I need some advice…that is, before I ain’t even got a pot left to piss in…or can’t even afford to get naked…’THEY’ are lying to us. And this shit has got to stop…that is, before us folks really get pissed worse than an Irishman without a beer…

I need some advice…

But Dear Abby is recently dead. My mother is 92-years-old.  My brother the heart-surgeon has always been seriously afflicted with judgmental hard-heartedness. My exes prefer I don’t call when they are flat on their backs — or any other position open for business. And friends have gotten to the point in life where they refuse to consider anything that might be deeper or darker than the Super Bowl black out.


It just seems that nobody – not a friend, nor Afghan, nor Palestinian, Chinaman, Russian, Arab, Venezuelan or even a fellow countryman wants to lend me their ear – or any part higher… or lower. At least not without cranking usury rates down my gullet until I implode into patè.

So in an age of Face Books and the other thousand social networks, cell phones, computers, IPads… and stuff …what we still have — is a failure to communicate.

No shit! We’re all squawking, but nobody’s tuning in…seriously.

And it’s not just because somebody shot the messenger pigeon.

We’re too damn busy being busy… Updating, orchestrating, reciprocating masturbating and copulating on our twitters, dating services, e-mails, text-messages, and any other app that services our exponential narcissism .

Everybody’s giving their two-cents. Even the President on the State of the Union.  Everybody’s talking, but nobody is bothering to hear.

Particularly to MY screams!

For instance, has anybody noticed the prices of apartments lately?!

What duh hell happened?!

A decent one is as rare as a telephone booth, and about the same size. The exact apartment I lived in 20 years ago, now costs well over $2,000 a month more!

Or cars!

Volkswagens I once bought for $2,200 now cost at least $25,000

Or candy!

A penny-size candy sells for 75 cents

Or groceries!

The exact items I’ve been buying weekly at my local supermarket that cost me less than $40 two-and-one-half years ago?  Now my less than quarter-full shopping cart cost $58.

Did I spend a 20-year-night with Rip Van Winkle? I know I lost my virginity about 20 years after my mother lost hers, but it really feels right now like I getting shafted… and it’s cleaning out the wax in my ears.

It‘s downright bestial.

I’m even willing to pay you to listen… But it costs too damn much money to retrieve what few shekels I’ve got out of an ATM machine.

Let me scream here a moment: THIS SHIT HAS GOT TO STOP!

Flush it away! And now! Before we storm the bastilles with more than our torches and pitchforks. Because pretty soon we won’t even be able to afford to be naked.

After the great depression and recession, and what-not, prices, according to my vituperating mother, got back to some semblance of sanity. Is that what we need again? A complete collapse?  Another heart attack? Something not quite fatal, but enough to make even a crack addict go cold turkey.

Folks, have you ever seen a deep-six ‘cracker’ go without his fix? Let me tell you, it’s not something you want to take home and introduce to your horrified parents. Kindred blood or not, even your mother will shoot you below the belt. Staves off any future progeny.

Nevertheless, it’s all stampeding just around duh corner.

They lied to us. The air is supposed to be fresher, the girls prettier and the toilet paper thicker. But they have been lying like Eve to Adam.

They talked about convenience. They said it would be bigger, better and cheaper. Hell, Eisenhower swore that one day they were going to produce electricity so cheaply they were going to have to give it away.

Really? I read in TIME magazine not too long ago that to recharge an i-phone for a year costs all of 37 cents. So why is my electric bill more expensive than the cost of bribing a U.S. Congressman?

They sold us TV cable with the promise of no-more-ads.  I don’t even own a TV no more. And not only because my cable bill was more than my alimony payments. But because the 16 commercials between each 6 minutes of actual show time were decimating me with the 24 percent interest rate on my credit cards. (I’m an easy touch. Just ask my ex-wives.)

Meanwhile, our overpaid, over-benefited congress bails out duh banks, but refuses to provide my out-of-work, depressed neighbor with medicinal marijuana.

I understand that healthcare is supposed to be regulated. I mean look what we do to ourselves stuffing un-regulated potato chips between our chunky cheeks and decaying teeth. But then again, will someone please tell me why did it just cost me nearly a hundred dollars to get a refill on merely two simple prescriptions:

The one pill is the oldest and most common gout treatment. (Don’t blame me, blame my great-great grandmother’s DNA! That is, before she got raped by a Cossack … or six.) And then there is my ‘generic’ cholesterol pill. (Hey, what can I say? My big brother-duh-doc got the brains, and I got the maladies.)

Is there something I’m not getting with my monthly thousand dollar premium health insurance payments? I mean besides the free anal sex.

Where is the bloody sanity? What am I supposed to do? Sue? Sue my government for stoopidity? Being bloody inept. Incompetent and about as helpful as a broken condom.  Sue the world of business for being too venal, vapid, vile and voracious.

And how would I even afford to sue? Hell, have you seen what it cost per hour — even for the 95 percent of lawyers giving the other five percent a bad name?  And they ain’t nothing but law clerks! Any fool could look the legal stuff up on the authorized internet. But today you’ve got to have a license to steal… Not to mention the fact that the ABA loonies screwed up the law with so many lucrative vagaries and contradictions that you need a Ph.D. just to figure out how they manage to bill for 36 hours a day!

Hell, you need a PhD just to read the hieroglyphics for street parking signs.

And has anybody noticed the cost of a parking ticket? I mean, how else does City Hall finance all that graft?

This is not a supply and demand market place no more – that is, if it ever was. This is a find-em, feel-em and fook-em fixed casino where the big thugs with bent government noses are tilting the tables into their Cadillacs.

Hell, haven’t you heard? You can’t even get to heaven with bad credit these days! And guess who’s handing out the credit ratings? No doubt some bribe- sucking ‘judge’ down fixing tickets at traffic court.

We don’t seem to mind that Afghan President Karzai and his inbred kin steal billions stacked in trucks fleeing along the most expensive U.S. tax-paid-for highway never completed atop the mountains of Afghanistan.

But if we should shortchange the IRS ten bucks! Hey, if you think that nobody cares about you these days, just miss a car payment or a monthly mortgage.

I guess I am just going to have to hire somebody to give me some advice about all this and that stuff that’s got me up and bugged wide-eyed long before the cock even crows.

You know, I’ll pay someone to listen. Like a prostitute. And she will no doubt peek down at me over her pulled-up skirt and whisper in a low voice of dark calluses: ‘Tell me when you’re done.’

Or I’ll pay my five-cents to visit Lucy from the cartoon strip “Peanuts.” So she can jerk away the football just as I’m about to kick-duh-can. In my case that’s drop dead – even if I could afford to. Hell, my mother has willed her eventual cadaver to the local medical school. At first I protested. Now I’m figuring that’s about the only free burial I can afford.

Hmm… I mean when a one-in-185 million chance of winning the lottery looks better than our less-than-zero odds of affording this life, then you don’t need to wonder why I am blowing the gaskets on my quadruple heart bypasses.

And for what?

So we can overpay Beyoncè  millions of donated dollars to lip sync at the President’s inauguration. And Blackwater to protect my house from tigers. And raffish Enron accountants to certify Wall Street’s derivative trading. And addled union guys to stand around a pot hole that was supposed to be covered under warranty…


Right now I more pissed than a Irishman without a beer. And if you even bothered to give me your two-cents I’d probably punch your dentures out. Hell, what else do you expect for two-cents…when my Jewish Irish is up?

So here’s something I wrote years back that seems even more apropos in today’s world of pernicious chicanery. It isn’t good advice, but it is damn bleak:

Most folks ain’t going very far…Perhaps no more than around a coffee pot, looking for a handle on life…Or passing around a pot pipe seeking a vision they’ve no other way of really seeing…Or out to the front porch to watch the world go by to nowhere in particular…except the only place they’ve ever been – the mall…where life is just a bunch of neon selling empty dreams that you spend most of your life paying off…until you’ve ain’t got no pot to piss in…


And dats yDrewIS on dis penal colony…

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