Friday, February 27, 2009

Not a Good Day

Dear Tim Ryan,

Good day to you, early morning news broadcaster. My name is Alibaster K. Abthernabther, bestselling author, champion yacht racer, hot air balloon enthusiast, and "news junkie." Also, I am quite severely addicted to illegal narcotics.

It is a sad, sad, moment indeed, not unlike slavery, forced child labor, the Holocaust, and the final episode of After M*A*S*H all rolled into one. Today is a day that will live in sorrow-soaked infamy, as the FOX Good Day family wishes a fond farewell to your co-anchor and friend, the lovely and talented Megan Henderson.

Everyone has their favorite "Megan Moments" and I am no exception. Who didn't love the time she donned a string bikini, slathered herself in cocoa butter and challenged CBS-11's Kristine Kahanek to a wrestling match in a kiddie pool full of tapioca pudding?

Who couldn't help but smile as they watched Megan and NBC-5 reporter Susy Solis doing body shots off of each other until they both collapsed to the floor of a Dave & Buster's game room in a sexy, sweaty heap?

And how about the time she engaged in a giggly, playful water balloon fight with WFFA's Alexa Conomos, then called Gary Gogill a "walking queef machine" and kicked him square in his dick?

Sure, none of these things ever actually occurred in real life and are only erotic fantasies of my own concoction. Nonetheless, they are vivid memories that I will hold near and dear to both my heart and my penis for years to come.

Fabricated or factual, all we have now are these memories, as Miss Megan is off to La-La Land, where she will deliver morning reports on the latest diarrheal diet fads and luxury house pet accessories to the fine, orange-tinged populace of Los Angeles.

Now we must move on without her. Having heard tell that FOX-5 will not immediately replace Megan, instead supplying you with a rotating cast of co-anchors, I wish to offer my services to you in that regard. Sure, I don't look as hot in a hobble skirt as your old partner. But my inability to harvest boners over the North Texas airwaves is dwarfed by my journalistic professionalism and mastery of pretending that an overtly biased delivery of the news is, in fact, objective reporting.

Nowadays, isn't that what television journalism is really all about? Please allow me to leave you with a little taste of the goods...

Chef Jake shows us how to make dolphin eyeball soup. We'll review the latest frighteningly realistic talking dog movie. How to set a Democrat on fire without leaving any trace evidence. And take our brand new "Are You Fucking Retarded?" quiz. All this and more, tomorrow on Good Day!


Yours,
Alibaster K. Abthernabther

Friday, January 30, 2009

Alibaster K. Abthernabther's Search for America's Next Huge Douche Hole Tool

Dear Club Purgatory,

Good day to you, fabulous nightclub. My name is Alibaster K. Abthernabther, bestselling author, champion yacht racer, hot air balloon enthusiast and executive producer of high quality, basic cable reality programming.

I just wanted to thank you for allowing us to hold our casting auditions this weekend at your fine establishment. I believe this arrangement will be of great mutual benefit.

Rest assured, your association with my groundbreaking new reality show "experiment" secures your spot in pop culture history for centuries to come. Alibaster K. Abthernabther's Search for America's Next Huge Douche Hole Tool is destined to be the hottest show on the television dial, that is, if televisions still had dials on them.

Deciding to launch Alibaster K. Abthernabther's Search for America's Next Huge Douche Hole Tool (heretofore AKA's SFANHDHT) at Club Purgatory was no easy task. There was a huge pool of viable contenders to choose from; hundreds of asininely named lounges, clubs, and bars within the greater DFW area, each brimming with male clientèle possessing absolutely radioactive levels of assfacery and dickholishness.

How will this apply to AKA's SFANHDHT, you ask?

Shut the fuck up, I reply.

First, these gentlemen will face a gauntlet of skanky, skanky skanks rife with venereal disease. Then they will rent out shoddy North Dallas apartments and furnish them with saggy foutons, decorative samurai swords, and ceramic coffee table pumas. They will then be supplied with a bottomless bin of shiny button-up shirts, mega-ultra extreme stiff-hold hair gel, stressed denim jeans, and brightly colored, slatted sunglasses. They will ritually bathe in Axe deodorant body spray. They will be, in a word, irresistible.

We will chose the seven finest dick wrinkles - the creme de la shitty, the douchiest of the douchey, the kings of all cock-facedness - and cast them into a 20-foot dirt pit. Then I will personally douse them with space shuttle fuel and light them on fire.

And they will burn to a crisp and die, their fevered screams unheard, their hollow dreams unrealized.

Then I will pee-pee on their smoldering ashes.

Frankly, the only budget we could secure for this show covered two episode's worth of expenses. So, we figure we do the inital introductory round-up and pick the top, I don't know, 20 or 25 guys in the first episode. Then for the second episode we light them on fire and videotape them burning to their deaths. And I pee on them. It's a budgetary concern more than anything else.

If we secure a decent ratings share with this go-around, we can expect to have the second season of AKA's SFANHDHT airing within about 6 weeks. And, with your blessing, I hope to hold the 2nd annual auditions in Club Purgatory, in recognition of the club's undying dedication to the subhuman chauvinistic desires of the average, everyday douche-whistle.

Kudos to you, douchey nightclub!

Yours,
Alibaster K. Abthernabther

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

However, it Would be a Wonderful Name for a Wesley Snipes Film.

Dear Casey E. Thomas II,


Good day to you, president of the Dallas National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, Branch # 6169. My name is Alibaster K. Abthernabther, best-selling author, champion yacht racer, hot air balloon enthusiast, and concerned Caucasian.


It gives me no pleasure to bring to your attention a vile new addition to the meteorological lexicon. They call it “Black Ice.” And this morning it had the entire city in its frosty clutches.


That is, black ice’s frosty clutches had the entire city by the balls. So, you can only imagine how cold those balls were. They were really cold, frosty balls.


Nevertheless! “Black ice” is, in fact, transparent – not black. But who would be afraid of driving on “clear ice” or “invisible ice” or “transparent ice?” No one, that’s who. White America needed a term that would keep drivers on their toes, in fear of a shadowy menace that is out to steal their cars.


But “black ice” isn’t out on a carjacking spree so he can get accepted into a street gang and listen to the new Heavy D & the Boyz compact disk. This “black ice” causes nasty traffic accidents. Well, then why didn’t they just call it “Old Korean Lady Ice?”


I don’t know, sir. I do not know why they didn’t just call it “Old Korean Lady Ice.”


So we shamefully add the phrase “black ice” to a constantly growing heap of ignorant faux-Euro-intellectual garbage verbiage, such as “blackball” and “blacklist,” as otherwise innocent, average words are made evermore sinister when prefaced with the word “black.”


What did the words “ice,” “ball,” and “list” ever do to deserve being saddled with such a devastating prefix? And why did their credit scores each drop 100 points immediately after being blackened-ed?


Sorry, I forgot the rest of that bit. It was either Chris Rocks or Martin Lawrences or Byron Allen or Byron Nelson or one of those other Def Comedy Jam guys.


The pasty underbelly of the extreme Caucasian media underground has deftly inserted the “black ice” phrase into common conversation in a subversive psychological ploy to breed racist ignorance in our nation’s motorists and cross-town commuters. It sickens me. Though it brings me hope.


This bittersweet chocolate irony occurs as our country celebrates the historic inaugural year of President Barack Obama. And I am so sick, but I can only vomit hope.


To quote Heavy D; “Now that we’ve found love, what are we gonna do…with it?”


Yours,

Alibaster K. Abthernabther

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

...In A Galaxy Far Up Your Ass

Dear Bishop T.D. Jakes,

Good day to you, famous local holy man. My name is Alibaster K. Abthernabther, bestselling author, champion yacht racer, hot air balloon enthusiast, and Starfleet Academy graduate.

You will need to excuse the forthcoming tirade. However, I am exasperated beyond explanation. I have heard all manner of idiotic pablum in my day. I thought that I had, as they say, heard it all. But, oh no. You set that bar to a staggering new low, Bishop Jakes. I am absolutely seething right now.

Everyone - and I mean, everyone - knows that "May the Force be with you" is a quote from the Star Wars films and not, as you stated, a catchphrase from Star Trek. So, I have a few questions for you, good sir.

Were you the victim of a Vulcan mind meld gone awry? Did you have the sense knocked out of you by a Wampa? Or are you simply out of your motherfucking mind?

Had it not occurred to you that you may want to fact check your pre-inaugural church sermon for science fiction factual inaccuracies? Seriously. Get it fucking together.

I'm so upset right now, I could shit Tribbles.

This is a new day, a new age, a new chapter in American history. And you would be hard-pressed to find someone - anyone - who does not know the difference between a Jedi and a Romulan. It is so ingrained in our collective American psyche that I'm not even going to bother hyperlinking the words "Jedi" and "Romulan." Why? Because no one needs to look up either of those things! That's why.

You make me so mad, Bishop Jakes. If you were standing in front of me right now, I'd render you unconscious with a nerve pinch. I would reach over, collect a small swath of your shoulder between my thumb and fingers, and BAM! You would be out like a light; a light that wouldn't know the difference between a Klingon Bird of Prey and an Imperial Start Destroyer if his life depended on it.

I mean, seriously. Fuck!

Even my great grandmother, the sainted Aloise Abthernabther, could tell you that Gene Roddenburry dreamt up the miracle of transporter technology, while George Lucas was the one who popularized the concept of spacecraft hyperspace trajection. Of course, Star Trek did explore the possibilities of subspace travel, which is similar to the theory of hyperspace, only it involves navigating through layers of spacetime using "warp speeds" of varying degrees, while the inhabitants of Lucas' Star Wars universe make lightspeed jumps within preprogrammed hyperspace routes that send them hurdling through the galaxy at a near unfathomable rate.

But I digress. The question remains: Are you mentally deficient or just motherfucking retarded in the brains?

Get it together, T.D. Jakes. I am so motherfucking angry at you right now.

Motherfuckfuckfuck!!!

Yours,
Alibaster K. Abthernabther

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Dog Will Hunt

Dear Avi Adelman,

Good day to you, fierce neighborhood watchdog. My name is Alibaster K. Abthernabther, bestselling author, champion yacht racer, hot air balloon enthusiast, and concerned citizen.

First, allow me to congratulate you on your Barking Dogs website, an invaluable local resource for persnickety voyeurism and all-purpose nosiness. For years, I was forced to physically transport myself to the Lowest Greenville Avenue area in order to witness the debauched displays of human intoxication that you so dutifully catalog. Now, thanks to your sly implementation of home video recording technology and internet broadcasting, I may enjoy such ribald people watching from the comfort of my home office.

However, I am writing not only to praise these efforts, but also to make you aware of a disturbing new scourge that demands your immediate attention. I am sure you are already quite aware of what I am referring to.

In a word: Minotaur. Part man. Part bull. All attitude. This fantastical creature of Greek mythology has been running rampant all over Greenville Avenue, from Belmont to Ross, for the last few weeks. Once housed in the confines of King Minos' vast labyrinth, this ferocious beast has now staked his claim to one of Dallas' most historic neighborhoods and nightspots and he shows no signs of stopping.

Trouble began during the Christmas holiday, when the Minotaur got into a lethal confrontation with several members of the East Side Chicken Chimichangas street gang in the Taco Cabana parking lot. Words were exchanged and threats were tossed about. Before law enforcement could arrive, the mighty Minotaur brutally beheaded several cholos with a single swing of his bloodstained battleaxe, and then returned to his cave in an enchanted forest where he bedded an El Centro interior design major by the name of Ch'Lise.

Two nights later, dressed in pre-stressed denim jeans and a shiny, striped shirt with a fleur-de-lis graphic printed asymmetrically across the left shoulder, the Minotaur was spotted at the Sugar Shack downing Jägerbombs. No sooner had the lounge's P.A. speakers begin blaring a fantastic mash-up of "Do Da Stanky Legg" and "Unskinny Bop," when an SMU fraternity boy started heckling the dapper beast. Within mere seconds, the Minotaur tore off one of the fraternity fellow's arms and planted it firmly in the lad's rectal cavity. He was later seen in the alleyway next to the Billiard Bar, going down on a University of Dallas interior design major named Shon'Royale.

These are just two incidents out of dozens that have occurred, quite frankly, on your watch. And while you were neither elected nor appointed to this watchdog status that you seem to enjoy so much, you deftly nominated yourself. And now true duty calls. No longer will you be able to simply videotape drunkards, harlots and thugs, mocking their inebriated rage from behind a video camera. Now you will have to take action.

You must battle the Minotaur, Avi. Unsheathe your broadsword. Don your walrus tusk helmet and your trusty loincloth fashioned from unicorn pelt. Behead the Minotaur and defiantly urinate into his severed esophagus. Smite the beast with pure might and carve his gargantuan skull into a victory goblet.

Then, and only then, will the proud people of Greenville Avenue be able to reclaim the night.

Yours,
Alibaster K. Abthernabther