Saddam Hussein: Closet Stand-up Comedian (or) Stupid Bowel Sunday?

It’s an absolutely gorgeous, sunny and mild (if cold, at 44 degrees F.) mid-February morning, here in the armpit (occasionally also known as Suckatomato) of Governor Gravel Noisome’s Progressively Retrogressive Ducal Fiefdom (otherwise known as the Politically Constipated State of Californicatia) and all is (temporarily) right in my world.

The early AM walkie ablutions with Her Serene Grace, Nala Grand Duchess of Eastern Siberia, have been completed satisfactorily; Her Grace beneficently anointed at least 20 trees with her personal fluid DNA marker as the oaks and maples passed in review before her (at the local park). As always, Her copious Royal Bladder runneth’d over (and over, and over, and over).

She has also had her obligatory croissant at the nearby neighborhood coffeehouse (strangely named ‘VENUS’…that’s it, all of it; go figure), and I, her dutiful Chamberlain of Protocols, have had my Doppio Espresso there. I suspect that ‘VENUS’ is an allusion to the fact that it is owned and operated by a female cooperative, but they’re all very pleasant people (so I tip generously…well beyond my usual 2% gratuity).

Once back in the Royal Residence, I warmed up and took my 51-year-old Porsche (‘Jezibel’) out onto the nearby Interstate and put it through an excellent 10 mile “freshening-up drive”…immensely gratified that there were almost no other cars streaming either North or South on it to sully up my mood. A few curious onlookers queued up behind me to take a good look at my Screaming Yellow (German) Zonker, as we sedately cruised along at a steady 3000 RPM (that translates on a Porsche speedometer to about an even 112.654 km, or 70 mph for unculcha’d ‘Mericanos), having I am sure absolutely no idea what sort of car make it is (and likely being not old enough to remember what 70s era Typ 47 Porsches look like).

After a few immensely satisfying downshifts, we left the freeway and returned to the stable once again for another week’s slumber (likely dreaming about winning Les 24 Heures du Mans)

After checking my email (I received the usual daily spam consisting of 10 messages, each saying (more or less), “I am SO horny…I want to fu*k..I live near you…come violate me” (etc.) and also valentine greetings from my local ROTO-ROOTER man, wishing me "a happy, clog-free V-day”, etc.), I turned to the rest of items on my Sunday activities agenda. How nice to be remembered by these individuals as St. Valentine’s Day approaches!

As I said, it was a lovely start to this once-a-year day of blissful peace and tranquility as the whole country comes to a screeching halt and the sports fan faithful grab their high-caloric-content junk foods and fervently cluster around their 100 inch high-definition television sets.

And why, you may well ask, am I so pleased with today’s Stupid Bowel Sunday? Because I absolutely, categorically and religiously HATE ‘big money’ professional sports in this besotted, materialistic country I just happen to have been born in and such things act as a gigantic metaphysical magnet to get these miscreants and annoyances off the streets…if only for a few hours!

Sports mania, by my reckoning, is a disease not unlike the African disease of NOMA (Wiki it), except that it seems to mostly consume the brain tissue of those mindless male members of American society (now estimated at about the same number as Americans insured by United Healthcare…HFC, curiously) who are literally addicted to the sight of beefy teams of opposing Neanderhals tossing inflated pig bladders at each other and bashing the opposing team’s players to blithering smithereens, hunks of disabled, cranially decorticated future sufferers from cognitive brain dysfunction that they are. That said, there are a likely also a few hundred thou or so female Americans who also follow big-money sports (which may perhaps be attributed to hormone imbalances and/or disorders), sad though that that fact may be.

As someone who would rather watch an amateur (unsponsored, commercially) event any day instead of an erstwhile “professional” one, this sacred National Holiday would be total and complete waste to me, if it weren’t for the fact that it assures that almost all of the dipshits, congenital lame-brains, retards (taking their steroid supplements and male hormone additives) and generally those with an IQ of less than that of a banana slug are safely off the streets, leaving my road uncluttered and free to navigate with minimal difficulty as my Porsche and I zip along on our weekly drive.

It was cold (Jezibel, my Poor-she Typ 47) loves the cold, with its air-cooled flat-4 engine, and the chill was bracing; but mild cold such as this sure beats the hell out of local mid-summer weather (with daily highs well above 100 deg. F.). I think, if given the choice, that I’d rather freeze to death than terminally fry…which is why I am going to put on a brave show of resistance if Mephistopheles ever shows any interest in me, when I die.

In the immediate post-prandial afternoon, Her Serene Grace and I again visited the park and were delighted to find that it was totally deserted. No others around. Just Her Grace and I, a circumstance that would have made the heart of Louis-Ferdinand Destouches Céline bask in glow of warm, inner contentment (were that worthy around today). He was, by the way, a great lover of dogs and was always surrounded by several devoted, largish canines.

And so went our afternoon as probably ¾ of the nation sit glued to their television sets, watching human 200+ pound human piledrivers smash into each other on the field of honor, as viewers at home followed the SNL Coneheads’ example and consumed mass quantities of highly processed snacks (and other oral garbage) and tossed down lousy American piss-water flavored beer.

Such is the Great American Way on this Holiest of High Holy Days in the Dysfunctional States of America.

A friend who hates big money sports as much as I do observed that if Xi Jinping, Vladimir Putin or Kim Jong-Un ever wanted to recreate their own 7 December 1941 replication of the original Japanese pants-down violation of the USA, today would be the perfect day for such an abysmal act. Let''s all hope those bad boyz are asleep at the (thermonuclear) switch, eh?

And remember, folks, although God may be dead (or out to lunch somewhere in the vast Unknown Infinite Emptiness of space), commercial corporate advertisers continue to "love you real good."

Bless you, consumers!