Spirits of the Seasons
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He's back — L. D. Brodsky's working stiff from St. Louis, with his Bud Light–hued worldview and his uniquely foul-mouthed, malapropistic takes on modern life and his own tenuous place in it. This volume, the title of which is our unlikely hero's trademark interjection, brings together his narrations from seven of Brodsky's short-fiction books, in which he made spot appearances. Together, these episodes in the hilarious chronicle of a true American "rough" prove Brodsky's uncanny ability to satirize both the best and the worst of American culture. You will never again experience anything like Guarangoddamnteeya! — guarangoddamnteeya!
Sample Poem Title
"True democracy — that’s what I call it. By this afternoon, everyone will have the report right there on the Internet."
"Yeah, and at the same time as the president."
"Did you hear where Clinton’s staff was bringing in a team of speed-readers to make sure they get a rebuttal out to the public before everyone and his uncle gets his tabloid?"
"What good do you think that could possibly do?"
"How should I know, Sid? Maybe the president wants to demonstrate his prowess, just how he does his premature ejaculations!"
"Jesus, Bud! That’s disgusting!"
And I'm thinkin' I done had a seven-month's reprove since them mackerel snappers gassed big on matters presildental, since the prez done confessed on nutworkin' TV that he never not only didn’t pork Harmonica Levinsky but that he never had no lust in his hard nor his eyes neither, never so much as laid a tongue or a hard on her laviary, never groped nor manhandled her neither, didn't even really seem to know Levinsky's name, since right there on innernational TV he called her "that woman," or some such alien.
So these guys is all cranked up again, which is prob'ly amazin' savin' grace for 'em, 'cause even I could see by yesterday their teapots was runnin' down on Mike McGwire's steam. I mean, just how many times can you count to sixty-two, watch that special-effects TV showin' the King o' Swing swattin' the twat off the ball fifty, sixty times in a row? I mean, give me one freakin' break! Why don't one o' them TV companies send a camera crew out to the plant to film me 'n Brotherton 'n Kowalski 'n Bobbit boltin' down our motor mounts time 'n time again after time, neat as you please? Come on! A homer's still just a home run, ain't it? Anyways, they want to see real manpower, just let 'em make a reservation to watch me in action with my old lady tonight, after we get home from Stompanato's and I got a full head (if you catch the drift o' my draft Bud) o' steam.
So as everybody knows, what with the whole whirl economy o' Russkia 'n them dwarf chink bastards from Japland goin' down the tubes hourly and the prez not contributin' no little unrest 'n tensions in the mind o' Down Jones investedments, these guys got enough fodder to last sixty-two lifetimes.
But what gets me is all that Innernut shit, how the Grand Ol’ Elephumps on Capitol's Hill is bein' oh-so-tiptoe-throughthe-two-lips dainty as hell to make sure no one accuses 'em o' gloatin' 'n bustin' the prez's soap bubble 'fore his bag over troubled waters comes to terms of its own violition. After all, they don’t want to be accused by the constitutionals o’ their own districks o' trackin' up the Pershing rug leadin' to the Offal Office with anything resemblin' ca-ca tracks o' Chiwowow or Doperman pincher.
Ah, but I love it how they’re bein' so self-defacing (like they never diddled their own in-trainees) so's he can hang hisself by trippin' hisself up in his own net o' lies. I seen on TV last night where Nude Gangrene was advisin' his fellow elephumps to let the bastard hang hisself so good that the cuntry, come November selections, will be beggin' them Grant's Ol' Party animals to move in 'n untie his dead carcass, hangin' upside down over to the Tomb o' the Unknowable Soldiers over to Georgeton, 'n dump it in the Potarmac.
"Well, boys, by this afternoon, Bill Clinton will either be the laughingstock of the world or on his way to weaseling out of this mess with just a censure or good-old-boy pat on the butt."
"Not likely. The Internet doesn't lie."
Suuure, I'm thinkin', and it's tough to tell your USDNA that that jizz on "that woman's" blue party dress ain't yours but just happened to splat there when the blue jay o' happiness flew over on his way to grandma's house to polish her presildentures, her oh-what-big-teeth-you-have, and ended up eatin' 'n bein' eaten, to beat a rug, for havin' cried wolfs one times too much 'n too many.