Coon Dick Toothpicks and Other Political Atrocities
The batshit crazy coming out of Washington doesn’t let up for a second. I’m tired of hearing about it, though it seems I’m intent on continuing to comment upon it. I’ve had enough of my eighty-year-old live-in father-in-law, Milt, offering his Fox News perspective. Finally, I just told him, unless there’s a nuclear missile in route to Huntsville, I just don’t want to hear another fucking word about the government. All right, if Trump shits his pants in front of a roomful of dignitaries, we can break the radio silence for that. Trump’s incontinence is always worth a chuckle. You know, I used to really love absurdity, until the Trump circus appropriated it and distilled it down into systemic amorality.
I don’t know why I even try to resist. There’s no escaping the constant news feed, filtered through social media updates and bomb ass memes. Hell, you can’t even watch porn without some scrawny kid that’s eighty percent cock ask his “stepmom” why the hell Kash Patel is drinking beers with the Olympic hockey team. She doesn’t know! She’s just trying to get her head unstuck from beneath the sofa.
Fucking Kash Patel. Kash Patel looks like the kind of guy who goes to a Cake concert and hollers for the band to play “Detachable Penis.”
Is he truly the alcoholic clown a certain journalist who’s getting sued to the tune of a quarter billion dollars paints him to be? Well, he certainly looked as though he knew his way around a beer bottle when he was sharing celebratory brews with the men’s hockey team. Why is it no one stopped to ask what the fuck he was doing there? That would have been the first words out of my mouth. This ain’t for you, Kash. Go away. I’ve played some sports in my time to the point where I occasionally experienced victory. And I’ve gotten shit-faced drunk. I can tell you, either way, the last person I want standing at my elbow is the goddam police. Even one as unsuited for his job as Kash Patel.
Then there’s the question of his girlfriend, Alexis Wilkins. Not since Laura Loomer accepted Trump’s little mushroom prick into her mouth aboard Air Force One has a white nationalist Christian woman had to sacrifice so much dignity in return for so little gain. It’s been rumored Wilkins is an Israeli honeypot installed by Mossad to infiltrate Trump’s inner circle. It seems the only possible explanation why she would entertain his existence. I’m afraid she’s something far more nefarious. An affluent white woman who developed a warble in her singing voice and believed this makes her a country music star. God help us all. Right wing women wearing tight denim and a gold, crucifix necklace dropping upbeat country ditties on Spotify has become the new Facebook poet. Posturing in obscurity, valuing social media viability over craft.
Then there’s Robert Kennedy Jr, the man who goes skinny dipping in his Wranglers. He’s been in the news cause he apparently stopped so he could shovel some roadkill raccoon off the pavement so he could study its little marmint cock at his leisure.
This has freaked more than a few people out. Yankees, mostly, who don’t understand the value of a good raccoon baculum for picking out shreds of steak from between your teeth.
I, myself, am notoriously northern. Despite having lived in rural Alabama for over half my life, I’m still considered a damn yankee by my shitkickin’ peers, a damn yankee who wouldn’t know a half ass decent baculum if it shot up my leg and stuck in my urethra. Maybe, I would’ve preferred to keep it that way, but, over the years, you learn things.
One thing I learned is that many mammals have a bone in their penis called a baculum. Innuits back in the day used walrus baculum as handles for their primitive tools. And certain enterprising men in the far, wild reaches of Alabama have been known to use the raccoon baculum as a toothpick. Supposedly, this aids them in cheering for the Alabama Crimson Tide.
Women have made the mistake of assuming I have a baculum because I’m always hard, you understand. But this is a popular misconception. Humans, even Polacks, don’t have baculum (discounting, of course, the Alabama Crimson Tide fans who keep their baculum in their mouths). That shit went out of style, genetically speaking, 1.9 million years ago. I merely suffer from priapism due to the continuous spider bites I receive from Fester, my pet banana spider.
So, Robert Kennedy is not batshit crazy because he wants a raccoon penis. He’s just anxious to get that coon dick toothpick to clean his teeth. I guess riding around with the corpse of a bear cub in the back of your car is pretty fucking crazy, though. Drinking milk with Kid Rock ain’t exactly the actions of a sane man, either, though, I suppose, the milk would act as a deterrent meant to ward off Kash Patel. But who can say? I’ve exhausted myself searching for logic in the conduct of this current administration.
I wonder how Pete Hegseth still has a job. He’s so bad at war. I suppose he showed some early talent bombing the hell out of Venezuelan fishing boats, but he’s shit the bed trying to militaristically bend Iran to his will. Charging half-cocked at Iran is the sort of knuckle-headed move that’d get you fired from managing the Boston Red Sox, at the very least.
From there he embarrasses himself quoting the fictional Bible verse Sam Jackson so eloquently recited in Pulp Fiction at some horseshit prayer meeting. This is what happens when you’re forced to add the Christian part to the white nationalist section you got down pat. Tattooing “God Wills It” in Latin on your bicep makes you no more Christian than some idiot kid tattooing the Tasmanian Devil on his shoulder makes him Looney Tunes. Then there’s that stupid fucking machine gun he’s got inked on his arm. The English have a name for guys who do shit like that. Wanker. Hegseth is the kind of guy who straps a gun on his hip before he walks into Wal-Mart to buy the latest Garth Brooks compilation on CD.
And, of course, as I write this, there’s been another “assassination attempt.” My ass. It wasn’t an attempt so much as an aggressive notion. I’m not saying it’s staged like the first one. I honestly find it highly unlikely. However, you just can’t trust these buffoons. And, true to his nature, he uses this event to stump for his jackass ballroom just as assuredly as Erika Kirk will use the experience to sell more T-shirts. And the would-be shooter… what the hell was he thinking. That he was going to eventually run out of bullets, so he’d have to resort to knife fighting? Did he mistake the correspondent’s dinner for a Mid-American grade school, that he could just waltz in and open fire?
Fuck it. What do I know? I’m about to go outside and erect a fence and gate around a garden. Five hundred dollars’ worth of material to safeguard twenty bucks worth of tomatoes.
Nothing makes sense, anymore.
Karl Koweski is a displaced Region Rat now living in rural Alabama. He writes when his pen allows it. He’s a husband to a lovely wife and father to some fantastic kids. He collects pop culture ephemera. On most days he prefers Flash Gordon to Luke Skywalker and Neil Diamond to Elvis Presley.
THE POLISH HAMMER POETRY CORNER is a weekly column, posted each Tuesday morning.
