"Aren't we forgetting the true meaning of Christmas? You know… the birth of Santa." -- Bart Simpson
(Image and quote suppied by Valerie)
The secret word is Fruitcake
On Christmas Eve, Uncle Bill and his young friend take their guns and hunt art.
But click here to watch The Junky’s Christmas.
Oh dear. Seems as though we jumped the gun, rushed to judgment, laughed too soon, and were wrong in our assumptions. The drug for which Bristol Palin’s possible future mother-in-law was busted turns out not to be speed at all, (see last Saturday) but oxycontin, that good old hillbilly heroin.
"WASILLA, Alaska — Wasilla resident Sherry L. Johnston, mother of Bristol Palin's boyfriend, faces a Jan. 6 court date for an oxycontin-related arrest at her home by Alaska State Troopers. Little additional information was available Friday on the case as authorities remained unusually tight-lipped about details. But Palmer court records listed Johnston's scheduled court date and a troopers spokeswoman said in a release late Friday afternoon that the charges "are in relation to the drug oxycontin." (Click for more.)
In which Marilyn sits pensive and discontented. “They send me on all these wretched adventures but do they really give a damn about me?” She reflects upon how untenable her role in the multiverse has become, and how weary she is with the ceaselessly shifting set up and the irrationality of the Random Flips. She grimly fumes at the nonsensical orders from the 14th International, and the constant reminders, transmitted by jackbooted chorus boys at Timereich S7 Macro, of the apocalyptic consequences of an accidental meeting with any of the infinite number of her Norma Jean Variables. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she finds herself in the perpetual vice between the too-certain, judgmental, goddess-hating Apollolonians to the right of her, and the too-horny, drunken, trigger-happy Dionysian to the left. Meanwhile the middle ground just squirms like a slimy clone vat with the likes of The Unspeakable Zero Brothers, Archbishop Moriarty and his Diamond Dogs, plus all the benighted hick-demons who are too stupid to recognize they're locked in the repeating depression killer-cycles of a Kellogg Rift. And, finally, floating over everything, are the tedious goddamned aliens, with their anal probes, their temporal calibrators, and their deathrays. Marilyn sighs deeply. “How long to they seriously expect me to keep on doing this?”
I must confess I am more than pleased that it didn't succeed. Our popular culture is sufficiently neurotic, and this might have pushed it into some very weird dimensions.
The secret word is Issues
