located here. It is owned by Skip Sleyster.
the trevor writing poetry is like Richard dreyfuss making a mountain in mashed potatoes, ie its a an assy runny confusing mess that has no clear point.
Who is this Super Flea toward whom Skip so fearfully genuflects? I've dug all through my Lovecraft, but it doesn't turn up anywhere.
O Chris your text this day about the Phill
is lower shit than common for your swill.
DeKlined is what the fetus becomes now
in death you cackle harsh aloud, and how,
at its wee helpless form because you see
a chance to exploit children sweet for thee.
Betwixt Facebook and jenkem is defined
The word of harm for children now refined.
So laugh you will at sixty forty now
as children rapists can maintain their vow.
I was a little disappointed now to see a mention of Steven Howe's other career as the world's most unattractive prog-rock guitarist.
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