Ramblings of a Confused Septuagenarian
Maureen Dowd, pictured right, has completely lost her ever-lovin’ mind. That’s not really Ms. Dowd, and she’s really only 56, not 70. But that said, today’s opinion piece in the NYT may be the most incomprehensible piece of drivel ‘Puter’s ever read, and that’s saying something.
MoDo once famously blamed her inability to find and keep a mate on the fact that men are turned off by powerful women. Like herself. Mayhaps men are turned off by narcissistic, navel-gazing whiners. And that’s much better analysis than Ms. Dowd inflicts on her readership today.
Anyhoo, MoDo’s column today reads like snippets from the diary of an inmate at a very nice insane asylum. “Today, I saw a bird. Tom the Janitor says red bicycles are fast. I like pancake day. When I woke from my thorazine induced nap, the voices in my head sounded farther away. And that’s why Sarah Palin’s EEEEEEVIL!”
For goodness’ sake, can’t the NYT find anyone, anyone at all, who can go to a place north of Midtown Manhattan and not write a story that sounds completely condescending to the way most Americans live? “Wal-Mart is a large store that has hunting equipment, jerky makers and women in sweatsuits? What strange universe is this?!? Let us flee back to The City!”
‘Puter hereby volunteers for the job of visiting these strange places that exist outside Manhattan, then writing non-condescending stories about them, at MoDo’s compensation rate. As long as Loco MoDo doesn’t tag along.
Always right, unless he isn’t, the infallible Ghettoputer F. X. Gormogons claims to be an in-law of the Volgi, although no one really believes this.
’Puter carefully follows economic and financial trends, legal affairs, and serves as the Gormogons’ financial and legal advisor. He successfully defended us against a lawsuit from a liquor distributor worth hundreds of thousands of dollars in unpaid deliveries of bootleg shandies.
The Geep has an IQ so high it is untestable and attempts to measure it have resulted in dangerously unstable results as well as injuries to researchers. Coincidentally, he publishes intelligence tests as a side gig.
His sarcasm is so highly developed it borders on the psychic, and he is often able to insult a person even before meeting them. ’Puter enjoys hunting small game with 000 slugs and punt guns, correcting homilies in real time at Mass, and undermining unions. ’Puter likes to wear a hockey mask and carry an axe into public campgrounds, where he bursts into people’s tents and screams. As you might expect, he has been shot several times but remains completely undeterred.
He assures us that his obsessive fawning over news stories involving women teachers sleeping with young students is not Freudian in any way, although he admits something similar once happened to him. Uniquely, ’Puter is unable to speak, read, or write Russian, but he is able to sing it fluently.
Geep joined the order in the mid-1980s. He arrived at the Castle door with dozens of steamer trunks and an inarticulate hissing creature of astonishingly low intelligence he calls “Sleestak.” Ghettoputer appears to make his wishes known to Sleestak, although no one is sure whether this is the result of complex sign language, expert body posture reading, or simply beating Sleestak with a rubber mallet.
‘Puter suggests the Czar suck it.