Columns » Bob Lancaster

Mustard wup

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Don’t wake me the next time some sick kook confesses to a cold-case celebrity murder. Or for what he ate and how many john trips on the flight home.

Don’t wake me the next time the same pious alcoholic Australian movie star gets drunker than usual and makes a spectacle, blaming the Jews for all his troubles, for killing Jesus, and for everything else.

Don’t wake me when the Decider makes his next “surprise visit” to the war zone to pump up morale there. Himself, in the flesh, with all else he’s got going: must be the ultimate grunt thrill. Imagine the ecstasy of those who actually get to touch the hem.

Ditto the secretary of state popping in unexpectedly on Levantine cease-fire negotiators. Ta-da. We can start now. If this bit gets any cheesier she’ll be jumping out of a cake. C’mon now, when did Beavis and Butthead take over the high councils?

Don’t wake me for “The History of Mustard.” This isn’t a Monty Python skit. It was on the History Channel the other night, straight up, no parody. And some thoughtless member of my personal staff, the batman or the butler, I don’t know which of the rascals, did in fact wake me for it. And now I know everything there is to know about mustard and then some. Ol’ moi, the parochial mustard big wup.

Don’t wake me for the next Pluto planetary-status update. Neither Jesus nor J.S. Bach inkled the dark imposter invisible in the firmament, and they both did all right. Anyway, what kind of self-respecting dog would allow himself to be owned by a whistling mouse?

Don’t wake me for the latest on Barry Bonds.

Or Terrell Owens.

Or the chuckwagon races.

If there’s a quotation from Chertoff in it, leave me and my crosscut to a few more of those logs.

Don’t wake me for any anniversary coverage, no matter the topic. Last week’s big Katrina rehash, for example. Just an opportunity for more sham and b.s. about the heckuva job that Decider and Brownie and them did and are still doing. Of all the endless Katrina anniversity yodda, the best was the silent sarcasm spoken by 10,000 mute empty rusting tarmac house trailers.Why didn’t somebody interview them?

Don’t wake me for this goofy pope’s latest brainstorm.

Don’t wake me for a U.N. resolution no matter the bluster.

Don’t wake me when the Decider reprises his Little Moron. It’s just not funny anymore. Not even in the rueful, oh-no-not-again way. Or a la Junior Samples or the punchbowl Baby Ruth. Not funny, no longer an embarrassment; merely depressing. As Ross Perot used to say, it’s jest sad.

Don’t wake me the next time somebody sees the Blessed Virgin on a tortilla chip in a Guatemala or Utah hovel and sells it on eBay for some large.

Don’t wake me when another cabinet flunky starts flushing traitors out of every difference of opinion. Raise an eyebrow at foolish policy and you go on the list. You’re an appeaser. You give aid and comfort. They’ve kept the torture option just so they can use it on you. You knew that, right?

Don’t wake me for the next Castro death watch, which is déjà vu Franco, SNL, 30 years ago all over again. Don’t even wake me if it turns out not to be just another false alarm. It’s just impossible to care. Even in the John Donne sense.

Don’t wake me for the bulletins on possibly meaningful digit twitches in the vegged Israeli guy, either.

Don’t wake me when another fool judge decides that another of these indecent corporate trough-snufflers is too “fragile” to go to prison for his sorry-ass crimes.

Don’t wake me when another casino slick avers that video poker is a “game of skill.” Yeah, the monkey skill to pull a handle or push a button. The skill of functioning with no brain.

Don’t wake me that another pulpit slime weasel has delivered on stem-cell research. Who outside the biology department at Liberty U. on payday eve could possibly care what Jerry Falwell and such smug aholes think about stem-cell research? If you’ve got a dying loved one who might be helped, have your say. Otherwise, do us all a favor. ES&D.

Don’t wake me that market jitters over something puzzling that some mullah said or the course that a minor Caribbean blow might or might not take caused them to raise oil prices $20 a barrel again.

Don’t wake me when some unintelligent dork with designs on political office issues forth on intelligent design.

Don’t wake me for anything concerning the obesity “epidemic.”

Don’t wake me for any TV golf that has Tiger Woods in it. Nothing against him. It’s the announcers, all pucker and swoon. They all do it except Johnny Miller.

Whichever patriot waxes however patriotic, beg pardon, I need the sleep.

Don’t wake me for the same two women shooting the eternal No Exit game of pool.

Don’t wake me for updates on the Decider’s cage match with Albert Camus.

Don’t need no mfsnakes on no mfplane.

Or anything to do with fantasy football.






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