Johnny Rotten Separated At Birth

This week Johnny Rotten lost all his credibility by describing Brexit asshole Nigel Farage as “fantastic” and said that President Trump might be a “possible friend”.

The Sex Pistols singer later upped his ante on Virgin Radio by stating that the media was “trying to smear the bloke as a racist, and that’s completely not true. I didn’t expect to be misunderstood, I think I speak very clearly. America now has a new President and whether you like him or not you have to support him or you will destroy the country. You got to make things work.”

Rotten also asserted, “Trump’s got some serious money issues and business concerns that deeply fascinate all of us but to be smearing him as a racist, this isn’t right, there’s no evidence or proof to that and until there is, I’ll stand up and say that I think that’s wrong."

Strangely the two men have the different versions of the same asshole haircut.

I still love ANARCHY IN THE UK.

But Johnny Rotten is a bigger wanker than Sting.

And no one says it better than Uncyclopedia.com

http://uncyclopedia.wikia.com/wiki/Sex_Pistols

Fuckin' Wanker.

You were always a poseur.

Unlike Sid.

He is in Hell with his friends.

Fuck Heaven.

Heading To Virginia

Last Thursday I headed south to Virginia.

I was marrying Paige and Stephen.

In Richmond.

The bus ran at 70 through New Jersey.

It was a boring ride.

I hate Bruce.

I hate THE SOPRANOS.

I hate the Jersey Shore.

I fell asleep.

I woke up at the Delaware River.

I went back to sleep on the southern bank.

I-95 existed for ten miles in Delaware.

I skipped the rest stop.

The shitty pizza was $6.99

The Susquehanna sourced to the north.

It was the longest river on the East Coast.

The Latter-Day Saints performed their first rituals in its waters.

According to family legend I was related to Joseph Smith.

I never saw the resemblance.

Others including Mormons disagreed.

We were both New England born, but now I was entering the south.

Baltimore.

Home of Divine.

She was a slut.

We miss her so.

The Salt alps of Baltimore.

More sleep.

I rose from the dead in the South.

In Peterburg, VA.

In front of a rim shop.

I said nothing. There was no one to say anything to near midnight.

Only more rims.

Thanks For 1,000,000 Page Views

Over a million pageviews.

Probably most by robots or lost internet surfers.

But the 1-6-9 thanks you.

Fire thanks you.

The Chelsea Fire was better.

More fire thanks you.

The Last Gasp

The American Civil War was fought for four long years. Someone should have negotiated a truce to spare the slaughter of Gettysburg and all the battles in a lost cause, but The Southerners fought to the bloody end and on March 25, 1865 the Rebels launched a final offensive against the siege lines facing Petersburg. The assault carried Fort Stedman in the darkness before the dawn.

According to Wikipedia Brevet Brig. Gen. Napoleon B. McLaughlen, the officer responsible for the Fort Stedman sector, heard the sounds of the attack, dressed quickly and rode to Fort Haskell, just to the south of Battery XII, which he found to be ready to defend itself.

As he moved north, McLaughlen ordered Battery XII to open fire on Battery XI and ordered a reserve infantry regiment, the 59th Massachusetts, to counterattack, which they did with fixed bayonets, briefly re-capturing Battery XI. Assuming that he had sealed the only breach in the line, McLaughlen rode into Fort Stedman. He recalled, "I crossed the parapet and meeting some men coming over the curtains, whom in the darkness I supposed to be part of the picket, I established them inside the work, giving directions with regard to position and firing, all of which were instantly obeyed."

He suddenly realized that the men he was ordering were Confederates and they realized he was a Union general, capturing him. He was taken back across no man's land and surrendered his sword personally to Gordon.

Within four hours the early triumph turned to a ghastly defeat.

Last Saturday morning I walked on the battlefield.

The dead, maimed, and unwounded last buried elsewhere.

Grass covered the ground.

Not the blood of 4,000 men.

Several days later the Federals broke into Petersburg.

General Robert E. Lee telegraphed President Jefferson Davis to flee and then retreated west in hopes of escape.

There was none.

Only Appomattox.

The Whites Of Mayberry

Several years ago Andy Griffith, star of stage and screen, passed away. The North Carolina native debuted as a hick comedian from the wrong side of the tracks and Griffith parlayed this success into a film career with critical hits in A FACE IN THE CROWD and NO TIME FOR SERGEANTS. A 1960 cameo role as a southern sheriff in Danny Thomas' MAKE ROOM FOR DADDY led to creation of THE ANDY GRIFFITH SHOW, where his rural Solomon in Mayberry NC played straight man to his friend Don Knotts' portrayal of the hapless deputy Barney Fife. Ronny Howard was cast as his son Opie and for many black Americans no white boy could be whiter than Opie.

From 1961 to 1968 American sat in front of their TVs on Tuesday night to watch the rubes in action introduced by the song THE FISHIN' HOLE.

While THE ANDY GRIFFITH SHOW was filmed in black and white, not a single African-American character was shown in the series other than the rare background appearance of a passing Negro, for Mayberry was the South the way the South envisioned the South, if the South rose again and reinstated Dixie. There were no blacks on PETTICOAT JUNCTION, GREEN ACRES, or THE BEVERLY HILLBILLIES, since these shows were aired at the height of the Civil Rights Movement and offered the comfort of security to a White America.

One episode of THE ANDY GRIFFITH SHOW had a vignette in which none of the townspeople could explain what The Emancipation Proclamation might be, then again segregation in the South meant that blacks and whites kept to their own areas thanks to such welcome signs as NIGGER DON'T LET THE SUN LET ON YOUR ASS IN MAYBERRY.

At least the producers never featured a KKK segment.

Unless a viewer reads between the lines.

No matter what THE ANDY GRIFFITH SHOW was a classic and spun off GOMER PYLE.

They were funny in their own way and the wrinklies loved Griffith in MATLOCK.

He continues to be missed by his people.

ps there were no blacks on THE JETSONS or THE FLINTSTONES either.

To view Barney Fife Explaining The Emancipation Proclamation please go to the following URL https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yupu8DE6vzw\

The Debt Of A Nation

In 2011 Madame Ambassador phoned with the offer to be her 'unofficial writer in residence' at her posting in Mittel Europa and she asked, "Do you have an evening suit?"

"Of course," I replied without hesitation from my apartment in Fort Greene.

"Good, because you'll be needing it. There will be plenty of balls and galas," her aristocratic intonations painted a 'pas encore vu' vision of black ties and satin gowns.

"I'll be ready."

I was looking forward to formal affairs.

In America tuxedos are dragged out of the closet only for weddings.

No one wears them to funerals.

After hanging up on Madame Ambassador, I tried on my fifteen year-old evening suit and discovered my waist wedged into the trousers and the jacket was loose on my upper body. As I stood at the mirror, my roommate/landlord entered the top-floor apartment with a bong and asked, "Where are you going?"

"To Europe."

"Europe?"

I explained about my appointment. AP knew Madame Ambassador. He eyed my trousers.

"Does that hurt?"

"No," I wasn't giving him the pleasure of the truth, but the next day my tailor let out the waist an inch. The fit felt much better.

A month later I flew to Europe and unpacked my clothing into a closet atop the residence.

"Where's the evening suit?" Madame Ambassador smiled upon seeing my formal wear. "You clean up good. Next week is the military ball. I expect you to look your best."

The evening of the RAF gala I freshly showered, shaved, and shined my shoes to a gleam.

"You clean up good."

Madame Ambassador was pleased to have a well-attired escort. She was no longer with her husband. The civilian guests conjectured about our relationship. It has been purely platonic for thirty years. The military were more circumspect with their assumptions and I drank with colonels, captains, and naval commanders. The head general of the host nation sat at our table. His glorious dress uniform shamed me, but he was a man used to the admiration of his troops and we spoke about the Civil War and Joshua Chamberlain's bayonet charge at Gettysburg.

The gala had a raffle to benefit its charity. I bought several tickets. The general discreetly tapped my shoulder and asked for 20 Euros. I slipped a blue bill under the table and he winked his thanks.

Generals like the very wealthy, royalty, and poor people don't carry money.

None of our tickets were winners and later I told to the UK military attache of my loan to the general.

"How much was it?" The commander pulled out his wallet.

"20 euros." About $27 and I waved my hand in refusal. "But that's fine. I like the idea of a general owing me money. Especially the head of the army."

Madame Ambassador and I joked about this debt and the story became funnier over the next months, for I ran into the general on several occasions without his reaching into his pocket. Once at a military ball, we spoke for several seconds and he held out his hand. I thought that he might be cuffing 20 euros in secret, but his hand was empty.

After he walked away, I scratched my head. I owed money to my friends for a long time. If I have it in my pocket, I pay them. Obviously the military have a different set of rules, then again I never asked for the 20, because I hold the debt of his nation in the palm of my hand.

The missing 20 Euros felt like good luck.

I hope the EEU feels the same about their debt.

The Battle of the Crater

On July 30, 1864 Union miners lit a massive bomb underneath Confederate lines defending the transportation center, Petersburg. The mine of 320 kegs of gunpowder comprised of 8,000 pounds and were buried twenty feet below the trenches. The explosion killed several hundred Southern troops and wounded many more, however the Union attack was delayed, giving the survivors of the blast time to rally their forces and throughout the morning the Rebels shoot pointblank down into the crater at the heaving mass of Federal soldiers, black and white. The attack was called off, but not before Mars had reaped his crop of death.

So much slaughter over such a small piece of ground.

170 feet (52 m) long, 100 to 120 feet (30 to 37 m) wide, and at least 30 feet (9 m) deep.

Over 5000 casualties, mostly Northern.

Grant wrote to Chief of Staff Henry W. Halleck, "It was the saddest affair I have witnessed in this war."

The killing ground is now covered by grass.

And the dead are at rest.

The Siege Of 45

The Trump White House has portrayed the first two month's of 45's presidency as a complete success. 220,000 jobs have been added, $100 billion have been shaved from the national debt, and Trump has claimed progress in the war against the Islamic fundamentalists, ISIS.

The President has replaced his old phone to broaden the reach of his executive missive.

The Mainstream Media has earned his wrath.

"Just heard Fake News CNN is doing polls again despite the fact that their election polls were a WAY OFF disaster. Much higher ratings at Fox."

His accusations of leaks are aimed at the other branches of the government.

"The real story that Congress, the FBI and all others should be looking into is the leaking of Classified information. Must find leaker now!"

His grasp of diplomacy flipflops with his attention span.

"Despite what you have heard from the FAKE NEWS, I had a GREAT meeting with German Chancellor Angela Merkel. Nevertheless, Germany owes vast sums of money to NATO & the United States must be paid more for the powerful, and very expensive, defense it provides to Germany!"

And let's not forget his No Health Care Plan.

"Great progress on healthcare. Improvements being made - Republicans coming together!"

Needless to say Trump triumphs over all.

What a man.

Johnny Rotten Lives

In the winter of 1977 GOD SAVE THE QUEEN hit the jukebox of CBGB's. Punk had gone international. The song was #1 on the UK charts without getting airplay and the Sex Pistols further immortalized the hit by playing the nihilistic anthem on a Thames River cruise. The band never performed in New York, but the words to ANARCHY IN THE UK were an anthem for us all.

"I wanna be anarchy."

31 years later Johnny Rotten came out of seclusion to call Sting a "soggy old dead carcass".

This on-the-mark outburst came as the Sex Pistols prepared for a one-off gig to mark the 30th anniversary of their album NEVER MIND THE BOLLOCKS and he continued to lambastE Sting as saying: "You know listening to Stink try to squeak through Roxanne one more time, that's not fun. It's like letting air out of a balloon."

Johnny 'Old' Rotten also commented that drug-taking was "a bit old fart".

I had snorted a line of blow with him and Judy Nylon at the Mudd Club.

One line.

Not an old fart then, because in 1980 cocaine was cocaine and not the industrial powder of today.

From his approaching senior citizenship perch Johnny Lydon also commented of Amy Winehouse's and Pete Doherty's drug problems, he said: "You know you can use drugs for entertainment, but you should be quiet about it. That shouldn't be your centre showpiece. There's not much going on in their head with them. They're not thinking. They're not doing this for the right reasons. They obviously don't enjoy what they're doing. And that's why you turn to drugs. And that's what happened with Sid Vicious, he wasn't happy about what he couldn't do."

A lot of people say that Johnny abandoned Sid, but the movie THE FILTH AND THE FURY reveals the friendship and love between the two band members. The Sex Pistols existed for a short time, but their influence can be measured by how many Thai kids wear Sid tee-shirts and it's only because they're black. They know exactly who he was.

To hear the Sex Pistols - God Save the Queen - YouTube, please go to the following URL https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RvMxqcgBhWQ

Who?

Several years ago Dannatt and I attended a party for Interview Magazine in hopes of speaking with their managing editor. Glenn was an old timer like myself. I had once threw him out of a nightclub.

This evening's soiree was held at an unfinished hotel.

Very unfinished.

The crowd before the entrance of the construction site was 10 deep. I slid through the expectant entrees and said I was on the list as Johnny Justice.

"We were wondering who you were." The black-clad press secretary pointed me out to her friends.

"That's me. International man of mystery."

Two steps into the work site I was forgotten. My friend Dannatt and I whisked up to the top floor for sushi, champagne, and conversation. Glenn was surrounded by his coterie. I got a wave and went to the bar. After an hour I heard the call of my pumpkin truck.

I shared the service elevator down with a beautiful blonde in jeans. She was in a panic about claustrophobia.

"I hate elevators."

"They were very terrifying in TOWERING INFERNO." I had sat in the second row of the Ziegfield Theater for that film. The inferno was very towering at that distance from the screen.

"I hate that film." She rushed into the corner elevator, face buried in the padding.

"This one is okay."

"How do you know?"

"Because empty elevator never crash>"

She shddered upon hearing my say 'crash, but on the ground floor she regained her composure. I held the door open with my hand. Afterwards Adrian said, "That's Stephanie Seymour."

"Who?" The name meant something.

"The Victoria Secrets model." Dannatt rolled his eyes at my ignorance.

Five years out of the country does wonders to your celebrity antennae.

"Her boyfriend is building the hotel."

"Fabulous." It sounded like the right thing to say.

I shook hands with Dannatt and took the subway to Brooklyn. No top models on my arm. No limo. No penthouse. Just the A train heading to Lafayette Street.

Pablo Picasso Was No Asshole

Pablo Picasso’s career spanned decades, highlighted by GUERNICA depicting the fascist bombing of the Basque city.

I saw the anti-war painting once.

Maybe at the Modern Art Museum in New York.

His ‘blue’ period painting were easier to hang on a wall than his Goya knock-off, but I'd love an Picasso, for the only valuable piece of art in my possession was a dubiousdrawing of Jean-Michel Basquiat, but I do have Jonathan Richman’s PABLO PICASSO on CD.

“Pablo Picasso was never an asshole.”

In 2011 ninety-nine paintings and prints went on view at Larry Gagosian gallery. The queue numbered in the hundreds. The sidewalk was slick with a cold rain. I walked up to the front door. The guest list madame asked for my name.

“James Steele. Dublin. I’m not on the list. I never am.”

She regarded my attire.

A ten year-old Calvin Klein suit and a shirt tailored in Bangkok with an English tie.

“Let him in.” She motioned to the security guard.

“Thanks.”

I entered the art hangar. People greeted each other with old embraces. I spotted LR. She saves paintings. Her brother Danny was a fisherman and we had once shared a girlfriend.

“What do you think about the paintings?” the art restorer asked looking over my shoulder at the entrance. She was expecting friends.

“Haven’t seen any yet.” I knew nothing about this exhibit, having been invited by the lustrous Adrian Dannett, interlocutor extraordinaire to the Ignorattti.

“These predate his death in 1973.” She pointed to the paintings on the wall. The style was recognizably Picasso, almost as if he had devoted the last years of his life to huffing glue.

"Nice." I wandered around the gallery without finding a single painting to hang on the walls of my Fort Green Observatory. A few of the drawings were acceptable, but I’m happier with my little Basquiat drawing, which he had done a month before his death.

Three-Ear-Cat.

I love it, then again Jean-Michel was never an asshole either.

To hear PABLO PICASSO WAS NOT AN ASSHOLE, please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k43XjuhInkU

I’ll never understand why this song never hit it big on the Christian radio stations.

Picasso's Baby Paintings

My father and mother took their children to view Pablo Picasso paintings during the 60s. He inspected one drawing and said that I was as skilled as the Spaniard, since my grammar school war paintings had won honorary mention at the diocesan art show in 1964. Picasso at that age was studying figure drawing and oil painting with his father, who believed in traditional forms of art and his son honored his father by painting, as if he were a child.

Most of his childhood paintings were lost during the Civil War, but when I moved to Europe in 2011 I decided to hunt for the lost collection of childhood Picasso. They had to be worth millions. I had no luck, but several years ago a New Jersey man wandered into a San Francisco gallery and clipped a drawing off the wall. The police caught the thief thanks to a video camera.

The 1965 drawing titled "Tete de Femme" looks like it could have been done by a child on LSD, then again that was Picasso's gift.

To be a man yet a child.

His baby finger-paintings have to be somewhere and somewhere was a place I usually find myself if I'm not careful.

The Genius Of Picasso

Some artists are good at everything.

Women Unite

END INJUSTICE.

Tinkering With NASA Tinkle

In 2008 Astronauts on the International Space Station were hard at work repairing the Intergalactic Piss Cleaner. This device was designed to convert urine and sweat into potable water, thereby decreasing the transport loads of the supply rockets. Unfortunately the urine centrifuge was out of whack and the astronauts have been forced to cut down on their water intake.

"The water should be 70% condensation and 30% urine." At present it's 90/10.

Less piss sounds good to me

None sounds even better.

Except to President Trump.

FUCK, SHIT, CUNT, PISS / Boston Avatar

Mel Lyman played banjo and harmonica for the Jim Kweskin Jug Band out of Boston in the 60s. The charismatic musician formed a neo-transcendental commune on Fort Hill in economically depressed Roxbury and in 1967 released a bi-weekly journal called AVATAR espousing the re-birth of the inner-self as reflected by the glory of Mel Lyman.

"Love isn't something you find, something you do, something you study. Love is something you BECOME after there is no more YOU."

I ran into several of their members in the late-60s. I was a teenager. They had no interest in someone as young as me, since I was male. I begged my father to buy property on Fort Hill. A bedraggled tenement cost a few thousand dollars. He thought that the neighborhood was a blight on Boston.

"Best to napalm the hill and start over again."

That was the end of the real estate career, but Lyman attracted followers and the Avatar recruited believers from around the country. The commune expanded to several houses and the Boston police under orders from the city's judiciary sought to quell its growth by arresting the vendors selling the Avatar with the sale of obscene material.

The Avatar responded with a centerfold provocatively printed with the words; FUCK, SHIT, CUNT, PISS.

According to famed defense lawyer, Harvey Silverglate the Cambridge and Boston police attempted to prosecute 80 vendors. Only five were found guilty, but their conviction's were overturn, due to the DA's inexperience with First Amendment issues and the assenting opinion of the State's Supreme Court stated that “this rather sad publication is not obscene.”

End of story and the Avatar finished its run as a mouthpiece for the beliefs of Mel Lyman. The Fort Hill commune moved into the future, but the leader passed away in April 1978.

According to Wikipedia the exact date and location are unknown.

Pissing Contest

According to themoderatevoice.com the world record for longest consecutive peeing sessions is 508 seconds, which is almost eight-and-a-half minutes, while it takes the typical person only 20 seconds to finish their flow. The longest distance a person has ever peed was by Joey Wallace of Arizona who reached his stream 14 feet and one inch.

At 64 I'm happy to not wet my pants.

Some people are just professionals.

The rest of us should remain in the audience.

Or go inside the house to relieve ourselves in private.

Not everyone has to be in the show.

Except for Donald Trump.

The President likes pee on he.

Getting Comfie

The Black Caucus visited the President in the Oval Office and his schitzah schlumpe decided to get comfortable to text and twitter Kellyanne's minions.

Absolutely crass.

What else can you expect from a curva?

Then again I prefer Ann Coulter.

At least she has a brains.

Dead Sea Scrolls Online

Several years ago Israel downloaded images of the nearly 2000 year-old Dead Sea Scrolls on the Internet for scholars to study the ancient biblical text. None of the fragments mention of the contract between Yahweh and the Zionists for the 20th Century annexation of Palestine, but who knows some day maybe someone will find such a document?

The lost lease of Israel.

Then no one could dispute their claim to the Holy Land.

Until then justice for Palestine.