Undoubtedly, surrendering the rug will be the toughest part. Another
(some say the final) chapter in one of the longest running soap operas in Vo
Dilun politics ends on Friday, when the mighty Bud-I turns himself in to
federal authorities, to begin serving his five-plus year stretch in New Jersey,
home of his fictional nemeses, The Sopranos. The sound of reporters,
talk show hosts, and columnists weeping, as their longtime meal ticket and
surefire controversy magnet heads for the pokey, can be plainly heard across
the Ocean State.
Although we all tend to look at larger-than-life public figures like the Bud-I
in cartoon figure terms (this could have something to do with how they
frequently act in cartoonish ways), Vincent Cianci is a real human being. A
61-year-old man facing the very unpleasant reality of incarceration, after a
life of privilege and celebrity, is not a pretty sight. We happen to think that
what is happening to the Bud-I is of his own doing, not the end-result of a
ruthless government vendetta, as some would have you believe.
But we've also known this man for many years and can't help feeling a palpable
sense of sadness and pain for him. The Bud-I can no longer be that mad
scientist in the basement, just a few steps away from curing cancer, but unable
to finish the task because he's too busy torturing his enemies, who he has
strapped down on another table. No, his basement laboratory has been taken
away. The act we've known for all these years has ended on a very bad note.
Frank Sinatra has turned into Julius LaRosa.
Well, at least the Bud-I isn't in the state system and being sent to minimum
security at the ACI, where the holiday meal this year will apparently be smack
and cold lobster.
Watch out for yourself, Bud-I. Our Little Town won't be quite the same.
Get off our cloud
A stern warning to Robert Whitcomb, editorial page editor of the Urinal: Back
off. Phillipe and Jorge are the reigning radicals in Our Little Towne, not
some proper East Side denizen. So let us handle the mau-mauing and affliction
of the comfortable, as a combo of Tom Wolfe and H.L. Mencken might have it.
We refer to the BeloJo's December 3 editorial, entitled "A sick relationship,"
which put the boot to the unspeakable families of George Bush and the reigning
Saudi princes, even going so far
as to call in the bombs on NBC
correspondent and Saudi sycophant Andrea "Mrs. Alan Greenspan" Mitchell, in a
display of strafing that would make General Tommy Franks proud. With venom
spewing left, right, and sideways, the editorial declares, "Saudi Arabia and
the United States are most emphatically not true `allies.' Rather, we are
mutual parasites . . . gas-guzzling America, and in particular, its power
elite, including the Bushes, have close ties with representatives of this
corrupt and decadent dictatorship . . . " Whit, we don't think we could have
said it better ourselves. We imagine Urinal publisher Howard Sutton gagged on
his Captain Crunch and Ovaltine when he read this at the kitchen table.
And Ms. Mitchell, who swans around DC with the unspeakable Saudi front man,
Prince Bandar, is taken to task for her defense of this swinish son of the
desert: "Thus does the socialite-media-financial-foreign-policy web of
Washington undermine US interests." Wow! Up against the wall, motherfuckers!
While we don't like our toes getting stepped on like this, P&J nonetheless
commend Whitcomb and his gang of nouveau SDS radicals on the fourth floor at
Fountain Street for pointing out the hypocrisy of this unholy alliance. It's
Big Oil with a country run by scum who treat women like animals under the guise
of religion, while they blatantly defy the tenets of Islam by drinking and
carousing whenever they're out of the public eye. The Saudi princes are indeed
corrupt sleazebags, and we're happy to see this viewpoint being expressed from
a wholly unexpected quarter. What's next from the BeloJo: "The revolution will
not be televised"?
TV mama
Turn to tits! Excuse us, we meant, Turn to 10!
Phillipe and Jorge absolutely adore Betty-Jo Cugini, news director at Channel
10, but we're afraid we need to give our girl some advice. As the molestation
trial of neurologist Dr. Taranath Shetty proceeds, WJAR has been doing an
exhaustive job in getting many of the women who are testifying against Dr.
Shetty on videotape. The effort to not broadcast the faces of the alleged
victims is both understandable and correct. But it would be a good idea if B.J.
perhaps instructed her JAR-head camera crews not to simply lower their cameras
to focus directly on the women's breasts, especially since many of the charges
against Dr. Shetty involve allegations of undesired breast fondling.
While P&J have been getting a chuckle out of this TV coverage and its
ironic overtone, a little less absurd approach may be warranted to provide
these folks with some dignity. Thanks, B.J.
Yet another RIPTA tale from the Eddy St. line
Jorge knew he was in the presence of genius when the middle aged white guy in
the baggy clothes and baseball cap, and his bleached blonde female cohort, got
on the bus in mid-conversation. This guy was saying, "That's right, when
Clinton was president they had this thing called the Freedom of Information
Act. You could find out anything . . . ANYTHING!"
They quickly hustled to the back of the bus, where a group of high school-age
young black males were sitting. The youths' heavy on the yo's conversation was
quickly interrupted when Mr. Freedom of Information pulled a booklet from the
small bundle of reading material he was carrying and flashed it to the guys
saying, "Hey, you'll really dig this."
It was a tract on marijuana cultivation apparently featuring order forms to
purchase seeds. All of those in the back of the bus soon received a brief
dissertation on how "you only need a few seeds," to grow big, monster plants.
The Freedom of Information guy's female companion helpfully walked around,
allowing all the guys to get a good gander at the lush photographs of mature
pot plants until the bus driver ordered her to sit down and not move around the
bus.
Mr. FOI acknowledged that some time in the past he had ordered the seeds and
successfully grown and cultivated his own plants, but he claimed that he no
longer did this. It was not clear whether he was carrying these marijuana
publications for nostalgic reasons or is merely a fan of botanical photography:
"Yeah, I wish the stuff was legal . . . I don't grow it anymore." Observing
this, Jorge was of the opinion that while Mr. FOI may no longer be a member in
good standing of the Future Pot Farmers of America, chances are strong that he
still ingests the stuff.
Although clamoring for more information from the leading agricultural expert
of Washington Park, the guys in the back of the bus were a bit leery about the
challenges of the farming life. Their questions were fairly rudimentary,
revealing no curiosity about fertilization needs, soil, temperature, climate
conditions, or any of the other issues that might come to mind. "Yo, that's a
big sucker," seemed to be the general consensus. The guys' stops were coming
up, so they said goodbye to Mr. FOI, who, in a final act of generosity,
suggested they check out some related weed info on the Web.
Back to the future
How does the Dubya Bush administration investigate mass murder? They appoint a
mass murderer, silly! Who would know more about it?
Yep, Dubya and his caretakers, Big Time Cheney and Rummy Rumsfeld, have named
Herr Doktor Henry Kissinger -- a Jew who, if given the chance, would have been
first in line to join the Gestapo -- as head of the 9/11 committee
investigating how a bunch of radical Muslims were able to carry out their
deadly terrorist attacks.
Boy, this is a good one. Make a morally bankrupt, soulless, self-promoting
liar who bombed civilians on Christmas Day (and gave more Oval Office BJs to
Richard Nixon than Billary could have imagined getting from Monica Lewinsky)
the leader of a team looking into a mass killing.
Too bad Pol Pot, the Cambodian master of genocide whose rise to power was made
possible by Tricky Dick and Henry's bombing raids, which killed 750,000
Cambodians, wasn't available to be vice-chair. Instead, we settle for tobacco
firm lobbyist George Mitchell. The only reason Mitchell looks clean at all is
because he's being compared to the ultimate pig, Doctor Strangelove, who was
once quoted as saying, "The illegal we do immediately. The unconstitutional
takes a little longer."
Everyone from the New York Times to Senator John Kerry has expressed
their distrust of Doktor K., given that his consulting firm represents big oil
firms -- gee, no conflict there if we're looking at Saudi funding of the
terrorists. Never mind all the lies and obfuscations he put forth while
Americans were getting killed for no good reason in Vietnam. And while he tries
to take the moral high ground, saying there's no ethical problem with any of
his clients, he refuses to divulge who they are. Boy, the man just reeks of
credibility.
While attention has been focused on Dr. Strangelove, equally repellent things
have been taking place in Boy George's administration, with even more poison
chickens coming home to roost: Elliott Abrams, John Negroponte and Otto Reich
(can you say Iran-Contra, boys and girls?) have been brought in by Dubya's
goons to shape White House policy for Latin America. Bet that makes Brazil's
President "Lula" happy, knowing there's a very good chance that he may soon be
found, like Chile's late ruler, Salvador Allende, to have committed suicide by
shooting himself in the back five times from 20 feet away. These moves,
however, should make the beleaguered CIA very happy, as its agents can now get
back to their favorite chores, such as helping to launch coups and teaching
local military forces south of the border how to rape and kill citizens, rather
than trying to predict terrorist attacks on our own country.
"The re-surfacing of the Iran culprits has been nothing short of Orwellian in
this administration," said Peter Kornbluh, of a liberal Washington think tank.
And that isn't even including John Ashcroft's tributes to the author of
1984. Whither Ollie North, we wonder?
Send escape plans and Pulitzer-grade tips to p&j[a]phx.com.
Issue Date: December 6 - 12, 2002
