From my local mental heath advisor yesterday came this inquiry:
“SANTA ASKED me to check up on you to see if you have you been good this year. What is it worth for me to keep my mouth shut?”
As my shrink well knows, I have been a very bad boy this year. I campaigned very hard for a clothing optional beach in Key West, both before and after I didn’t get elected mayor (thank you, God!). I didn’t do it for myself, like you ain’t going to see me naked on a beach or Duval Street. I did it because it was drop-dead no-brainer to rev up the seriously salt-petered Key West economy at zero cost to Key West, other than a few mashed Puritan feelings.
I talked about everything nobody wanted talked about. Such as, I told our city commissioners and mayor during a city commission meeting, not to their great delight, that if they brought on another Duck Tours case by continuing to support Ed The Swift’s sight-seeing monopoly in Key West, they would be personally liable in a court of law. Since then, I have seen our city commissioners and mayor behave as if they didn’t believe me, as if they are on Ed The Swift’s payroll.
I Pan-lusted after many women who made my heart palpitate and my hands reach for the digitalis bottle. Especially did I lust after Aphrodite, who showed up at the first Hometown! PAC Call To Candidates during the political debut of then aspiring mayor prospect, Craig Cates, now our mayor (thank you, God!), and yanked off her tank top, stopping the show for a bit (I, of course, had nothing to to with it), and hollered, “Nude beaches for Key West!!!” A Goddess, avataring right there in our little hick town, telling us what to do, and we told her, so far, to take a hike. Jesus! Didn’t anyone around here ever hear about DIVINE RETRIBUTION?!?!
I cursed God frequently for making me, and God had the audacity to laugh and send me hordes people who accused me of being full of shit, crazy, evil; and God sent me legions of people who were doing all manner of evil; and God sent me ongoing dreams telling me what to do about it, or else; and God sent me the daughters and sons of Chernobyl to eat, digest and eliminate, to make sure I understood: if I didn’t do what was being told to me to do, I would never get the daughters and sons of Chernobyl out of me! And God told me to write this cartoon today, maybe to cheer me up, even if it don’t cheer up anybody else.
I thirsted for Bacchus. Booze, booze everywhere, in the city of more bars per capita than any other city in the world, and not a drop to drink could I. Condemned to hell, I, a lover of fine beer, wine, scotch and tequila, not allowed to drink even one little, tiny drap in the city that has more churches per capita than any other city in the world. The city I keep telling my shrink, who has yet to even make a tiny move toward getting on her comfy couch with me, is schizophrenic and really ought to be locked up for its own fucking good!
I pissed off people left and write. Our now former mayor threatened to sue me for asking why come his wife, who gave the pirate, Monique Acevedo, the keys to the 9th grade at Key West High School, which allowed Monique to rape and plunder the 9th grade treasury, was not called on the microscope carpet like everyone else who had dealings with Monique? And still hasn’t been called to the microscope.
I accused the departed mayor’s bosom buddy, City Commissioner Clayton Lopez, of sending a hit man to make his opponent in the last city race an offer he couldn’t refuse. Then, I accused Commissioner Lopez of greasing the way for his wife getting a $1-a-year lease from the school board, for his wife’s new day care center. Greased by his being bosom buddies with our former mayor, who himself was bosom buddies with Monique Acevedo’s husband, who was then Superintendent of our School Board, who pushed the $1-a-year lease through, and who now himself is convicted felon for aiding-and-abetting his pirate wife’s rape and plunder of a lot more of the school system than just the 9th grade at Key West High.
I gave the old mayor some couch counsel of my own. I told him at a candidate forum that his little black-and-white-checkered Daytona Speedway campaign flags, and his campaign slogan, “Start to Finish,” sort of reminded me of a Viagra ad. I suggested he spend less time politicking and bar-hopping, and more time with his wife and kids, whom he said at a candiate forum were the most important things in his life and he missed them terribly because of all the time he was putting in being mayor and bar hopping.
I spent a lot of time on my shrink’s couch, and she still hasn’t stopped talking about how big my schlong is on my campaign T-shirt; but that’s all she ever does, talk. Maybe she needs to see a shrink herself. Maybe she needs to get a stocking stuffed full of fried plantains. Maybe some day she will see the light. Maybe some day she will use her mouth in a way that usually interferes with talking at the same time. I’m going to give her a treasure map today, showing how to get to my pad and where I keep the spare key.
Heck. Maybe I should make up a bunch of those maps. Never can tell when one might come in handy for someone who hasn’t gotten laid in five years, about the baddest thing I can imagine doing.
Happy holiday to you all, too.
The Grinch
