"Much ado" (about nothing at all)-Political Song 3

Sung to "Making Love" (out of nothing at all)

-Air Supply-

(This song is dedicated to all you Ohio voters who boldly pulled down your pants and screwed the pooch last night! After all the talk of NAFTA, lost jobs in Ohio, poor state economy, and trade concerns, you went out and voted for one of the loudest mouthpieces FOR NAFTA! Great show! Way to rock the vote! So we here at Goldmind's Unwind want to salute you!)

(Hillary sings)

" I know just how to spin this

I know just how to lie.

I know just how to use the news

to pull the wool over your eyes!

I'll pretend that I hate NAFTA

It will be my latest scheme

And if you refer to my voting record

then I'll claim it's just a dream.

And I know that you will buy it

Anything that I tell you

Because as voters you're no smarter

Then a pile of dog poo

And I'll tell you I"m your savior

And I'll tell you not to cry

And I'll tell your moron ears

anything they want to hear

Just to get your fucking vote on my side.

I know the road to the White House

Lies through you slackjawed rubes

And in this diorama

there's no room for Obama

Who cares if he's black, I got boobs!

So I fooled the voters of Ohio

Yet I'm still set up to take a fall

So I'll scream about my minor victory

and make much ado out of nothing at all

(much ado)

Out of nothing at all"

(repeat)

(The voters sing)

"Everytime we see you on our big screen TV

we see the goat horns growing out of your hair.

But the media loves you, and licks your sagging woo woo

so we don't care.

We're searching for our minds, but they're useless and lost

and so we look up to a leader like you

You can use us like we're mindless machines

We're putty in your hands, you are our queen

We gotta follow you 'cause everything we know, you could engrave upon the head of a pin"

(O'bama sings)

"I love to watch you hedge and stumble

While I sit back and cock block

As I tally my delegates, night after night

And hear the dwindling sound of your clock.

Why would you make this race forever?

Why don't you concede your momentum is gone?

Why don't you take a long drive with my good friend Ted Kennedy

And become a book that a movie's based on.

What I'm trying to say here is Hillary

You really make my skin crawl

And I'm so sick of listening to your shit

Much ado...about nothing at all.

(much ado)

About nothing at all

(repeat)

Fun with NAFTA

We all know the side effects of NAFTA can be quite unpleasant. Job loss, complete lack of customer service when dealing with overseas hot lines, vacating industries, etc. But there’s no reason we can't put an enjoyable spin on this travesty, now is there?

The following is a transcript of a "recorded for quality assurance" phone call.

Customer Service Specialist: (in heavy Indian accent) "Thank you for calling America online, my name is Elvis, how can I help you?"

Caller: (in thick Appalachian accent) "Yessir. Mah name is Bashir Ibn Fahad, and ah'm havin' nine kindsa hell gettin' connected to my deadblamed email over here."

Elvis: "I am veddy sorry to be hearing this Mr.....Fahad was it? That is most extraordinary! I am having an uncle named Rami Fahad!"

Bashir: "That's nuthin' Elvis! We done had us a singer over here named Elvis! I got all his plates an' everything!"

Elvis: "Well I must confess to you sir, that my name is not really Elvis. We are asked to pick an American name to put you more at ease."

Bashir: "Well, Elvis, that's alright. My name ain't Bashir neither, but I figgered since you was bullshittin' and all, so would I. So.... About my email over here....."

Elvis: (now in a baffled/hurt tone) "Well sir, what seems to be the problem?"

Bashir: "Well...I got this computer in front of me here, and I git to loggin on to America on line and all, but when I click on my mail box, it says "Hello Jonathan." Now my name ain't Jonathan, and these emails are definitely not mine."

Elvis: "That does sound strange indeed sir. Tell me are you using your own PC?"

Bashir: (laughing) "Can you say 'PC' again there Elvis? It's raght funny the way you say it."

Elvis: "I'm sorry, sir. How should I say it?"

Bashir: "Oh nevermind Elvis. What about these Jonathan F. Miller emails I'm starin at here? I got no use for all this mail that don't pertain to me."

Elvis: "Jonathan F. Miller? Is that not the CEO of America Online?"

Bashir: "I reckon so, Elvis old boy! He must be some fancy bigwig. Guy's got a big old roomy office, security guards and the whole shebang. You wouldn't believe who I had to sneak past to git up here."

Elvis: "Sir, I do not understand. Up where? Where exactly are you calling from?"

Bashir: "From Miller's office o'course! Hain't you been listenin' Elvis old sock? I'm trying to get on ma email from this here Miller feller's computer."

Elvis: "Sir, you can only access your email from your own PC. (another giggle from Bashir) You should not be using Mr. Miller's computer."

Bashir: "I cain't afford a PC Elvis! Ever since I lost my manufacturing job to Mumbai, I got no income at all good buddy! In fact, I came to see Mr. Miller just to let him know that a bunch of us over here decided to work for fifty cents an hour. Figgered he'd move his call center back over here and take advantage of that sweatshop shit! Know what I'm sayin? But he wasn't in today, so I figured I'd just check ma emails to see if Monster.com found me any possible openings. And now I can't get in to my email."

Elvis: (dead silence)

Bashir: "Well, seems the cat's got your tongue there, eh Pressley. So you're saying I can't access my emails on big shot Miller's PC, right?"

Elvis: "That is correct, sir."

Bashir: "I see. It's just as well. Monster probably ain't been able to do diddly shit with me anyway. But hey, Elvis. I think you fellers ought to know....one o' these emails here says your days might be numbered! Seems the Chinese are starting to open call centers, and one of em's got employees willing to work for just a cup of coffee and a pack of juji fruits a month. You guys need should think about lowering your salaries! Mr. Miller cain't keep payin' y'all 5 bucks a week! It's a sinkin' economy over here, if you ain't heard."

Elvis: (Indignantly) "Well we have a living to make too sir. We can not lower our salaries any further."

Bashir: "Ayuh. I understand. Well maybe you could hook up with a French company or somethin'. They'll pay extra for any service that pisses off Americans. Take care there Blue Hawaii! I'll catch you on the flip side!"

(click)

Okay, I admit it. I am Bashir Ibn Fahad and as for Jonathan Miller, Andrea Jung, and all the other CEOs who sell out their employees, in the spirit of saving a few bucks which they NEVER pass on to the consumer, may you experience irreversible crotch rot!

And goodnight to you, Elvis...wherever you are.

A random encounter somehwere deep in space....

(I wrote this sci-fi tale to answer a few questions that I've always had. For instance, why is humanity the only species depicted that has it's share of rednecks? And what will a woman's nagging in the car be like during intergalactic travel? And how many times can I make a reader say the word "poop" verbally or mentally. I think all questions have been adequately answered)

A spaceship landed in the desert of the planet Martok, and such a sight created quite a stir among the scattered residents there.

"Dy'all see that?" Gar poop yelled, scaring off their pet slarg in the process.

"Don't panic! Let's just see what all this to-do is about!" Pa poop responded, waiving his tentacles in a calming gesture.

There was a murmur of excited assent from the poop children as they all contemplated just what this landing would mean. And who exactly had landed for that matter. As a group they all waddled towards the craft in the distance, whispering amongst themselves and gesturing with an extremity or four.

"Do ya think they'll try and probe us?" Fuggle poop asked. "I never want to get probed!"

"They wouldn't probe you for all the cheese coins in Martok bank, Fuggle. Ya ain't had a shower this decade!" Gar teased. Being the oldest brother, it was his place in the family to do the heckling.

"I orta slap you in the ear lobe Gar poop!" Fuggle yelled.

"Ewwww! Fuggle said ear lobe pa!" tattled the youngest, Gia poop.

"Enough pooplings! We ain't fixin to show these beings who the inferior race is now are we? Let's show em some desert class ded gummit!"

"Yes Pa," they all intoned.

As they all came upon the alien craft, they were greeted by quite a spectacle. Two pinkish colored creatures, standing on just two legs and gesturing with just two arms were apparently arguing with each other outside the hull of the smoking vessel.

"Don't that beat all, Bob Williams! You told me we had pleny of fuel to reach the megalon galaxy, and now look at this here? Where the hell is this here? Crashlanded and out of fuel on some godforsaken planet! These things wouldn't happen if you'd just listen to me for once and get gas at a quarter of a tank! For crying out loud! I should have listened to my mother and married Fred Bowling! At least that man would know how to read a gas guage!"

"Yes Martha," the much put upon pink thing named "Bob" said. He looked around and noticed the poops gathered around staring at him. He gave them a weary sigh and lifted a large red container in their direction.

"Do you all have a gas station around here?" he asked.

"Yup," Pa Poop said. He was still trying to make heads or tails of this goofy looking pink thingwith the gas can and the nagging wife.

"They seem friendly enough," Gar whispered from behind Pa.

"They look TOO friendly to me!" Fuggle said. "She's just about got her mouth in his ear....ewwwwwwww."

"Hesh now," Pa whispered. "Let's not rile her up any further." For his part, Pa felt a little sorry for poor pink Bob and was very leery of the nagging thing with brown hair and little windshields over her eyes. He stuffed his hands in his overalls and prepared to offer Bob an escort to the gas dump.

But Martha was back to ranting. "How do you even know their fuel will work on our ship, huh Bob? Do you ever think at all before you rush head long into these things?"

"I don't know if they're fuel will work Martha. But I don't see any other humans around, and these people here are clearly not human."

"And when did you first notice the difference, Bob? Hmm? You better be careful. Your PHD is showing!"

"Yes Martha," Bob said, rolling his eyes.

"Pa?" Gar whispered. "Could this REALLY be intelligent life from outer space?"

"Well, Gar," Pa responded. "Look on the bright side. At least none of us are getting probed......."

Irving; A tale of the One Hundred and Forty Second Fastest Gun in the West

Due to a series of unfortunate incidents far too embarassing to relate here, Irving rode into town on the back of a limping cow. It had taken him the better part of a day just to travel the five miles from Lexing's camp, but he had accomplished it. However, it was truly amazing how one could get saddle sore without ever using a saddle.

He dismounted with a flourish, trying to win back some dignity, and actually accomplished the feat with some degree of grace. But, alas, no one was watching.

Irving sighed, ran his hands over the ivory handle of Colt, and began his bow legged saunter in the direction of Mitzy's saloon. Ole Mitzy Barton had been a showgirl of some renown back in her hay day. It was said that President Zachary Taylor had once come to see her show and had actually made a pass at her. Then his wife, Hillary Rodham Taylor, had found out about it and spirited him out of town and back to the white house before he got an urge to see the Gennifer Flowers pottery show. Good old Mitzy. She could spin a yarn or two.

Irving pushed through the swinging doors and was instantly greeted by the familiar sight of old Dinny Claymore pulling the peel off of a yellow oblong fruit.

"Now that's a bonanza!" Irving stated, pointing at the fruit.

"For the sixtieth time, Irving, it's a dead blamed banana. Ta ain't no 'z' anywhere in the name!" Dinny scowled at him.

"I know that you old codger!" Irving replied laughing and making a mental note about the 'z'. "Where's Mitzy?"

"She's a hidin' upstairs. Seems there's a rumor that the rifleman is comin' ta town this afternoon and she don't want no part of it."

"The rifleman eh? He a bad character?"

"You don't mess with the rifleman, Irving. He's killed more people than Mitzy's liver and onions."

"Well what's he comin' to Ford Taurus City for? Cain't be nothin' here fer him."

"Well...his sister's marryin Jeb Watley, and the rifleman aims to stop it."

"What the Sam Hell for? Watley's a do gooder and an apple shiner. Who wouldn't want him in their family?"
"That's just it, Irving. The last apple he polished, he gave to his father in law to be. The rifleman's dad. It had a worm in it. Now the rifleman has sworn vengeance against Watley and promised to stop this wedding."

"Well Ima gonna stop HIM. Somebody's gotta protect the do gooders in this town!"

"You're gonna get your fool head blown off, Irving. You can't stand up to the rifleman when he's meaner, tougher, and uglier than you. That's right. He's even uglier than YOU."

"So? That's how the west was won! People standin' up for each other and such!"

Dinny sighed. "Irving, the west ain't been won yet! For the love of God, what goes on in that melon of yours anyway?"

Irving shot what was supposed to be a menacing glance at Dinny, but it came out looking constipated. "Dinny Claymore, you just remember that Alamo down there in Louisiana! The west was won right there!"

Dinny was preparing to educate Irving yet again when the saloon doors burst open, admitting a disheveled Jeb Watley."He's here! The rifleman is here! He's a comin' down main street!"

"Don't you fret now, Jeb," Irving said. "I'll take care of this varmint and defend your honor."

"But Irving! Everyone knows you're the one hundred forty second fastest gun in the west!! How are you gonna take him?"

"He's the rifleman right? How long do you think it would take to draw a dead blamed rifle from a holster, Jeb? You think I can't take him?"

Jeb blinked at him. He was torn between trying to save Irving's life or using him as a distraction while he rode out of town. After some debate he chose the former.

"Irving. When have you ever seen someone holster a rifle in their pants? He's already got it drawn you nimwit."

Just then came a roar from outside.

"I'M LOOKING FOR JEBEDIAH WATLEY!" The Rifleman yelled.

Irving, still contemplating Jeb's words, acted more on instinct than on common sense. He got to his feet, put his hand on his ivory holster and strolled out the saloon doors. Right away, he saw him. Decked in a serape and crookedly wearing a sombrero, the rifleman stood in the street casting his gaze up and down the building fronts.

"You'll have to get by me first," Irving squeeked in his best tough guy voice.The rifleman looked him over.

"Irving Pumpernickel? You gotta be foolin' right?"

"So you've heard of me? Pretty impressive considering what a big valley this is. Well...are you gonna ride back where you came from, or are we gonna get to fightin?"

The rifleman threw his head back and laughed. Irving's gaze darkened, and his tunnel vision, such as it was, narrowed in on the rifleman. He gripped the ivory handle of the colt and yanked upward out of the holster. It was one of the more awkward moments in gunslinger history. A piece of Irving's leather holster had looped itself around the Colt's hammer and when he pulled the gun out, unknown to Irving, the hammer cocked itself back. Now on hair trigger, the gun, having been yanked too fast from the holster, rose high so that it was aiming a good six feet above the rifleman. In his over excited state, Irving never took aim. He just bumped the trigger and the Colt bucked in his hand.

Somewhere across the street, a window shattered.

Somewhere else, a cow mooed.

And the rifleman laughed even harder.

"Tarnation!" Irving yelled, forgetting about his gun for a second and grabbing for his face. "I got gun smoke in my eyes!" Irving began rubbing his eyes and dancing back and forth from one foot to the other.

And the rifleman laughed even harder.

By this point, the rifle lay forgotten on the road as the rifleman clutched his belly and his eyes bulged from his head. He was howling uncontrollably, unable to catch his breath.

Meanwhile, Irving had dropped his colt and was splashing water in his eyes from a nearby barrel. Dinny Claymore and Jeb Watley poked their heads out of the saloon to see what was going on. They were just in time to see the rifleman fall to the earth, wheezing and clutching his chest as laughter still bubbled out of him. A wet spot began spreading on his dungarees, but the rifleman kept laughing.

And that's how he died. Hands clutching his chest, eyes bulging from below his sombrero, urine dripping from his trailworn dungarees, the rifleman's heart just stopped.

The citizens of Ford Taurus City still recognized Irving as the one hundred forty second fastest gun in the west, but when it came to rifles, no one could best him.

(The moral of the story? No matter what era she existed in, that Hillary Rodham was one heck of a ballbreaker)

Hallmark Presents: Valentine's Day Cards for Modern Times

(for "her" from him)
How does one express their love
for someone such as thee?
with smile so bright and heart so pure,
you bring out the best in me.
And though you take those hormone pills
and tuck your junk away,
You're so close to being an actual chick
that I can pretend I'm not gay.

Happy Valentine's day!

**********
(for the object of your affections)
I've stood in the shadows and watched you.
I've coveted you with my eyes.
In my mind I've pictured you begging for mercy.
I've heard your resounding cries.
Please, my dear, don't be frightened,
I'm sorry for your dead cat.
I left a bag of pig entrails
at your door as proof of that!
Just please let me caress you,
as I'm the affectionate type,
let me run my nails o'er your milk white neck,
and sink my thumbs in your windpipe.....ahem

Just be my valentine!!!.........................or else.

*******************
(Internet love)
Our late night sessions have inspired me,
to give you this valentine's card.
Though you're likely an actor
On "To Catch a Predator",
You still make my willy hard.
Just imagining that you're a 13 year old girl
is more than enough for me
to keep my "love" expanded,
and make me type one handed,
while I wallow in debauchery.

Happy Valentine's day

**********************
(For the lonely gal)
You are my companion,
on many a night,
my friend, my confidante.
You're the only one
who meets all my needs,
who provides for me all that I want.
With vigor and zest,
you greet me each night,
you're always just raring to go.
Is it any damn wonder
that I bought this card
for an 8 inch plastic dildo?

You're my valentine....always


*************************
(for that long distance valentine)
They say distance makes the heart grow fonder,
But nothing could be less true.
For in all of this world filled with awe and with wonder,
no one could be fonder of you-
Than I.
After all, father dear, I am your heir;
a miniature version of you.
And in the 12 fricken years since you "went out for air"
I haven't heard shit from you-
bastard.

Happy valentine's day wherever you are

******************************

We here at Goldmind's Unwind would just like to say: Wherever you are, and whoever you love, may your Valentine's day be free of herpes!

A Failed High School Health Video of the 70s

(You remember them....the sex ed tapes. Run through a projector, the image was always shaky and featured archaic terms and hideous acting that did way more to turn off hormone charged teenagers than a lobotomy ever could. Folks, as bad as those were, believe it or not, there were some that were actually rejected for being worse! Like this one!)

Syphilis and You

(living with your disability)

Cue shaky projector

Video starts with hideous musical opening as backdrop to innocuous looking couple holding hands and walking in some nameless park.

Cue Narrator

"High school life is a challenging time. Your bodies are undergoing change. Some changes you may understand. Some you may not. The choices you make are often driven by factors that you cannot control, like your hormones. Your parents and teachers work very hard to teach you how to make the right choices and avoid negative consequences, but the fact remains that teenagers are generally idiots.

So there you are. Mr. Suave. Mr. Libido. Mr. Let's Get Funky. You've heard the rumors that Peggie Weller is an easy conquest and you are suddenly ready for action. You seek her out.
Ahhhh there she is. Hi Peggy! You naughty girl. Your parents warned you. Your teachers warned you. Your baptist minister with the hungry eyes and unsightly bulge in his vestments should have warned you. Promiscuity is bad. But you didn't listen! Now your pearly gates are a little sore. And the walls on your tunnel of love are a fiery red. You're thinking you should see the doctor, but no harm in one more fling first! After all, if it feels good do it! Right Peggy? And here comes our hero Mr. Suave right now.

He shares his lunch with you. Gives you googly eyes. Gives you the test for Mr. Pfizer's class that he stole after school yesterday. Before you know it, you're in the back seat of his dad's Pinto testing out the shocks and screaming to the heavens. It isn't until the following week that your doctor tells you that you have syphilis. And it will be three months before Mr. Suave gets his own boo boo checked out and finds out the same thing. Fortunately, Mr. Suave is a lonely man and only shared his ailment with his fist and the box of innocent kleenex that hangs out on his nightstand.

So now you've been diagnosed. How do you come to terms with this life sentence? Well Peggy. Well Mr. Suave. Fortunately, we are here to help. We have assembled three couples to give you advice on how to cope. Advice based on experience. That's right, each of the individuals you are about to meet have Syphilis. And here they are now! Say hello to Bob, Steve, and Winston!

And their wives Carol, Jane, and Doris.
Tell us, guys and gals. How have you accepted Syphilis in your lives?"

Bob-(in a bad actor's "forced" voice) "When I was diagnosed with Syphilis, I was shocked! I had taken care to only have one partner my whole life, and yet here I was with VD! I didn't know-"

Carol-"Oh shut up you bag of crap. I know for a fact I only had one partner and I'll be damned if you hang all this on me. I only regret that my choice of partner was you! Marry me he said. We have no choice he said. We can't give each other Syphilis again he said. I've been cleaning the skidmarks out of that man's shorts for 11 years now! I-"

Winston-"Only one partner! Only one partner! How the hell do you think I got the Syph? That was you under the bleachers that night Carol Schmidt whether you want to own up to it or not! Damn it! Why didn't I stop at the fifth Michelob? I could be leading a VD free life with Doris here."

Doris- "You son of a bitch! You told me you got syphilis from a toilet seat! You lying sack of-"

Steve-"And you believed him? Jesus you four are hilarious. This is better than a night at the cinemas."

Carol-"Don't you act so high and mighty 'Steve'. You and 'Jane' here must have the syph too since you're in this video."

Jane- "Actually no. We were supposed to be starring as the couple in the latest High School driver's ed video, "driving with distractions", but it looks like we're in the wrong studio. This IS far more interesting though.

All six begin yelling at once in a confused babble.

Cue the Narrator

"Umm. So there you have it. Peggy. Mr. Suave. Get married to one another. Swap your syphilis back and forth since it doesn't matter at this point. And rest assured that you won't need to squabble. It's no secret that you're a slut Peggy, and Mr. Suave here was only taking advantage of that fact to his own demise.

Join us next time as we explore another difficult teenage topic. 'Heroin and you. Choosing a safe dealer.' "

Cue shaky credits scrolling far too fast to read.

Aaaannnd......cut.

A Tribute to our Wayward Leader

At left: Goldmind, founder of this site and daily inspiration, set out on an innocent trip to Disneyland about a month ago and has not been heard from since. It is feared by this writer that Goldmind's patented daisy duke ensemble may have led to his downfall in some "Blue Oyster Cult" bar on the left coast. Please come back to us Gold! There is no lead in our pencils
without you!

You're the Inspiration

(cue the music)

Goldmind....I wanted you tell you how I feel about you. I wanted you to know that my ideas are impotent without you.

So much of me is impotent without you.

And due to recent writer's block, I can only tell you how I feel in a song.

This is a ditty from "Chicago".

Goldmind....you're my Inspiration.

"You know this site was meant to be

A timeless blog to last forever

I need you here to edit me

Before I post pics of my member

You should know, the places my mind goes

while my hands are in my pants, on my knob

Where's my corn cob, baby

Got no meaning in my life

Got writer's constipation

Made references to my skin fife

and teenage fornication

Gold you gotta help me!

Before I do something crazy!

Like post compromising pics of me and a ewe!

And I know, yes I know that this a sad plea

Show's how deep my mind is in the gutter.

Now I know that I need help to keep clean

and not type words like "round ass covered in butter"

See there I go, dirty as a crack ho

twisted in the mind, blackened heart

muddied soul

The only meaning in my life

is drugs and masturbation

So without you here in my life

It's verbal menstruation

I gotta have you near me

Before I write about my pee pee

Come on save me Goldmind

Come on save me Goldmind

Yeah come on back to Numb and me

And we won't explore you anally

No one needs you more than we.....need......you"

(music still cued but fading)

Goldmind.....I hope you felt the passion in that song.

I hope you felt the need burning within me.

I hope you saw where my eroding thoughts are heading

Come back to us Gold.....

We love you....

Practicing Banal Sex; A message from your president

By George W. Bush

Ladies and gentleman, the only recreational activity out there that has been in existence since the dawn of time is fornification. That's right. I'm talking about biblical relations between members of oppositional or similar sexes. Now I know that typically discussions of this nature fall outside of the borders of presidential duties. But I wanted to talk to you because, as of late, some disturbing information has been crossing my desk here in the oval office. Which is really oblongated. But I guess the oblong office wouldn't sound very historic, would it? But I digress.

It seems there has been a trend amongst both heterosexual and homosexual couples to frequently engage in blatant overt banal sex. Now, my fellow Americans, this is not natural. Whether you believe fornification is for the purpose of procreation or just for the pleasure of whiling away a Saturday afternoon, you must agree that partaking in one another banally is not acceptable behavior. Nor is it sanitary.

The documents I've been reading report the use of such practices as a "missionary position" and "virginal inner course". This is disturbing to say the least, America. Despite what past presidential administrations have taught us, there are morals governing the act of recreational fornification. And I cannot stress to you enough the importance of abstaining from banal inner course.

We are involved in a war on terror. There is nothing that the enemy would love to see more than our moral collapse, and I need not remind you that we are already viewed dubiousiosly because of certain photos of prisoners being mistreated in our war camps. If the enemy knew that the issue of banal sex was eroding our morals like a cancer from within, they would strike at us while we are weak.

So, as your president, I must appeal to you America. Please cease the practice of banal sex. Go back to the traditional methods of fornification; man on top, woman lying docilely beneath. Or if you feel crazy, roll over. hehehe. But seriously, fornificating banally is immoral, unsanitary, and beneath the standards of America. And from what I understand, it can lead to a shortage of lubrication for those who really need it.

I'm asking for your help to make the last year of my presidency a banal free one. Let's take the inner course here and rise above the moral declines that are assailing us in every direction. Thank you.



(Editor's note: Since the submission of this publication by President Bush, it has been discovered that the documents crossing his desk were of a dubious nature. Left behind by previous president Clinton, these documents were entitled "Penthouse forum" and written by such pollsters and presidential aides as "Dick Ramrod" and "Kenna Lingus". The trends suggested by those documents are now a topic of debate. But we here at Goldmind's unwind continue to encourage an end to all banal sex. Try something kinky instead!)

Political Parody- Song 2

Goldmind's Unwind on Tour

(pictured below)

Recently, the writers at Goldmind's unwind had been asked by numerous readers and publicists to go on tour with our "act". Song Parodies, top ten lists, news flinches, holiday anecdotes, and secret pictures of Hillary Clinton nude sunbathing have headlined our tour to date. We were even able to stop for some tour photos, like the one above. Before you even ask, I'm the cute one. But I digress. In honor of the Goldmind Unwind American Tour, I, the cheese, wanted to share with you a previously unreleased hit in honor of Campaign '08.

"I Will Survive" (the voter's song)

(The democrat sings)

At first I was amazed,
I was mystified.
Kept thinking I had gone insane
Or that my eyes had lied
I’d spent so many nights
Wonderin’ who the dems would run
Which hired gun?
To get the big job done,
But what the hell?
Are they on crack?
They trucked out that scary fossil
With the hair all on her back
I’m gonna change the way I vote
I’m gonna run from Hillary
I’m gonna make a sign for Nader
And I’ll join the Green Party

But wait now whoa!
Just hold the door
Who’s this Obama?
Oh…another ramrod bore
We could be winning this election
Instead we’re gonna die
Like I’d vote for another Clinton
Or an inexperienced black guy
Oh no, not I!
I will survive!
I’ll find a candidate to love
Not a witch who fakes a cry
When she’s losing in the polls
When she’s raked over the coals
Oh yeah she lies
But I will survive (hey hey)

(and the republican sings)

It took all the strength I had
Not to fall apart
When I turned the TV on
And saw Mitt Romney’s broken heart
I spent so many nights
Wanting to comfort his hot wife
And stroke her gorgeous melons
While I sell shares of Metlife
My Wall street dream!
But now here’s Mccain!
Pining for the oval office
In his insanity again
How many times do you have to fail
Before you give up quietly?
And who’s that yuppie playing guitar?
What the hell’s a Huckabee?

Well holy Christ!
Just hold the phone!
What a lousy freak show,
all of them vying for the throne.
Just who’s the one who is responsible for this lot?
In this grand old party,
Is this the best we got?
A slow mormon?
A disturbed vet?
A banjo wielding right wing nut,
Am I making my point yet?
I”ve got all my life to wonder
Will the GOP go on
Will we survive?
Will we survive? (oh)

(and they both sing)

Sonofabitch!
What is the deal?
America’s asking itself
“Is this shit for real?”
Who is the moron who picks out these candidates?
Are they the product
Of relatives who fornicate?
Well, for one, not I!
We will survive!
If we have to move to Canada
And change our name to “Guy”
We’ve had it up to here
With the same shit every year
But we’ll survive
We will survive
We will survive……

More Failed Inventions From the Patent Office

More Bad ideas

In an earlier post, we here at Goldmind's Unwind had dilligently dug through the U.S. Patent Offfice's scrap heap to present to you some of the greatest failed inventions of the last century or so. The time has come to revisit the topic, as "Bunny", the newly befriended patent office secretary, has emailed us several more selections for your scrutiny. Thank you very much "Bunny." For Everything. And I mean everything. Ahem.

The Cadet "Handicrapper"

The diligent researchers at Cadet, premier manufactures of the residential and commercial commode, thought that they had done their research. They had seen in their local supermarkets, malls, and other public gathering places the mobilized scooter for the handicapped individual. So, collectively, they got to thinking. If you aren't mobile without a scooter, what other problems might you have? That's right! Getting up and down to the restroom! Even handicapped people tinkle! Even handicapped people pinch a loaf! Why not spare every physically disadvantaged individual the difficulty of getting up and down. Of trekking to the porcelain God for relief! Why not motorize the crapper? Amazingly, in all this brilliant brainstorming, no one once thought to ask "what about non handicapped people?" Do you think they'll mind squeezing their melons and checking their eggs next to a strenuously grunting handicapped person giving birth to last night's pot roast while frozen in the middle of aisle three? So, alas, the prototype "handicrapper" was relegated to invention obscurity....

The Gratest invention.....

Not even marketing gurus can tell you why some companies choose to leave their field and venture into other revenue markets. This is what happened with Kraft food in the 80s. Apparently unsatisfied with their profit margins, exec's decided it was time to branch out. Explore new products. Like Children's playground equiptment.

At first, the "grate slide" was an inside joke among corporate executives. One comedian even went so far as to develop the plans for how such a slide was to be moulded and assembled. Those plans were then "accidentally" left on the desk of the product development manager who assumed it was his latest directive from CEO John Kraft. The prototype was assembled and installed in Central Park. Company researchers stayed behind with the slide to guage the reaction of the public. After 6 casualties and, not so coincidentally, 6 lawsuits, Kraft disassembled the slide and retired their idea in shame.

The Chia Bug

This from the "I can't believe it failed" department! Cha-cha-cha-chia! Come on...you know owned a chia something. Or at least are related to someone else who did. Don't deny it! Well, with any such product, some brand loyalists actually became bonafide fanatics, and this product was for them! It was mail order only, as it had to be delivered by flatbed truck. The Chia bug was a lifesized frame of an actual Volkswagon Beetle. You slathered the frame with seeds, hosed it three times a week, and voila! Your yard became the redneck shrine of a lifetime! There is no obvious reason as to why this brilliant creation actually failed. It can only be surmised that neighborhood property values still hold sway over what is socially acceptable and what is not. Sniff! Phillistines!

KOA's "Campsite friend"

Isn't it amazing how many of our inventions have their roots in that greatest of rooms? That throne room of thought? That office of creation? Well the good folks at KOA campgrounds, who offer shelter to the RV driver as well as the tent camper, got tired of "unusual soil erosion" around the base of their trees. This mysterious erosion was creating a foul smell, killing foliage around the tree, weakening root systems, and proving to be an environmental hassle. But what could be causing this "erosion." Well...someone figured it out and in went the "campsite friend". Nailed to the trunk of the most "eroded" trees, the campside friend conveniently drained into the same septic system that RV drivers used to clean their mobile restrooms. It came complete with urinal cake and urine drenched cigarette butt for recognition purposes. Had to leave a "clinker" instead of a "tinkle"? Fine. On the other side of the tree was our friends at Cadet's contribution. The clinker bowl (not pictured here) also fed into the same septic line and had spacious seating for poopers up to 300lbs. Both products failed miserably though, because, as it turns out, the more a camper drinks, the less he gives a crap about proper bowel and urological etiquette. Go figure!

That's it for now folks! Stay tuned for any more contributions from "Bunny". And while you're at it, write a letter to Chia! We want the car back!

Campaign '08, Song 1

"Sayin' A lie"

(sung to the tune of "Staying Alive"

with apologies to Barry Gibb)

Well you can tell by the way I'm losin' ground

The country's sick of me, don't want me around

They used to think I was elite

But Barack's using my face to wipe his feet

But it's alright, that's OK

I ain't gonna fade away

I'll just lie and cheat and scam

Until I've remade all that I am

We taught the whole nation

dishonest disertation

just by sayin' a lie, sayin' a lie

Hubby mastered all this

sayin' he don't know what "is" is

he was sayin' a lie, sayin' a lie

Ah ha ha ha

Sayin' a lie, Sayin' a lie

Ah ha ha ha

Sayin a lie.

(verse 2)

My chances are low but my hopes are high

I've ignored advice that I shouldn't try

Got residual effects from war imprisonment

and my sanity's long since absent

but that's alright, that's ok

I'll run for president anyway

Maybe while staring at Hillary

Voters will forget what's wrong with me

Will I be a power glutton

If I hold the red button

Gonna flay em' alive, flay em' alive

Mental faculties are all gone

Gonna get revenge on Saigon

Yes we'll flay em' alive. Flay em' alive.

Ah ha ha ha

flay em' alive, flay em' alive

Ah ha ha ha

Flay em' alive.

(and the voter's sing)

We're going nowhere.....somebody help us yeah

Masochism; A New Years Tradition

Above: Yup. It's yours truly

December 31, 20-- 11:00 pm

You're at the masquerade. It's eleven PM and the new year is just 60 minutes away. In your right hand is a tumbler of good bourbon that is assisting you in forgetting the past year. In your other hand is a noisemaker and the wadded lyrics of "auld lang syne", just in case you've forgotten them. You take a drink.

On the large overhead screen, furnished for everyone's enjoyment, Dick Clark's rocking New Years' eve is plugging away with the latest teen fad/sensation undulating in the foreground. Clark himself, held upright only through the help of thin wires, visibly shoves away his thoughts of illegal teen love and tells you what a good time he and the rest of the animated corpses in the audience are having. You take another drink from your tumbler.

You have no idea who the brunette with the feather boa is, only that she is giggling at everyone and constantly rubbing against you. The merlot in her hand has been filled at least five times in the last hour forcing you to remove her from your "get lucky" list. If she's even upright at midnight, you'll eat your boxer shorts and allegations of rape do little to start a new year off correctly. Another drink.

Your tumbler is now almost empty so, being proactive, you shake your pink wig in the direction of the buxom waitress as she passes. She gives you a harried glance but acknowledges you since you've already tipped her more than 30% the value of the bourbon. Unlike the brunette, the waitress is still on your "get lucky" list. God knows why, though. By midnight she'll be drop dead exhausted and will be likely to give less response than the unconscious brunette. Besides, she doesn't seem too attracted to your costume which consists of plastic bubble gum machine tops covering your breasts. Getting lucky is beginning to seem unlikely. Visiting with the ghost of masturbation to come, you finish your tumbler.

January 1st, 20-- 12:01 AM

The ball dropped. Again. The Brunette in the feather boa dropped also. As you predicted. Dick Clark should have dropped, but the wires held, so his waxen corpse is still babbling into the overhead screen. In the room you're in, 300 people are drunkenly singing "Auld Lang Syne", sloppily kissing one another, and making farting sounds with hand held noisemakers. This is the penultimate moment. What everyone has gathered together for. It's a whole new year filled with promise and hope. The people on the overhead in times square, the people at your masquerade, the people the world over, are making as if to embrace this new year. Meet it head on. Seize it. Reap it for rewards. Which of course is why the majority of them are drunk, dressed like peacocks, and desperately molesting people they hardly know. You set down your fourth empty tumbler and hail the frazzled but still attractive waitress. Fifteen minutes ago, you gave her a twenty dollar tip, hoping for the extra attention and the fading possibility of thank you sex. At this point, though, you'll just be happy with a fifth tumbler of bourbon.

On the ground beside you, the unconscious brunette's skirt has ridden up to her waist. Your erection presses uselessly against the overlarge metal chastity belt that you're wearing as part of your costume. The last bars of "Auld Lang Syne" are coming to a close around you and your fifth tumbler of bourbon arrives on time, the twenty having accomplished it's mission. For one fleeting moment you think, this may not be such a bad year after all. Then the man behind you dressed like Madonna vomits on your mostly bare back and brings you back to reality. At least your erection is gone. You take a drink.

January 1st, 20-- 1 AM

The masquerade is winding down now. Forty percent of the revelers are unconscious or catatonic. Twenty percent are off fornicating in some darkened corner. Twenty percent are still vacantly nodding at the dulcet tones of the undead Dick Clark. And the last twenty percent are either event staff or designated drivers who are marching around and allowing themselves a moment of superiority over their less disciplined compatriots. You still sit at your table, vacantly staring at the colorful centerpiece while wondering why you do this to yourself every year. Sexual desire long since washed from your system by the bourbon, you are now using the unconscious brunette as a footstool. You emptied what was left in your wallet into the apron of the buxom waitress as a drunken heartfelt thanks for the special attention. The gumballs in your "bra" give an impotent rattle, as if unaware that the celebration has all but ended. Too drunk to walk, you remain seated and pee out the side of your "chastity belt". The new year has now been officially embraced.

Knowing what state you'd be in, you took a taxi here. The prospect of even walking to the curb and hailing another fills you with a sense of the impossible. Hell. If the floor is good enough for the brunette, it's good enough for you too. So you slide forward and fall to the ground. Right into your own urine. But the apathy of good bourbon holds and you close your eyes on this most majestic of holiday nights. You feel the warmth of the snoring brunette beside you and begin to drift off. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, she awakens beside you. And notices that her skirt has ridden up to her thigh. And that you're wearing a pink wig, a chastity belt, and nothing else. And that you smell like urine. Which is how you wind up with the rape charge.

Happy New Year!