By CHRIS PACKHAM
Oil of Old Ladies: Anchors Maria Antonia and Kelly Eckerman and reporter Peggy Breit are suing KMBC Channel 9,
alleging that the station has discriminated against them because of their age and gender. Meanwhile, management allows Larry Moore to go around looking like he opened up the ark of the covenant, but we're not supposed to talk about it or something. What's gone unspoken in this whole debate is that WDAF Fox 4 sparkle stallion Phil Witt has NOT AGED ONE SINGLE DAY since I was a kid. Seriously, he must be harvesting stem cells from virgins and rubbing them on his petal-soft, lily-white skin. Because that will completely halt aging, you guys.Taking a handsome cue from pretty Phil Witt, my plan is to age gracefully until I'm 45 and then start pretending to have Alzheimer's, so that I won't have to work at all. YES, that's Medicare fraud. What are you, Judge Reinhold? The nurses at the retirement community that the government will be forced to provide for my care will all come to the realization that "Mr. Packham's sundowning and wandering behaviors ease if you let him play BioShock on his XBox, but he starts punching if you take the controller away." But I realize Maria Antonia's long-term career goals are totally different from mine, and I hope she gets all that worked out.
After the jump, I blatantly pretend to confuse James Dobson with Fred Phelps, PLUS: The abrupt rejection of my application to The Kansas City Star's Midwest Voices blog. Click here or here:
Where's your 401K now, Moses? What with the econocalypse and the Obamacalypse and whatnot, there's not a lot of money in Focus on the Familying these days. Kids, pick something other than Gay Hate Studies when you're registering for college, because the floor has completely dropped out of that whole thing. The Christian political advocacy organization eliminated 202 jobs yesterday, the biggest round of layoffs in its 32-year history. Those workers were totally doing it for the love of their ignorant gay hatred and not at all for money. Totally do not worry about them.
Instead of tithing this year, Focus on the Family donors are spending their money on "food" and "medicine." Maybe Fred Phelps or whoever runs that thing can convince Secretary Paulson to bail them out like a hedge fund operator, or else GET A FUCKING JOB, HIPPIE. I have to work all goddamn day, you guys. Ain't nobody giving me any Section 501(c)(3) handouts for doing nothing more productive than harassing homosexuals.
The Plog still loves me: My application to participate as a "panelist" on The Kansas City Star's Midwest Voices junior opinion blog for enthusiastic amateurs was rejected pretty much in the same amount of time it took to attach my 400-word sample essay to an e-mail and click "send." Sure, OK, I've taken my share of shots at the bloggers of Midwest Voices. In retrospect, I feel kind of bad about it. But then, on the other hand, there's my whole undeniable deal of thinking Midwest Voices is a ridiculous embarrassment for a professional news organization, even one like McClatchy, which is teetering on the brink of the precipice over a sheer drop into a chasm of abysses, etc., etc. What would Gus Haynes of the Baltimore Sun say about Midwest Voices, you guys? Probably something with "fuck" in it. As a handsome, physically imposing member of the business community, I had a lot of tax preparation advice to offer the Star's readers, but I guess they're looking to break the next Ross Balano. Anyway, I'm posting my sample essay here so it won't totally go to waste:
I Am A Genius At Taxes
by Chris Packham
Tax preparation tip: Apply for your foster children early in the year, because if you show up at the Department of Child and Family Services on April 14th and just expect a Government child handout, let's just say that you're not going to be taking that phat "Head of Household" deduction you were hoping for. TRUST ME.
While I was dumping old, rusty barrels of PCBs on the lawn last year, I remember thinking, "Sure, I'll get the house declared a Superfund cleanup site THIS year, but what will I do for NEXT year's taxes?" The sweet, sweet foster-home gravy-train seemed like an obvious answer, but what with my busy job and the management of a new-born Superfund cleanup site, I didn't get to the DCFS until tax day. I was still working on my 1040 while I met with the Child Services counselor, who acted like he'd never heard of Emergency Child Placement, even though the sign on his door said "Emergency Child Placement."
"You want three foster kids — to go?" asked the Child Services counselor.
"Yes, please! With Social Security numbers! Do you have some I can look at?"
What ensued was, in the words of Sgt. Bosco Albert "B.A./Bad Attitude" Baracus, some "jibba-jabba" about my inappropriateness, explicit illegalities and the possibility of physically throwing me out of the office. Blah blah blah.
"Look," I said. "I don't have time to declare myself an off-shore corporation." I waved my 1040 at him. Then I tapped my watch. Then I waved my 1040 at him again, saying, "Look! I'm a taxpayer! Which means I pay your salary! That makes me your boss, and if you don't help me get out of paying your salary, you're fired!"
All of which led to a dislocated shoulder, a visit to the police, and a disappointingly large tax bill. Welcome to the future: a boot stamping on a human face — forever.
Playing the part of George Orwell's "boot stamping on a human face forever" is this Hallmark birth announcement:
Playing the part of the hard-working Joe Lunchbox working man is this picture of the creepy gnome from General Guemes, Salta, Argentina:
Curtain.
HA HA! How does it feel to have a boot stamping on your face?
OW! Cut it out! I lost my retainer! And I got tubes in my ears!
I'll NEVER cut it out! I'll be stamping on your human face — forever!
Hey, while we're on the subject, what kind of boot is that, anyway?
A big, tough jackboot! The kind of boot that's perfect for goose-stepping its way TO YOUR FACE!
That's not a jackboot.
Yes it is! It's just hard to tell from your perspective — UNDER A BOOT!
That's an open-toed designer pump.
It's a jackboot, dammit! A steel-toed jackboot!
Only if your exposed toe is made of steel.
Maybe you've forgotten something — which is the location currently occupied by my designer footwear — which is in your face!
Damn! Also — ow.
HA HA! Hey, what time is it?
I dunno. I can't see my watch.
That's right — because you can't see anything from your perspective underneath what, for our purposes, we'll call a boot! Oh! Look! It's a quarter past NEVER, which is exactly when I'll stop stamping on your human face!
Ow!
Aaa-aand scene!
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Dood, waaaaaaay too harsh on Larry Moore. What, you don�t know, back when he had brain cancer? The ONLY way to save him was to remove his brain. And they did and he lived! But, dood, without his brain the only job he�s suited for is reading crap off a teleprompter.
Okay, he COULD read to the blind�IF HE WOULDN�T EFFING SCARE THE SHIT OUTTA THEM CAUSE HE�S SO METHUSALA LIKE!!!!
And Phil Witt? Dood, again, seriously, you didn�t know? He went to the crossroads and made a deal, man. Now he subsists on the blood of babies that Larry Moore procures for him because, like, Larry�s so outta it that he DON�T KNOW he�s pimpin� baby blood. That�s how Phil looks so young, not �cause of the sparkles, which are real pretty.
An� you know you really really shoulda made the cut at Midwestern Voices collective �cause you are totally the best at allusions to the whole of the GOP having its bald head up Yael�s ass because 1) Yael likes it and 2) the GOP are clueless! Nobody better than you! I was so waiting for the column to be published! Man, could you just SEE the look on Yael�s face with all those heads stuck up his alimentary canal, all yappin� at once about what went wrong and SARA PALIN SARAH PALIN would have her head up Yael�s ass too, you betcha�ing all around Yael�s colon, hoo boy, that would have been a PIP!
p.s. � had you outfitted the boot-stamping baby with manly athletic crew socks such as you wear around the posh offices of The Pitch, you would have totally been accepted at the $75-per-article-at-The-Star-almost-a-reporter-I-mean-blogger-position-for-a-year gig!
p.p.s. � don�t worry about the money; once it�s after January 20th and it�s safe for some people to be seen in public without fear of Rapture Republicans reporting back to one�s bosshole, I�ll buy you $75 worth of drinks one night at some bar where we can watch fetchingly dim women sigh and preen our way.
p.p.p.s. - �only if you don�t wear those manly athletic crew socks.
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