Yaaaarrghh Politics!

The other day I was rummaging through the garbage of a particularly fine looking establishment, when all of a sudden I came across a newspaper article documenting the recent campaign for the Presidency of the United States of America. After wiping a particularly runny egg from the front page, and promptly licking it off my hand, I took notice of the contents and a chortle escaped from my lips (as did some runny egg). There on the front page, the current President, Georgie Porgie Bush, was plastered (referring to the image and not his blood/alcohol level for once) in black and white; wearing a smug expression on his mug as if to suggest that he could cure all ails with his beady eyes and signature condescending smirk. I personally don't buy it. In fact, he tried to help us once, and he fucked up good and right. It was and continues to be the mess known as Iraq.

My thoughts on Bush are that he is merely a pretty boy lacking one important quality required to be a pretty boy, and that, my friends, is the privilege of being pretty. Prettiness is a gift from the gods that I just so happened to receive upon conception, so I speak from experience. Yet, I must be honest - the blessing of eternal prettiness can occasionally turn around and bite the beholder in the balls. I once met a doctor in the Lesser Antilles who referred to this as gonorrhea, but I'll thank you very much not to ask why I was inquiring about it in the first place.

So, back to the matter at hand, let me pose to you a question. Without a pretty face to fall back on, what does that leave our President Bush with? Intelligence? Obviously not. Charisma? Hell no. I'll tell you what it leaves him with. Absolutely jack squat! So what good is a President who has zero skills and nothing but piss poor qualities? None whatsoever. He's gotta go!

Never an offender of the equal time rule, the newspaper made sure that directly next to Georgie's photo was a picture of the slightly more grotesque Senator John F. Kerry. Along my travels I have read many cleverly executed articles making light of Kerry's striking resemblance to the fictional Mary Shelley character, the Frankenstein monster. While I normally extract no pleasure from the mockery of another's appearance, I must admit that Kerry's picture chilled this weary ole seafarer to the very core, and I'd say that the only thing he's lacking are two well-placed bolts and platform shoes. I'm sure he could borrow the stammer from Bush.

But while Kerry is not a pretty man, he does possess certain qualities that I find admirable in a leader, even though he has yet to attain that title. The most important of these qualities is that he has taken a human life. Hell, I'm sure ole Johnny's robbed several Vietcong souls during his tours of Vietnam, and I'd wager my left eyeball that he's offed more than a few transients upon his return to the states. If you gave me a ten minute search of his house I'd present you with a necklace made of ears!

But before you denounce me as a heartless lunatic with no credibility to judge character, please allow me to explain why I find murder a good quality in a leader. For one, it shows that he is a man who takes initiative. Instead of sitting on his ass, listening to Jimi Hendrix, smoking reefer, and waiting to catch a bullet with his forehead - or getting his daddy to keep him safe for that matter - Kerry wandered the countryside adding notches to the butt of his gun like any proud American would. It proves that he can make decisions and stand by them. If that does not a leader make, then I shall fashion a shiv and jab myself in the gullet right this very second!

I cannot begin to elaborate on Kerry's other promising qualities, because personally I feel that his passion for slaughter is reason enough to appoint him as the head of our great country. Though, despite the fact that I have been applauding his achievements these past few paragraphs, I want to add that Kerry is simply the lesser of two evils. In a perfect world, neither of these two dolts would have been permitted to run for the presidency in the first place. However, being that this is not a perfect world, as evidenced by the fact that I was severely abused as a child and presently have no place to call home, I submit that Kerry would do less harm than Bush already has.

As I stood in front of the trash can daydreaming about the state of our country, a thought crept into my mind like a mouse looking for cheese in a bear trap. What we need is a president who will run this country the way it deserves to be run; not some cartoonish puppet! We need a man like Quint McGuinley! I've been a traveler most of my life. I can wander the countryside and campaign for the good of this greatest of islands! If I can impress upon a few people in each town the importance of writing my name on the ballot, and they can convince others to do the same, then all hope is not yet lost!

I clutched that newspaper to my chest and crumpled it in my hand so that what was left of the chicken embryo dripped down my forearm and stuck to my arm hair (promising a good nighttime snack). Then I looked to the heavens and thanked the gods for providing me with yet another glorious epiphany. I thought I heard a response, but soon realized it was merely a noise coming from behind the house. As I tilted my noggin for a better listen, it seemed as though the noise was getting louder. Wouldn't it figure that what I heard was the guttural howl of six Rottweilers who were not yet privy to the fact that I was going to be the next president of the United States? I made an attempt to run from the yard, but the unmerciful beasts were on me in seconds! I fought tooth and nail with the little scrappers, but as I had not yet consumed any Pabst Blue Ribbon that day, my legs were still a tad shaky. Sure enough, the buggers had me on the ground quicker than you could say "Antarctica" and it took all my might to keep them from tapping into my jugular like a bunch of fratboys on a keg of Keystone Light.

The wretched little bastards gnawed at my extremities for a good couple of hours until I finally managed to crawl outside the perimeter of the electric fence and their collars rendered them incapable of any further attacks on my person. Despite massive blood loss and severely tattered clothes that left nothing to the imagination, I believe I fought the good fight that day. And as I crawled back to the abandoned railway car that I had fashioned into a temporary home, I was filled with a new sense of purpose. A euphoria coursed through my veins that I had not felt in years, and while it could just as easily have been the onset of tetanus, I took it as a sign to begin planning my next move to become the next president of the United States of America...

Captain's Log: Nurse Sharks in the Atlantic

A comrade of mine once equipped me with the knowledge that nurse sharks are apparently one of the most docile species of shark in the great blue sea. Well, the pure thought of an easygoing shark was absurd to me, and being a man of first hand facts, I made it a point to seek out said nurse shark and find out the truth for myself. So, I chartered a boat and set out on the waves of the seductive Atlantic to seek my answers, ultimately sailing for fourteen days before I finally found what I was looking for. Turns out I spent most of that time wandering the deck deeply entrenched in the chartreuse haze of an absinthe binge.

Well, upon regaining my faculties I noticed that my sandpaper-skinned treasure was hovering in wait directly below my ship, which I had only just realized bore the name “Sara’s Nipple” on the bow. What an odd name for a ship, I thought to myself, chuckling like Santa Claus. Only my belly was very much unlike a bowl of jelly. If I had to liken it to anything, I’d say it’s more like anything that holds various internal organs, some Jim Beam, and occasionally about a pint of lacquer thinner, and happens to be encased in multiple layers of fatty cells. But that’s beside the point.

So there they were. Swimming around like giant toothy worms were four deadeyes, as I like to refer to them, grinning up at me. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I heard one of them say, “Oh look, it’s Quint. Hi Quint, you sonuvabitch!” After wrestling me back, me mates tried to tell me that p’raps I was daydreaming again, or that maybe I had a bit too much sun, but I was under the impression that these damn fish were taunting me and I wouldn’t stand for it! So I donned my two-sizes too small (for intimidation purposes) wetsuit, fastened my goggles to my ocular cavities and steadied my mind to concentrate on the task ahead.

My first mate, Richard Dreyfuss, recommended that I also wear a scuba tank, but I promised him that it should take no longer than a single breath would allow for me to prove the superiority of man to these unwitting sharks. So, with nothing more than a flashy wetsuit, goggles, an erection, and not to mention my rapist intensity, I cannonballed into the chill waters of the mother Atlantic that day and cordially invited all three of the “easygoing” phallic symbols to engage in a bout of fisticuffs.

Being that they were slightly better swimmers than I, it took quite some time before I managed to close the gap between us, but once I did, let me assure you, there were no more thoughts of taunting ole Quint McGuinley running through their tiny little shark brains. I could read their minds via the vacant expressions on their streamlined little faces and I’ll tell you what they were thinking. All three of them were thinking: “Holy areolas, what the hell did we go and get ourselves into? This specimen before us is indeed superior in every possible way. At first it was difficult to detect the awesome mass of greatness that is this man, yet alas, here it is, for all to see.”

The oversized fish silently pleaded with me to take pity on them. Their beady shark eyes stared at me like black holes and I could almost swear on my seven dead wives’ graves that I saw a tear. But they refused to attack. They were smart, I’ll give them that; the stubborn bastards almost had me believing the hoopla about them being docile animals. But I was wise to their game. I knew that no sooner than my retreating foot would touch the wooden deck of “Sara’s Nipple” that those beasts would unleash their stifled chortles for all to be heard. “Quint McGuinley,” they’d say, “why if ole Quint McGuinley is as big a pussy on land as he is at sea, then we wouldn’t be surprised if he were runnin’ home to drink a bottle of vinegar and water to ‘freshen up’.”

So rather than face such horror, I remained exactly where I was, albeit not taking into account the sporadic bobbing up and down caused by waves. I stroked my beard for a second, smirked, cocked an eyebrow, eyeballed my cock, and eventually puffed out my glorious barrel of a chest and swam the butterfly stroke toward my adversaries. As it turns out, I was correct. The animals were vicious and unrelenting beasts. However, it did take some coaxing on my part, and by coaxing I mean that I had to grip the sharks by the gills and bludgeon them about the head and face area with my muscular forearm for several minutes before they finally retaliated. But ultimately I proved my point. And that's how, sans my left leg, I hopped back onto the boat that sunny day and smiled to Richard Dreyfuss.

"Peanut brittle ass," I said to him, "the transaction that has transpired today will forever change the course of world history. This fete will be lauded as the most invaluable of all human accomplishments and you can be certain that the good Lord is looking down upon me with disdain that could only be considered a thorn on the stem of jealousy." Apparently, I passed out shortly after making that proclamation though you wouldn't have known it by the fact that I continued to wear my trademark grin and my one-legged form remained standing upright on deck. Sure, I lost a leg that day. Some say I lost a little respect, too. But not a single second goes by where I think to myself, “If I could do all that over again, and skip out on the part where I jump into the ocean and pick a fight with three sharks to avoid future problems like phantom limb pain and massive diarrhea…would I? Would I indeed!” Not that I think about that kinda stuff, because I don’t! But if I did, my answer would be “NO, I wouldn’t skip out on that part!” Quint McGuinley is a man among men! It has oft been rumored that one time, on an expedition through the Rocky Mountains, he savagely beat a grizzly bear to death for sassing him about eating the entire food supply in one sitting. Some folk say that the rations consisted of a single can of beans, and still others like to pass word that it was six full-grown elephants that he consumed that day. Of course it is also rumored that I, Quint Quintly McGuinley, spun that little tale while engaging in a Moonshine chugging competition somewhere along the coast of the Amazon River.

Whichever it was, you can rest assured that ole Quint is as grizzled as they come and there’s no way in hell he’ll ever quit referring to himself in the third person, no matter how hackneyed it becomes. And another thing, when I commit myself to a cause, you can be damned sure that I won’t give up until the day that I am struck dead. In fact, you probably can’t even be certain then. The Lord knows I’ve pillaged entire villages during REM sleep, so why the hell should death halt my endeavors?

Well, lately I’ve been hearing tell of more peaceful (and I suspect Cannabis imbibing) sharks and I’m plum sick of it! They’re all vicious carnivores as far as I’m concerned and I’m fully committed to proving it. In fact, I'm planning a trip in a few months to the Pacific to display to the world that Whale Sharks aren't the pushovers that people say they are. I’m so convinced of their innate savageness that I’ll make the claim right now that I will sever my right leg with a toothpick if the Whale Sharks don’t do it themselves; I promise you that! Some people have said to me, “Quint, are you nuts? Making a claim like that just means you’re going to lose a leg either way. What do you stand do gain by such an idiotic stunt?” And I look them dead in the eye, wonder for a minute whether they are siding with the sharks, and then I stammer: “A leg is a paltry price to pay for an accurate catalog of the temperament of oceanic species.” At which point they’ll reply: “But Quint, wake up! You’re offering up a second leg! Two legs are surely way too much to lose for such an absurd experiment you drunken asshole!” To which I’ll retort: “What’s that, landlubber? Speak into me good ear!” And when they fall prey to my ruse and lean over to assist what is actually a perfectly healthy ear, I chomp off each of their own ears and spit them on the table. And then I lean over and say: “Now would you say those ears were worth your opinion, landlubber? "Hardeeharhar!" And thus concludes another entry in the journal of Quint Quintly McGuinley!

Captain's Log: Marooned

This, my friends, be the first of many postings from an old man whose fingers have yet to succumb to the harrowing effects of age. Me old brain be in need of a nap, so if you'll excuse me for a quick second or two, I'll be momentarily suspending this conversation. But fear not, I shall return refreshed and prepared to deliver my thoughts to you on a silver platter.