A Memo Concerning: Excess, Stimulus Packages, and ejaculating into the future.

Rolling tumblers and ticking clocks, as deep and real as waifing sheets of calendar paper, they thrust us forward like the uncontrollable Gatling gun of rabbits banging. Even Bob Barker, for all his tanning salon, intravenous viagra ingesting, creeping hand dangerously close to the ass of contestants-ing, holding his microphone as if it were as delicate as Michael Jackson's nose-ing, knows that some beasts won't allow themselves to be spade or neutered. In our bizarre reality it is as if suddenly the once fumbled drive of goals and dreams set in in the past are now recklessly thrown to the future, rejuvenated by the bizarre idea that after 365 slumbers we have reached a marker that can finally deliver everyone a swift kick to the ass. Yeah I love it; I fiend for the absurd. Lately you may have found me swimming with a nose plug and floaties on my arms, navigating through a sea of pomp and champagne glasses, resolutions that echo dreams forgotten, inaugural addresses, vehicle registration tags, Y2K-like scramble, Oprah's fluctuating waistline, Sasquatch's illusive penis. Yes the New Year is a goddamn circus kids, but lets just step back and grin at this elaborate production. And so we have A Memo Concerning: Excess, Stimulus Packages, and ejaculating into the future.
(Before you judge look up the word in the Dictionary.)

Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm putting together a search party for Sasquatch's penis. I am appointing Robin Williams as associate deputy chief vice supervisor of weiner larceny vice and schtein. Yes it is also a law office. It is my belief that Williams is best suited for this position because of his love of suspenders and his personal duty to our cause: finding a long lost “member” of his fury little family. He will be directly supervised by the band of gnomes living underneath Rod Blogojevich's come-over. My girl Lindsay Lohan will also be involved with the search as Special Counsel. In the air of transparency I will admit that her involvement is solely due to the fact that cameras have seemed to unwillingly find her pubis with bizarre frequency while Monseigneur De Sasquatch, a figure of grand infamy, has, after eighteen hundred years of activity, failed to surrender his beast-hood to the catacombs of print immortality. In the tighty whiteys of circumstance I suppose it is all fitting. If Sasquatch wishes to remain a deceptive creature in our lives then of course his most private element would be his privates. But what are we to make of an entity well documented without clothing of any kind, yet who has failed to reveal that crucial element that truly signifies nudity. In a matter, Sasquatch has given us a delicious cake, but has miserly withheld the sugar. Does this penis really exist? Is it as majestic as mathematic equations and simple ratios would persist? Will it set precedents and build complexes? Will it inspire many to purchase landbeast SUVs, Don Johnson sports cars, or Rolexes that could choke a bullfrog? And what does any of this have to do with the year 2009 and the current set of myopic crisis mongering?

As a finely crafted product of America I possess an inherent affinity towards excess and convenience. As a child I used to wear my pajamas underneath my clothes. There were two primary functions to this behavior. First, as a slender young fellow the additional layer of clothing made me look less an Ethiope and more a filled out, dope ass dude ready to try and kiss hotties underneath the big kid slide during recess. Second, when it was bed time all I needed to do was shed one layer of clothing and I was ready to dream about being an underwater cowboy herding a band of multi colored seahorses through an undulating anemone. It seemed so silly to have to completely change clothing twice in one day. Convenience demanded that I put on all of the day's clothing once and then simply shed layers. Things change though people. I haven't worn underwear in over ten years. I think there is a lesson to be learned here, and at the end of it we might find both Sasquatch's “penis” and Obama's “stimulus package.”

I believe in pruning, hunger, seasons and recessions. Deficits ignite some very powerful survival mechanisms. They force efficiency. When Rudy Giuliani tells us that billions of dollars worth of Wall Street bonuses are necessary to feed the same New York City economy that feels justified in charging nine dollars for a domestic beer I am forced to believe that the excesses we have grown accustomed to are about as necessary as the penis of an 8 foot tall hairy man beast. I'm sorry Monseigneur de Sasquatch, in the year 2009 certain cuts have had to be made. And suddenly it all makes sense.

I usually love watching people freak out, but when parents decide that death is a better option for their family than unemployment I have a hard time enjoying the myopia. During our nation's Great Depression the image of business men jumping to their deaths captured the times. The suicide of two unemployed parents and the homicide of their own children is the image that ejaculates us towards 2009. And that's when I gotta say “Ladies and Gentlemen, chill the fuck out.” Yeah it's gonna suck bros, the sun must set in order for it to rise. It's like going through adolescence again: you're gonna take some hits, there will be some awkward posturing, you might get a silly haircut and listen to some terrible music, but if you can get through it with some kind of semblance of identity and dignity you'll end up looking back on it all with appreciation that it happened, and that it's over.

It is true, the past 29 years our economy has been fueled by the excitement of a household with absentee parents. Well, somebody got knocked up in Mom and Dad's bed (even if it wasn't called sexual relations), some kids gave the neighbors all the laundry then bitched that they had nothing to do, the older kids spent all the home improvement money on an Atari system, the septic tank has overflown into the backyard but it was decided that it'd cost too much to fix it, when the septic ooze went into someone else's backyard the neighbors set a couple of trees on fire, someone used grandma's china as projectiles to fight off imaginary thieves, on the front porch some kids have been selling empty lemonade cups then flashing their quarters and nickles to other kids hoping that they will keep the lemonade stand going, the babies have been eating leftovers and as a result never had a proper bowel movement, the older kids have been feeding the middle children marshmallows and chocolate syrup to get them to stop asking for steaks, nobody knows who is supposed to mop the floor or vacuum, and at the end of the day the only response from anyone in the house is “Not my fault.” So they'll bitch about the parents coming home in 2009 and getting all bossy. Half of the kids will say the parents should go away again, they can handle it, having parents is bad for their development. The other half will be super stoked that there are rules again. Meanwhile I'll be scared shitless knowing the parents were once kids themselves.

History repeats itself. For some reason this is a mystery for people even when our clocks are circles and calendars return to the first month at the beginning of the “year.” Get on the ferris wheel kids. My Angel of History again and again reaches into the inferno of mankind and pulls out a delicate flame. It will run with the flame as far and as fast as it can, taking different routes each time, some will get them farther than others. But the burden of History is that the flame will always burn out, destroyed by its need to run. It knows that this will happen every time but it always moves with the hope that the next journey will be more special than the last.
Either way I'm going to start referring to my manhood as “the stimulus package.”