Duffy Prendergast's Blog: Mars day 1

The strangest thing about starting a blog is the realization that you are, at first, talking to yourself. It is like you've landed on the planet Mars in a one-man spacecraft. You're the first to arrive. You mull around for the first few days. Eat, read, sleep. Eat, read, sleep. Then you decide to broadcast on the short wave radio on the off-chance that there is some intelligent life on this planet. You begin to transmit. "Hello out there. I'm here. Me. Duffy Prendergast. Just thought you'd like to know." But you're the only one there. Even though you're talking to no one but yourself, it feels better than being alone, so you talk. "I come in peace. I'm happy to help you if I can." but more likely it will be the other way around. You laugh out loud and you say in a deep voice "TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER!"

You get up the courage to leave your spacecraft one morning. You don't know if the air is breathable even though your equipment tells you that it is. You wonder where the oxygen could be coming from because when you look through the window all you see is brown and grey Mars. A glaring sun. Nothing green.

You open the hatch. You hesitate, but then like the first time you went parachuting, hanging on to the wing of the single engine Sesna, you let go and say to yourself "what the fuck...let's see what comes next!"

You step out and you take a deep breath. To your amazement you do not choke to death. You wheeze a bit, and cough. The air is dry and tastes and smells like a tangy cow pasture, but you do not immediately keel over and dye, so you've got that going for you.

You walk around for a while and check out the terrain. You enjoy the feel of the sun on your face and you wonder if there is enough ozone to protect you from the cancerous rays of the sun on this planet. You step cautiously because you're waiting for the slippery mucky bubbling clay to swallow you up, a paranoid thought you have not been able to shake since you fell through the ice exploring the frozen surface of Lake Erie as a child. You walk and you walk. Your legs do not tire because the gravity is almost a third less than that of Earth's.

You lose track of time. You have a sudden moment of panic. Your heart races as if it will suddenly erupt from your chest. You scan the horizon and you see nothing in every direction except brown caly. You can no longer see your space craft. Your space craft is your security blanket. It is all that you have. It is as if you have moved away from home for the first time, and you suddenly fear you will never find your way back.

You laugh out loud as your realize how silly this thought is. You have left the earth in a one-way vehicle. Perishing alone is the very least of your worries.

But still, your craft is your shelter. It is also your only means of communication with the earth. Your heart still pounds. You look down and you realize that you have left a trail of footprints. The thumping in your chest subsides. You follow the footprints until they begin to fade. The thumping in your chest begins again, but you tell yourself that if you walk the straight an narrow you will find your way back. You try to follow the direction in which your footprints led, but you can't be sure. You walk for hours...three times, at the very least, the ammount of time it took you to get lost. And then you realize that you are "OUT THERE". You realize that you will never likely find your way back. You are completely on your own.

Your have started a blog, and there is no turning back. And so you talk...

I still haven’t found my space ship. But I found intelligent life on mars…or at least I found something smarter than both of the houses of the U.S. Congress and the Whitehouse combined…that’s right…you guessed it…I now have a pet rock!

I think I’ll name him Wilson!

No, that’s been done before. Plagiarism! The curse of the writer! If we say it and it’s been said it’s plagiarism. If it’s been said more than once it’s a cliché.

I’ll call him Ishmael!

Yeah yeah…

Okay, my rock shall be named…Quinn.

I also found the mars lander. Well actually I tripped over it. Sorry NASA…there goes a few billion well spent dollars down the tube! Maybe I can fix it. Or better yet, I’ll turn it into a television set and watch old episodes of “My Favorite Martian”.

I’m going to be perfectly honest with you (in writer’s speak, this means beware…he must have been dishonest with us in the past), I haven’t written any fiction worth speaking of in a few years. I’ve written and rewritten my 2 novels over fifty times (they're as good as they're gonna get) and I’ve started countless novels that seemed to go nowhere. I won’t call it writer’s block because I wrote…it just wasn’t very good. I’ve got half a dozen books started that went fifty pages or more before I realized they were garbage. I may not be Ernest Hemingway but I won’t put out crap! Well at least not on purpose.

This blog is my attempt to find myself again so that I can write something new/good/original.

If you are having this problem too, share with me…misery loves company!

If you have had this problem and gotten past it…help a brother out! What did you do to get out of your rut?

Well, I better get this Mars rover thingy fixed, it’s almost time for Law and Order to come on. Maybe I can get it to put out some heat too…it’s damn cold at night. I almost feel like I’m back in Cleveland. Only without all of the really bad sports teams.

I know, Star Trek, not only is it plagerism…but it shows my age.

It is snowing here on Mars. It snowed about 3 feet overnight. So I built a rudimentary igloo. I wish I were in Cleveland…I hear they only got a foot of snow. At least I don’t have to drive in this crap.

You’re probably wondering…if there is three feet of snow, and you’re stuck in your igloo, what are you eating and drinking? Right?

Well I'll have you know that I've made a wonderful discovery. Just below the surface of the Martian clay there are, of all things, potatoes. Root vegetables! Who would have thought? I’m thinking I’m not the first person to land on this planet. Furthermore, I’m not the first Irishman to land on this planet! I mean who else would have planted potatoes.

And also, I discovered that the clay, after drying out, will burn…just like a cow patty. My biggest problems are solved. Sure, I’ll have heat, which is somewhat important. Oh, yes, and of course I can burn the clay and melt snow for water, and of course this means I’m in Irish heaven because I can cook my potatoes and eat them too, but that means mere survival; I’m talking about hard liquor here! Vodka! Oh sure, beer and whiskey would be better, but I’m Irish, I’d distill my own piss and drink it if I thought it had alcohol in it!

Speaking of steamed piss…I heard my grandfather say this about someone and I’ve always wanted to hate someone badly enough to say it to them: “I wouldn’t give them the steam off my piss!” I mean somebody must have pooped on their stoop for him to say such a thing!

And speaking of drinking piss, I hear that people lost in the desert are sometimes forced to drink their own piss…and like it. Sounds a bit gross, I know, but I’m thinking some pungent ammonia smelling yellow liquid concoction could look mighty tasty when you consider the alternative.

I’ll not get into a pissing contest over this…you know I’m right! And if you’ve got an argument against me, I’m sure it’s a piss-poor one. Look here, you’re starting to piss me off! If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have a pot to piss in! Piss off now!

Sorry about that…I was talking to Quinn…my pet rock, remember?

Well if you have read my blog for more than a day, you’re probably coming to the conclusion that what I’m writing is nothing more than banal malarkey. And if you’ve come to this conclusion…you’d be right. But remember this…I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for me. I started off talking to myself after all.

And speaking of reading and writing...check out my book "Whiskey Me Away". Just click on the little "Duffy Writer" icon on this page and scroll down. Some of you might like it. It's got dirty words and a bit of nookie. If you like it, you might hit the little star at the top of the page, and if you don't like it, you can go piss yourself!

Well, gotta go now…need to find a place to piss…preferably somewhere a good ways away from my potatoes.

Mars is some crazy planet. I used the dried clay to start a fire. I roasted the potatoes over the fire and ate them with some snow I melted. The melted snow tasted so good that I drank a pint or so, and I passed out.

I woke up this morning seeing things. I staggered outside my igloo and I saw a little green man! I haven’t seen green men since I ate some funky mushrooms I found growing over my septic tank. I figured the melted snow must have been 80 proof! I shook my head and rubbed my eyes and looked again. This time I saw the little man in triplicate! Only he wasn’t green anymore. One of him was red, one Yellow and one brown. It was most confusing.

I went back in my igloo figuring I needed more sleep to shake the hallucinations from my head. I popped out of my igloo once more and found that my apparition had grown exponentially. I saw not one, not three, but several hundred little green, yellow, red and brown men and women gathered about my igloo.

“What’s this?” I asked the green man closest to my igloo.

“Well,” he said, “We’ve been waiting for the arrival of our savior from beyond. We’re hoping you're him.” He stuck out a six fingered appendage and greeted me with a hearty shake. “You wouldn’t be Al Gore would you?”

“No,” I said, “why in heavens would you be looking for Mr. Gore?”

“Well, we heard on a radio broadcast from a little mechanical device that’s been crawling around here that he’s become an expert on climate change on a local planet. We were hoping he could solve our problem too. You see we have a global cooling problem. All of our efforts to thwart the problem have failed.”

“What have you done to deter the cooling?”

“Our own expert on climate change, mind you he’s no Al Gore, decided that we lacked a carbon footprint. We were hoping to generate the tropical conditions of the third round ball from the sun…the one Al Gore is trying to cool off. We’d trade our snow in in a heartbeat for the condition he’s trying to solve, if we could.”

“What have you done to establish a carbon footprint? Have you got any pollution? Any SUVs or tractor trailers?

“No.” he gave me a puzzled look.

“Have you got any factories or coal burning electrical power plants?”

“No, none of those either. We use solar power for everything on our planet. “

“What have you done to generate this carbon footprint then?”

“We developed a two-step process to create as big a carbon footprint as possible. Firstly we banned contraceptives altogether and we encourage procreation like it’s our most essential industry.”

“Fornication?” I scratched my head, “I gotta tell you, I like this first step in the process, but I don’t see how this is going to lead to global warming.”

“It’s the second step that we hoped would make the difference. You see our people get a terrible case of flatulence when we eat potatoes. So we’ve planted potatoes on every inch of soil on our planet and we hope to increase emission through the consumption of these potatoes. But so far, even with triple the population, and a national dedication to dyspepsia through spud consumption, we haven’t been able to make a dent. We've got ten times the emissions with barely a dent in our cooling problem.”

“I wish I could hand Al Gore over to you this minute. The flatulence that comes out of that man’s mouth could warm a planet over in a day. The truth is, though, you’re going about things all wrong. Your looking for a cause and effect. What you need to do is to develop a system like Al Gore has. It’s not as scientific as your method, but it’s much more effective.”

“Oh?”

“What you need to do is pay your scientists a lot of money to see things differently. Start measuring climate change from a point that shows global warming, say from the coldest point on record. Before you know it you’ll be broiling hamburgers on top of your igloos.”

“I see. Hmm. Yes, I see. It's not so much about the outcome as it is about the perception. If our scientists can learn to think correctly then the outcome will take care of itself." A smile crept over his face. "That's wonderful. Thank you very much." His smile grew even bigger, "On that note," he said, "I think we should rename the term ‘flatulence’. Henceforth, we shall call our emissions ‘Gores’ after the man behind the theory.”

“What a kind gesture.” I said, "If he were here, he would likely thank you from the depths of his digestive system."

A grave look came over his face all of a sudden. He pulled me away from the others and whispered into my ear, “Do you thing we should stop fornicating like the dickens then?”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t go so far as to limit the fornicating. As a matter of fact I’d like to do my fair share.”

“That’s awfully generous of you.” He said with a smile, “I’ll send some of the women folk into your igloo right away.”

"Anything for the cause" I said, "I'll do what I can to hold up my end."

As you probably realize I’ll have to end my transmission for the day at this point. I have to do my fair share to help with the global warming. Looks like sex and potatoes for the rest of the day, dread the thought…and with a little luck I’ll produce enough Gore to warm my igloo.

I woke up this morning lying in the middle of a snow bank staring at a pile of snow that used to be my igloo, my little naked harem of three-breasted six-nippled ladies strewn about me. The last thing I remember was me and my little harem enjoying some post-coitus melted snow with some baked potatoes. The igloo filled with a most noxious odor as my lady friends commenced to farting like a string of volcanoes. I made the mistake of lighting a match so that I could see my way to the door to escape the terrible odor and the next thing I know I’m laying out here in the open.

It looks like my global cooling suggestion has taken hold, though, because all of the colorful little people are walking around in bikinis. They’re diving into the snow as though it were an ocean abutting a tropical beach. Some of them are throwing discus-like objects while others are catching them. Some are doing the dirty deed right out in the open, but most importantly they all seem to be eating potatoes. It doesn’t feel any warmer, so it’s all in their heads. To think that they actually believe that the lot of them could possible create a big enough carbon footprint to effect the entire atmosphere! Their like sheep. It’s a good thing they don’t have the internet or they’d figure out the practical joke that’s being played on them.

All-in-all, though, they’re a smart lot. It’s a shame that they aren’t yet civilized. Oh, sure, they’ve figured out how to live in peace and harmony. They seem to have an economy and trade and industry. But they haven’t even yet figured out which ones should be discriminated against. With a choice of four different colors you’d think that they’d at least figure that part out by now!

I’m thinking that since I”m the only pinkish colored man on the whole planet, that it should be me that gets the most votes, but what fun would it be to discriminate against only one?

I was thinking, perhaps, the little brown men would be the best choice. After all, since I seem to be the only one here who has knowledge of things such as discrimination, and since I come from a place, the United States of America, where brown seems to be the first preference for discrimination, I could bring a whole array of colorful verbiage and stereotypical prejudices to the party with little effort at all.

The fewest in color appear to be the Red ones. They are far outnumbered by the rest. But truth be told, their rather nice and I find the females of the color Red to be quite attractive. Most of the red females have large breasts, even if they have three apiece and twice as many nipples. And when it comes to legs, well let’s just say Betty Grable had nothing on them. Perhaps I could label them as sluts and steer them into promiscuity, but then again, with the whole planet fornicating like it’s their last day on Mars, it probably wouldn’t stick. I could lead them to believe that keeping up with the latest fashions and becoming anorexic is the trendy thing to do.

But I gotta tell you the little Yellow ones sorta creep me out. Furthermore, the Yellow ones seem to be the most industrious and wealthiest of all of the little men, as a whole I mean, so they may pose a threat to my implementation of the most necessary of necessities for a prosperous civilization. Exploitation. And these Yellow ones already have one mark against them as they seem to have a very unpopular religion in which they worship an unpopular God and they appear to be rather devout. Why I could plaster them all with six pointed stars, or tattoo numbers on their arms, and there is no way that they could separate themselves from their appointed destiny.

And afterwards, we could throw them into concentration camps and take all of their stuff and divvy it up among the rest of us!

Oh, but I suppose that’s been done to death already.

(Just watched La Rafle. Makes you want to go back in time and exterminate some evil people)

But then again, I don’t have to divvy up their stuff according to color. I could simply tax the crap out of the hardest working ones and give it to the laziest ones and line my pockets at the same time! I’ll give everyone in the community the right to vote other peoples wealth into their own pockets. I’ll give it a fancy name, like “The Fairness Act” or “The Act of Contrition” or some such fair-minded nonsense! They won’t know what’s hit them until the train has left the station. I shall call this government of mine “Democracy”.

Well, of course, I may be a bit presumptuous in declaring myself their leader so quickly, but I have a pretty good inside track on this government corruption subject too. They don’t know anything about lobbyists or PACs or bribes or nepotism yet, nor cronyism or double talk or promising everything and giving them nothing. They haven’t read Hobbs or Rousseau or Locke, so they’re all in the dark. I’ll get these sheep so’s their so busy playing video games and worshiping sports heroes and pop stars that they won’t notice what’s going on around them

They don’t know what’s in their best interest, so I guess it’s up to me to tell them. It does, after all, take a village.

I hate to cut short my post, but I have a lot of work to do if I’m going to civilize these little people.

I hate to cut short my post, but I have a lot of work to do if I’m going to civilize these little people.

Well, in light of the total destruction of my little igloo home (raised through no fault of my own) the good people of Mars are building me the grandest igloo of all on the planet. They've got nearly one hundred thousand of their best tradesman shaping this enormous structure out of blocks of snow and ice. It’ll be white, of course, and modeled after that famous building in Washington D.C. known as the “White House”. I promised kickbacks to all of the ranking members of society along with retirement benefits for all in this world in exchange for building this little cottage of mine. I don’t know yet where the money will come from. I've modeled the system after the Social Security System and the congressional budget in general. But I suppose both of these systems will work themselves out in the end.

Otherwise why would the greatest minds of the day allow it?

The Martian’s don’t know it yet, but I've got all kinds of things planned for them. On top of social security, I’m going to give them food and milk for all newborn children (Lord knows with all of the fornicating going on, they’ll be needing that) and welfare for anyone who cannot or does not wish to contribute to the economy any longer (this should garner me a lot of votes) and free healthcare too. And I’m going to give them tax refunds even if they can't pay any taxes and free cell phones…and…I’m gushing…my heart is bursting…with generosity.

Of course taxes will have to go up a bit to pay for all of this.

And, as I haven’t officially been elected yet, I’m still doing a bit of presuming, but with all that I’m giving them, and the fact that I don’t currently have any opposition, I will be a shoe-in. There is, though, the birther issue…that is to say that since I wasn’t born here I don’t have the legal right to be elected to sanitation commissioner let alone president…but I think with a little printing ink, and a good back-story, I should be able to get over that little bump in the road.

Well, my mind is a tornado of ideas right now and I don’t know quite where to begin. I almost need a vacation from office already and I haven’t yet accepted the nod.

So, until next time…Erin go Broke…er I mean Bragh!

It is Sunday here on the planet Mars, and just, like on Earth, it is a day, for most, to praise their creator. The Yellow Martians are off celebrating to their most unpopular God, which gives the other Martians the opportunity to make fun of them without their knowing about it. What a heavenly thing to do. There’s nothing better than a good bit of gossip and a bit of fun-poking behind another’s back after a day of suffering through a preacher’s sermon of the opposite.

The thing I find most interesting is those of the-faith-tha- isn’t. This would be what we on Earth call atheism. I asked some of the red Martians about this the-faith-tha- isn’t phenomena because I was curious to know if their atheists were as devout in their faith in somethin-commin-from-nuthin as our own atheists. They told me that even though they can’t explain how somethin comes from nuthin, and even though it is just as unprovable that there is no God as there being a God, their devotion to their faith is as unwavering as that of the Yellow Martians to their unpopular-God. In fact, the devotion of some of the members of the the-faith-tha- isn’t is so strong that they go door-to-door recruiting new members of the congregation. They even lay in wait at airports and bombard unsuspecting Yellow Martians with little pamphlets that seem to end up in the trash receptacle or used as quant book markers in the catechism books of the Unpopular-God.

Many of the planet’s climate-change scientists, who by the way haven’t been able to solve the climate equation (though they’ve been at it for over a century), are members of the-faith-tha- isn’t. This gives their faith a lot of credibility…especially since they’ve got this funny looking fellow by the name of Gork, who wheels himself around in a solar-powered scooter (apparently he’s a bit crippled up), tellin this world that he’s the smartest man on the planet. He tells them that there is no possibility that there is a God of any kind. He hasn’t been able to tell them how he knows it for a fact, so it is still considered a faith, but his followers seem to follow his words as though they were the word of God, so I’m thinking maybe he’s the Messiah the Yellow Martians claim to be waiting for.

I’m hoping like hell that this Gork fella isn’t the Messiah that the Yellow Martians are waiting for. I’d like to think that the real Messiah can walk for Christ’s sake! Perhaps even on water if called upon to do so. Perhaps this Gork fella is just waiting to perform his first miracle after he’s built up a greater following. Maybe, since he’s the smartest man on Mars, he’ll even figure out how to make himself walk again!

Wouldn’t that be a grand way of recruiting a bunch of new members of the-faith-tha- isn’t?

Well, I must be going now. I’m hoping that my own God can hear me even though I’m a full planet away from where I last prayed. My God isn’t so special as Gork is though, what with his funny little scooter and all. He doesn’t wear any fancy suits like Gork, and truth be told he’s been abused a bit by those that claimed to love him, but I like my God just the same.

I think I’ll stick with him a bit longer…at least until this Gork fella starts to work a few miracles of his own.

It’s a glorious Monday and I’ve just arrived at the hospital because one of my good Martian friends, Ablo, is about to become a father. He’s so excited. This is his first child. I’m just as thrilled for him as he is. There’s a long line of people in the maternity ward, all of them waiting to have babies. There aren’t enough doctors to go around, what with all the fornicating for the cause, so the nurse, a pleasant Brown Martian with a pretty smile and a nice figure, just came out, and with the most soothing voice, she said,

“Ladies, I realize you’re in terrible discomfort, but know that the doctor is aware of your desperate situations, and he will get to you as quickly as he can. Please just continue to cross your legs and hold on.”

She’s a beautiful lass, and I’m thinking of asking her to lend me a hand in the global cooling cause.

“Did you hear that, Ablo, they’re going to get to you any minute now and you’re going to be a proud father!”

Mrs. Alboe, bloated like an elephant tho she is, is a beautiful Yellow Martian with long flowing yellow hair and beautiful blue eyes. She looks into my eyes with what I can only describe as a passionate expression and says,

“That’s the fourth fucking time that bitch has been out here and said the same Gork-damn thing! If she asks me to cross my legs one more fucking time, with that giddy fucking smile, I’m going to pull her teeth out one by one!”

“Albo, she’s such a kidder, your beautiful lady. But I must admit that there does seem to be a bit of a backup. Since I’ve come here it looks like the line has grown twice as long. But I’m sure that the extra doctors will be along soon.”

“What extra doctors? Since you announced the free healthcare most of the doctors have quit the profession. They’re a bit skeptical about getting paid. The poor fellow in there isn’t even a real doctor. It’s an honorary title. He’s just a professional athlete. He’s had so many children with so many different women that he’s the most knowledgeable man available when it comes to delivering babies!”

“Oh dear. But look, here comes the nurse again. Maybe it’s your turn.”

“Ladies, I realize you’re in terrible discomfort, but know that the doctor is aware of your desperate situations, and he will get to you as quickly as he can. Please just continue to cross your legs and hold on.”

“I’ll kill her!” Albo’s lady tries to get up, but he holds her down.

“She sounds like one of those recordings you get when you call the phone company.” I say,

“It’s funny you should say so. That’s what she was doing a week ago. But with this new free health care thing in place we’ve started offering one-night crash courses on nursing.” Says Albo.

“I know this isn’t the best time to ask, Albo, but with all the fornicating going on, and all of these babies being born…er…waiting to be born, who’s going to care for all of them?”

“Since you’ve announced your new free programs for this and free that for anyone and everyone, I don’t expect that that will be a problem.”

“Oh, yeah…the people like that plan eh?”

“Yes, they like it a lot. But I have a question for you Duffy. Where will you get the money to pay for it all?”

“Well from taxes of course. You worry too much Albo. Where I come from, we use taxes to pay for everything.”

“What if there isn’t enough money to pay for all of the free stuff?”

“Oh, that’s no problem. We just raise the taxes a bit more, and the problem is solved. Oh, look Albo, here comes the nurse again…maybe it’s finally your turn.”

“Ladies, I realize you’re in terrible discomfort, but know that the doctor is aware of your desperate situations, and he will get to you as quickly as he can.” Please just continue to cross your legs and hold on.”

“Well Albo, I guess I better leave you two love-birds alone. I’ve a round of golf to play this morning. Just keep crossing your legs like the nurse tells you and I’m sure it will all work out just wonderfully Mrs. Alboe. No…no…don’t get up on my account Mrs. Albo, I know my way out.”



“What a polite gal that Albo has, getting up in her condition to see me off. She had kind of an angry look in her eye tho. I hope it wasn’t something I said.”

A lot has happened since I last spoke. I’m hiding out in my “White House”. Keeping a low profile. We’re experiencing a bit of a financial crisis. It seems that some of the taxpayers are balking at my new tax. They were previously taxed at an unreasonable low (and quite unsustainable I might add) rate of 15% of individual income. But with all of the people taking work furloughs and partaking in my presidential generosity, it seems that the tax has gone up a bit. I imposed a 7% sales tax on all goods, a 5% raw materials tax to manufacturers, a free health insurance tax of 20%, a retirement tax of 18% (of course we’ll have to raise the age of retirement to just past the state of rigor-mortis), a luxury tax of 12%, a sin-tax of a modest 9%, a contraception tax of 200% (to discourage those who would hinder the climate change effort) and finally an income tax of 27%.

It also appears that some wise ass know-it-all tattle-tail decided to add up all of the new taxes and report it to the national media. And the new taxes come to (so my detractors say) about 104% (not counting the prophylactic tax of course). Which means that the working people will have to give at least 104% more effort to stay out of trouble with the tax man.

In light of the angst over the tax hikes I’ve imposed I’ve decided to give away free calculators to every citizen so they can accurately determine how much they owe.

Oh, for heaven’s sake! NO! I will not be raising taxes to pay for the calculators! They’re absolutely free. I’ve found a source of cheap labor to manufacture them. They’re made in America. Shipping could take a few days though.

Also, I’ve decided to declare a tax holiday. That is to say that on the first day of every calendar year the entire planet will have the day off…

…so that they can prepare their tax returns, Quinn!

He asks the dumbest questions!

I have to go now. My secret service staff is a bit busy handling a little crowd outside my door. Sounds like they’ve brought some firecrackers with them and they’re setting them off to celebrate my tax holiday idea. These people love me! They really love me!

Oh shut up Quinn, Sally Fields doesn't own that phrase! No Quinn, it is not a cliche...it's a fact, dammit, a fact. Go take a pole you little bastard!

I’m down inside the war-room, although the term “war-room” might be a bit fancy for my current digs. I never thought I’d need a war-room, but as it turns out I do. It’s in the basement of the “white house”. I’m trying to escape detection, so I’ll have to whisper. Truth be told they didn’t put a basement in this house, so by basement I mean a sort of a sideways gofer hole. I’ve never before dug a hole so deep and so far and so fast. My fingers are frozen to the nub. Those little people have shown me a side to their nature that I was not aware of. Their like tiny Tasmanian Devils!

As you know, my house is made of snow and ice, so when I wouldn’t open the door…those annoying little green and brown and yellow and red urchins started burrowing right through the outside walls. I was dead asleep when I started to hear them banging on the door. A short while later I started to hear scratching and clawing on the walls. I thought I had mice. Then their little rat-heads started poking through the walls. I thought I was seeing things. Imagine colorful little red, yellow, green and brown heads popping in from all directions. I thought it was a Muppet invasion!

Thank Gork I managed to make such a good friend of Ablo. I had no idea that he was so highly regarded when I approached him. But he is. That was a stroke of luck. Ablo is upstairs trying to calm them down so’s they will listen to an alternate proposal from my last initiative. I call it operation “debt ceiling”. I modeled it after something the United States Congress keeps approving. You see, rather than trying to cap to our spending to match our revenue…we simply borrow the money. And the beauty of this program is that we can keep borrowing until it is literally impossible to repay our creditors. And then we can buy even more time by printing money. Oh, sure, there might be a wee bit of inflation, but people will get used to paying higher prices after a while.

By the time the Gore hits the fan, I’ll be retired, with a big fat bank account, and it will be someone else’s problem. And if they bitch and moan I’ll point the blame at the current administration and remind them of how good people had it when I was in office.

And if you think you can’t stomach my solution, I’ll prove that you can. Go find your wee ones; your little new-born babies and your little grand-babies. Pick them up in your arms and look them in their precious innocent little eyes and say to them, “Little fella, someday this will belong to you.”

Kinda puts a lump in my throat just thinking about it.

Sounds like it’s all quiet on the on the frozen front. Time to poke my head out and see if Albo was able to set the table for my big speech tomorrow. Til tomorrow then…