Ice Castles

"Ice Castles"
Patricia Prieur Plauche-Perriman


I must say I'd never considered getting one of these hairstyles myself before, but have long admired the immensely complex, cathedral like structures that adorn the heads of our servants, cashiers, and kitchen staff! While in the company of my peers I pretended to share in their derision of these splendorous creations, I secretly had the utmost admiration for them, bordering upon lust! When I discovered our local Moler Beauty College has begun offering a whole line of at-home kits, well, I simply could not pass it by. There were several which had many fascinating qualities, most notably the majestic splendor of "#19 Chartres," the tidal, pacific magnificence of "#12 Hawaii Five-O," the simple, vertical austerity of "#6 Habit of the Sisters of Perpetual Motion" and even the tasteless and hippopotumine "#13 Atlas Shrugged” - colloquially known, I'm told, simply as “Powerball." It was the sheer immensity, however, of "#22 Ice Castles" with it's spires, battlements and minarets reaching toward heaven itself that held me enrapt!


Well, my nieces wedding was that week and I thought it a splendid opportunity to "come out of the closet" about this matter, so to speak. I ordered it secretly from their website and added rush processing. I spent the next two days calling them on the hour making sure it would arrive on time, for the wedding was Sunday and it was already Thursday! Finally on Saturday it arrived! I seized the enormous parcel and rushed into my boudoir, my four precious Borzoi and my six Persians in tow - and locked myself in! It was far heavier than I expected, as the package contained nearly a gallon of lacquer. A few hours after opening the package I had the massive template sprawled out on the double-king bed, and upon fitting it, realized I had not a tenth the hair necessary for this enterprise. I sat upon the bed in a state of frustration and pondered my condition: was I to go to the wedding - tomorrow - in this ordinary bob? I then recalled that L'Keesha, my scrub woman, was fond of hair extensions and may have a few thousand spares, or two. I sped downstairs and caught her in the foyer just as she was just about to leave early, and ordered her to rewash the pots, which I claimed were spotty and filthy as was her state of dress, for which she was duly reprimanded. After several moments of "Miss Patricia this" and "but Miss Plush-Perriman that" I sent her straight to the kitchen! She clumsily left her purse in the foyer providing me with a rifling opportunity! Unfortunately, the purse contained only the clips, even though after counting there were under two-hundred! How cheap! I appropriated them anyway and sped back upstairs and slammed the door! I hoped she spent all night cleaning those pots!


Now in a state of utmost despair, I did as I always do and sat and indulged in a wondrous therapy: brushing the magnificent coats of my prize Borzoi. My eye caught the mocking insolence of the clippers laying about on my vanity - but then I arrived suddenly at a solution as I gazed into the reverent brown eyes of my loving hound, Anastasia. Why I had everything I needed! Without hesitation I snatched up the clippers, whirled round to face my dogs, and went to work! First Anastasia! Then Tatiana! Then Alexei! Then Nickolaus! Oh damn it, I'll do the Persians as well! And the parakeets! After just under an hour I had most of the pets in the house shorn bald, and enough hair to make two Ice Castles! After much work I had the template affixed to my head and full up with hair, began to work the various lacquer pumps with my feet, then, as per the instructions, plugged the template into a convenient wall socket and waited. When the structure had sufficiently hardened the cardboard was far easier to pull off than I had expected: a marvelous feat of engineering! As I gazed in the vanity at the finished product, I pondered the immense sacrifice of my adoring pets - but was dumbstruck at the sixteen cubic foot magnificence of my new Ice Castle, adorned by the bright green feathers of my parakeets - an Uptown touch. I stayed up the remainder of the night fearing that sleep would damage this new capital possession, and as I took the shivering dogs out for their brisk dawn saunter through the lovely azalea strewn gardens of uptown - and with the impudence of unruly servants receding into oblivion - I felt as if every fiber of my being were striving towards the very heavens! Everyone I came across stared at me in a state of consummate envy. The morning zephyrs shook the crepe myrtles and showered me with blossoms! A jasmine breeze held aloft the most perfumed lauds! The periwinkles and daffodils lifted their heads in purest praise as the bluebirds and cardinals sang a whirlwind of exalted blessings round my towering edifice; and even my beloved dogs could not resist gazing with jealousy - as their glorious coats now shared a heavenly estate with the very stars.


Breathless owing to this state of glorious advancement, I returned to my Third street address feeling a refreshment of the spirit as never before! Suddenly, I received a call from my niece who delicately inquired as to the possibility of my bringing the hounds to the reception, as there would be an artist present and her fiancée would have so liked to have a seated portrait done with them on that day. I explained to her such whims were utterly delightful to me, and I would be charmed to indulge such a caprice! Realizing the limousine would be unsuitable to my new hairstyle, I arranged for L'Keesha's man-friend to taxi me to St. Patrick's Cathedral in his pickup-truck. Arriving accompanied by a blaring soundtrack of Usher, I gathered up my four marvelous hounds on their quadruple leash, dismounted the vulgar contraption that had been my escort, ascended the steps of this most glorious construction, and swatted the massive oaken doors with my parasol. As they swung open, there exposed was Father Harrigan, who along with the rest of the congregation, appeared to be in a sudden state of shock. I struck a boastful pose, and after a painfully long silence punctuated by only the pealing of bells, he gasped "Why madam, are you wearing your dogs?" He then wagged his finger at me and had the nerve to lecture me about the Tower of Babel! Outraged, I began to curse and swat him unmercifully, exposing the audacious jealousy of this bald, red-faced, shanty-Irish tub of guts - striking every gin blossom with frightful accuracy as my loyal pets hung from his flailing limbs! Needless to say I was arrested and jailed by the whim of a passing pair of lesbian constables who gravely mistook my station - but treated my hairstyle with generous courtesy.

Well, jail is most unpleasant and I cannot recommend it but I received more useful advice - there were several graduates of Moler Beauty College there - regarding the care of my new fashion in just fourteen hours at this dismal place than I could in ten years of uptown living!

On the Condition of the Upper Class in New Orleans

An Emergency Report to the Rhodes Trust


The Most Executive Secretary of the Rhodes Trust of the United States of America
Sir Henry Elsworth D'Ascoygne, O.B.E.




I admit to certain feeling of apprehension when I first learned of my post here, and the transition from Matabeleland was not without it's difficulties - but, why, after all, it's delightful to reside in Louisiana! In reality, it is simply trading one priest infested backwater with another, and I did so tire of eating goat sausage and corn mush. Ah! This mission is such a delightful calling in life! I regret to say despite the immense success of the Trust here - we have got two scholars elected to the very highest of political office - we have neglected Louisiana of late. No more! From this point forward the Colossus of Rhodes will bestride the Mississippi with them always; in the future they shall have an endless parade of diaper clad Senators and exorcist eight armed Governors. They will no longer be neglected as I continue the legacy of Cecil Rhodes in scouting for a cadre of philosopher kings to rule our great shared Empire - for I intend to retire here, the reasons for which I am stating below.



So, upon taking my post I decided, in an act of heartfelt generosity, to set upon myself the task of learning the culture, an enterprise which I'd launched in secret, subscribing to a week-end package tour of Uptown mansions. As the appalling living conditions of the upper classes afflicted my senses and the vast theatre of mental poverty unfolded before my tearful eyes, I came to the sudden realization that my duties here were only beginning. I continually had to ask the inhabitants to repeat themselves, for what passes for English wafting from the maws of this populace is hardly distinguishable from the hissing of sulphuric fumes from beneath the wreckage of a rail catastrophe in the Louisiana countryside! I am speaking of the upper classes here. A city, such as New Orleans, where one may wander for hours without meeting the slightest hint that there are foetid swamps populated by the most grotesque fauna surrounding it within reach, is a strange thing - but it also mirrors the fauna within the city, that is to say its ruler-ship. The upper class here is hardly different than the submarine, prehistoric reptiles that rule the local swamps.


As one wanders about uptown one notices the most alarming things. Let me speak frankly of the uptown woman. The uptown lady will lounge about in cafés decked in the most peculiar fashion, walking their own dogs - some do not even require proper servants - and having tea or coffee while wearing spandex attire designed for a woman far younger, and certainly not anyone making public appearances save for the sake of sport; and furthermore to which their frames are clearly not made. One can venture an attempt at the pleasure of a brief respite in any number of cafés or shops and so be forced to suffer the imbecilic conversations of these spandex decked queens, a task to which they seem endlessly engaged; it is as a fountain of Louisiana creosote at the birthing stages of an industrial accident sprays pitch upon the upturned faces of it's willing victims, so the putrid bile escapes the maw of these latex clad chirping harpies: at times all of them seemingly participating in an immense chorus of unified idiocy, as if a single beast with a thousand tongues were speaking the language of Lucifer himself! I remain ever soiled by my expeditions to the local cafés.



The uptown gentleman is no better, having an equally absurd fashion and poor taste, in the most extreme cases this even venturing into bow ties. I cannot count, even in my short visit here, on how many occasions I have seen a blue blazer and red tie, found in the neighbourhood liquor stores after hours, sporting tumours on their reddened faces born of excess drink and clearly taking after the lower orders, even stooping to converse gibberish with them as they rub elbows in their pursuit of drunken lecherousness. Absolutely none of this should be made public. Revolting!


It is no wonder to me the lower class have the habit of wearing shower caps, dressing in rags, screaming at utility poles and pushing grocery baskets down the street when the upper classes outfit themselves in this manner. If the rich are suited this way, why cannot an adult man ride a tricycle down the street in his undergarments? All of this proceeds in the most shameful fashion. It is perhaps that nearly everyone is suffering from a surfeit of methedrine.


The endemic lack of literacy as well, which is not so injurious in the suburbs, where population is more robotic - and which is the upper classes unfortunate second nature here - becomes terrifying and gravely dangerous through its concentration here in the great city. The Uptown illiterate deposits all manner of garbage and filth in his bookshelves and collections, mostly never read anyway, and owing to an excess of credit accumulates endlessly the vampire novels, collections of poetry by John Updike, essay collections of Thomas Friedman and the like, which disfigure the soul and poison the very air if ventured to be read aloud. He builds a pig-sty in this manner against every wall of the manse, littering the space between second rate artworks and the occasional nice clock or mantle. This new and unnatural condition of complete upper class illiteracy in post-colonial backwaters is wholly of New Orleanian origin. The Uptown gentleman or lady loves their thriller novels, school girl poetry and incomprehensible essayists as the Irishman loves a pig or the Arab his horse. One never sees this in Mumbai, Kingston or Manila, where they know precisely how to run things invisibly as we assist in choosing the ruler-ship from the lower classes with the gift of an Oxford pedigree.


Allow me to state the essence of the uptown problem: rampant Papism. I have witnessed this in the Manila as well, but not anywhere to this degree. Papism is for the lower class, to give them a veneer of functional literacy while maintaining obedience and to impart a direct willingness to suffer. What use, I ask, does the upper class have for Papism? Upper class Papism has been the downfall of all greatness throughout history. As the inimitable Mr. Rhodes once said, "We must find new lands from which we can easily obtain raw materials and at the same time exploit the cheap slave labour that is available from the natives of the colonies. The colonies would also provide a dumping ground for the surplus goods produced in our factories." Now, I wonder, how exactly do they suppose these affairs will continue on smoothly if their habits of consumption, which extend even to religion, are the same rubbish consumed as beasts? We great nations are all in this together, and uptown eyes simply must be opened.


Moved to an irrational state of charitable feeling owing to witness of this shocking state of affairs, I had a large share of funds converted to pennies to be showered by myself upon these poor wretches during my daily strolls.


But what is to be done - really? As an emergency remedy I petition the Trust to finance two objectives. First, a basic literacy campaign which will be conducted by stealth. The Packaged Mansion Tours will provide our agents the opportunity to leave rudimentary phonics kit, good but basic literature and music on coffee tables and bookshelves to be discovered later. I will also attempt to socialize with them on a more frequent basis. Second, a "World Tour" so to speak, guided by myself, will be offered once a year, where they will have the opportunity to travel to places such as Harare, Kingston, Mexico City, Mumbai, etc. so that they may see how things should be properly administered.


I conclude with a new 'fight song,' to which I will put to music according to all the jingles of the local papist academies, so that they may learn it and never forget it. It is the famous verse of our poet Kipling, the first Secretary of the Rhodes Trust himself:


Take up the White Man's burden--
Send forth the best ye breed--
Go bind your sons to exile
To serve your captives' need;
To wait in heavy harness,
On fluttered folk and wild--
Your new-caught, sullen peoples,
Half-devil and half-child!


Warm Regards and Utmost Discretion,

Sir Henry Elsworth D'Ascoygne, O.B.E.

Officer Tony Coniglione, NOPD - a missed connection (m4m, Marigny)

I must say it's funny how such a small amount of marijuana can land you in so much trouble! But, as I lay in a pool of vomit and urine in the processing center of Orleans Parish Central Lockup watching the seventy inch TV's displaying people even less fortunate than myself and enjoying the symphony of backed up toiletry - you occupied my thoughts the entire time. Perhaps it was your marathon lecture delivered to me as I lay cuffed and stress positioned in the back of your car - coupled with your unassailable reasoning and faultless, Orwellian dialectic; perhaps it was the glistening beads of sweat dripping off the pack-of-hot-dogs-like rolls of flesh on the back of your neck, ruthlessly squeezed between your collar and cap and illuminated by the ghastly strobe of red and blue flashing lights; maybe yet the shocking array of armaments, radios and weaponry festooning your ballooning waist - or perhaps it was just your innate or maybe steroid induced hostility - look, in any case, I find myself very turned on. I was as bored by your partner as you were - I could see it in your eyes (I think?). I guarantee you - it WAS mutual. There's a reason he does all the paperwork - and you do all the talking.

You said you "hated me" for "my shit being all fucked up" - and while it's true that my brake tag, license and registration are expired, my craving for you has no expiration date. The skinny cute west bank boy (and his morbidly obese girlfriend with her constant threatening mentions of Irritable Bowel Syndrome - go figure) in there with me for domestic abuse was only a brief distraction, I assure you - it was nothing. The ninety year old black house painter in there for a traffic citation meant even less.

I realize you might be worried about your figure since you have clearly let yourself go - but don't be. I've never been attracted to plus sized men before but then again I've never been so deftly & handily abused by one either - at least not since Catholic school.

I want to do this again - but I want to do it right this time. Your lecture and subsequent prison sentence has certainly convinced me to "go straight" (well, as far as I can anyway) but I am retaining in my possession a small amount of contraband in order to seduce you yet again. I want the trifecta this time - lecture, beating, AND jail. Let's do this. I've plastered messages all over town in hopes of consummating my lust for your punishing hands!

WE SURROUND THEM!!!!

The Mighty, Mighty D-BLOC has made an offer you can't refuse! If any collective member can get their picture on Glenn Beck's website as an adherent to his Twelve Virtues and Nine Principles (12/9 for short - and no I don't think Mr Beck means that to be mathematical) - he'll commit to the largess of purchasing you a drink, at your choice of locations.

Having had the pleasure of being anointed with a cheap bottle of whiskey by D-BLOC in the recent past, I'll leave this contest to more deserving entrepreneurs.

But I must say something about Mr Beck's stunning graphic depicting his latest moral exhortations to his seemingly ever-expanding and unfortunate audience. I LOVE it!

The graphic, clearly channeling a potent don't tread on me-ness, features our famous rattlesnake, sliced into 9 parts, each piece clearly mapped to each of the 9 principles, with "12" pointing at the rattle! Then underneath it says "UNITE!" Powerful stuff.


Though I'm confused about which of the nine values becomes prime once the snake unites ... or do they all?! Or does it unite? And wait, it says "unite. or die" but isn't a hacked up rattlesnake already dead anyway? And is it safe to tread on, now that it's been hacked to pieces? And what happens to the twelve principles? Does it become some zombie amalgam of Virtues and Principles? Wouldn't a worm have been better, since when a worm is cut up, it's still alive? And where does the Seven Habits of Highly Effective People fit into this? The Three C's? Sam Wal's Five S's? The Ten Commandments? P & Q's? I'm so confused Mr. Beck. I do know one thing though: WE ARE GOING TO NEED A SHITLOAD OF HACKED UP SNAKES!!!!

P.S. I'll be attending the Glenn Beck Nine Principles / Twelve Virtues / We Surround Them "meetup" this afternoon, as a secret agent, and I'll have my camera with me. This is partly a penitence for missing this weeks collective meeting.

Garbage Gate Revealed!

MISTER GARBAGE
AP New Orleans 2008

Though media and criminal investigations have recently cast a shadow over the industry, a new partnership announced Sunday between Sydney Torres' SDT Enterprises, FEMA, and the Army Corps of Engineers promises to spark a renaissance of the waste disposal industry in Louisiana while simultaneously saving local wetlands. The daring new plan was revealed in
a press conference at the Ritz Carlton Hotel Sunday afternoon by Sydney Torres, flanked by Corps of Engineers leaders, former St. Bernard parish president Henry 'Junior' Rodriguez, FEMA officials and rock / rap crossover artist Kid Rock.
As Mr. Rock performed a rendition of his famous hit Cow-Boy, Torres spoke to members of the press and described the scheme to fill in the eroding wetlands with a mixture of garbage, sewerage and medical waste. The first stage of the ambitious plan started Monday as the Corps of Engineers begins dumping huge quantities of offal into the dangerous Mississippi River Gulf Outlet or “Mister GO” which critics have accused of funneling floodwaters into the Industrial Canal, flooding St. Bernard Parish and the Lower Ninth Ward during Katrina, as well as threatening the French Quarter and Upper Ninth Ward yet again during Hurricane Gustav.
“Everyone knows the wetlands are receding, we are losing miles of coastline and millions of tons of mud and filth every day.” Mr. Rodriguez interjected. “The Corps of Engineers has had so much trouble finding material to make levees they've been using pine needles and newspaper. Meanwhile, we have a massive pile of garbage, trash, filth, rubbish and sewerage which is perpetually growing and spilling out of our landfills." Mr. Torres picked up: "It’s literally a no-brainer, I can’t believe no one's ever thought of this before. Our ingenious plan literally kills two birds with one stone, and instead of a receding coastline, we will soon have a perpetually expanding coastline - a coastline made of garbage.”

Lieutenant General Robert L. Van Antwerp, Commander of the Army Corps of Engineers, interrupted: "The sort of fill we're talking about here isn't like the types of fill the State has used in the past. The previous fills, such as discarded Christmas trees, had to be bound with wires and stakes to keep it in place. Our baseline fill here, which will be distributed to critical areas via pre-existing oil and gas infrastructure and delivered via a system of solar powered spigots, has viscosity, is nutrient-rich and will naturally sink to where ever it's most needed. At this point the project will go Stage 2, and heavier, more durable fill will be brought in by truck and rail. I might add that although we will be utilizing the waste assets of the entire nation in this endeavor, all the technology was produced right here in the State of Louisiana."

Environmentalists and others have criticized the plan, pointing out that garbage is toxic and could possibly damage the environment and harm wildlife. Arriving late to a levee photo-op in New Orleans East Tuesday in his characteristic glossy black chrome-rimmed bus cum mobile command bunker - and flanked by an intimidating thirty vehicle escort of tiny Bull class sidewalk sweepers - Torres bristled at the accusation. “What do you think a wetland is? Go smell the swamp and tell me it smells better that" he said, incredulously, pointing to his lemon scented fleet of satellite traceable sanitation units. "What do you think it’s made of? We are talking about Louisiana here - St. Bernard, Plaquemines, Lafourche parish. That’s not the French Riviera out there, trust me I know, I have a house in Cannes.”
Noticing a bag of medical waste lodged against a used tractor tire and partially submerged near the muddy bank of the MRGO canal, Torres expanded upon his theme. The bag, containing tumors, liposuction fat, used catheters and a severed hand, was being gently teased open by a gathering flock of crabs as a snowy egret perched elegantly atop it. “You see? Nature does not have the same prejudices as man. Meat is meat, mud is mud. Everything has its place. Garbage is natural. Before you threw it away, it was part of your life. Now it will be part of our wetlands.”

PLAN POPULAR WITH LOCAL BUSINESS LEADERS

Edward Diefenthal, prominent philanthropist, GOP contributor and owner of Southern Scrap Recycling, was one of many businessmen who were openly enthusiastic about the new plan. “Let me tell you something: that Sydney Torres is a genius. Scrap is a huge growth industry in Louisiana. Over 90% of this State is ready for the scrap heap, including half the major buildings in the CBD. If the Coast Guard would simply stop harassing honest businessmen with their stifling regulations we could get something done and bring good jobs to this region collecting, dismantling, and scrapping everything around us."
"The State of Louisiana is shooting itself in the foot with vicious, socialist regulations that are killing business. I had a bungee cord on every single one of those god damn barges in the Industrial Canal, it was an act of god they all got loose. I can’t stop the wind from blowing. Now they want to put me in jail instead of letting me and Sydney Torres bring some good garbage jobs to this State. Over a few bad apples in a scrapyard? Dumping trash in St. Bernard? Isn't that like dumping water in the river? This kind of communist foolishness could never happen in China.”

CRIMINAL ALLEGATIONS THREATEN TO DISRUPT

But criminal allegations haunt the industry, and it is possible that the bold new initiative will be disrupted by ongoing criminal investigations which threaten to jail many of the key developers. At a rare press conference outside a Violet, LA. landfill, former St. Bernard Parish President Henry 'Junior' Rodriguez reflected on family, his recent criminal indictments, and the possibility of serving prison time.

You see this dump? My grandmother built this garbage dump in 1957 and it was the first female ... women owned business in this parish ... in the State of Louisiana. So we know something about civil rights. She opened this dump in defiance of the Eisenhower administration the minute ... the second she started throwing trash in her own backyard. Pretty soon the whole neighborhood was doing it. Now I call that community."
"Prison? Of course I know I’m going to end up in prison, just like my father before me and my grandfather before him. You think I’m stupid? I've been planning for it my whole life" he said, dunking a deep fried spam muffuletta into his almost- empty 64 oz. eggnog daiquiri. Tossing the enormous cup into the landfill behind him, he continued, eating: "The fact is, every person born in Southeast Louisiana is going to end up in prison. Everyone here goes to prison, except the ones that die of heart or liver disease first. Everybody and everything here is totally corrupt. Everything. Even little puppies are corrupt here. But I’m not going to end up in Angola cutting sugar cane like most of these idiots, I’m going to Club Fed after making a lot of people very rich along the way, like my dad before me and his dad before him. They weren’t stupid either. And let me tell you something you little punk, some people come here a few years and think they are above it all, stay long enough and you’ll end up in prison too you got a lot less of an idea how many different ways you can get in trouble. We’ll see which one of us is wearing lime kool-aid eye shadow and the speedo drawers ten years from now.”



NEIGHBORHOOD RESIDENTS AMBIVALENT

Richard LeBoeuf, 26, commented on Junior Rodruiguez' remarks to a reporter at the corner of Poland and Marais in the upper ninth ward. “He’s damn sure right about that. At 26 years old still alive and a free man, I’m way ahead of the curve. I just hope I can buy my mama a new house before somebody cap me. But times are tough. Much as the NOPD want in they pocket to mind they business these days, its hardly even worth it, sometimes I feel like dropping a dime on myself to Crimestoppers and go retire early to Angola. But that’s bullshit. I ain’t gonna leave my mama hanging, she can’t get shit from Road Home. Though she on the list for Brad Pitt to put a Solar Panel on her roof.”

But other local residents were slightly more positive, such as Ms. Rosarie Justice, 72 of Gentilly. “That Lee Zurich is a troublemaker. I pray to the Virgin Mary every night that he gets hit by a aneurysm. I think it’s just terrible that they are being so mean to that nice man Sydney Torres. He did such a good job cleaning up the French Quarters over there by the beautiful St. Louis Cathedral. It smells just like nice lemons, like heaven and angels. Harry Lee would never have bothered that man, gawd rest his soul.”

ACTIVIST YOUTH MAY RESIST THE NEW PLAN

But there is a new presence in New Orleans, politically active and educated young people from many northern states are moving in increasing numbers to the hip neighborhoods of Tremé, the Irish Channel and the Bywater where they participate in a radically alternative lifestyle. Their fierce dedication to political activism threatens to turn the Ninth Ward into the kind of battlefield Seattle became in 1999 or Athens in December 2008.

“I only drink Soy Milk”, Howard Irving Pierson, formerly of Seattle confided. “I have a low rider bike which is totally green, and I never drink beer that has whey in it.” he added, adjusting his ear plugs. “New Orleans is awesome. I mean look at how wrecked everything is. Isn’t that awesome? I went to an underground burlesque show in an abandoned funeral home yesterday, how cool is that? It’s like being in the third world except with running water and electricity.”

Howard paused as a car with tinted windows and over sized rims prowled by, filling the street with a rhythmic clicking sound and a loud bass line.

“I used to feel really scared in New Orleans, until I got all these tattoos. Now I’m totally sleeved, nobody will fuck with me, I mean look at that, I got a spiderweb and everything. Hey do you know where do get some coke this time of day?

GOVERNOR JINDAL PROMISES TO FAST TRACK LEGISLATION

After unanimous approval in both Louisiana houses, some were worried about executive approval of the two page Save Our Wetlands IV: A New Hope Act Governor Piyush Jindal assured business leaders Thursday that nothing could be further from the truth. Speaking from a newly privatized parking lot just outside the Capitol Building, Governor Jindal expressed his renewed faith in business leaders and markets and addressed doubts many hold concerning the various criminal indictments surrounding the project, including Mr. Torres' alleged dumping of raw sewerage in City Park or Mr. Rodriguez' nephews alleged retaliatory burning of one of Mr. Torres' landfill properties in New Orleans East.
“Let me calm all doubts: this administration is fully prepared to use the power of pardon to further the interests of the consumers of this State and its coastline - excepting the case of elected officials who violated the public trust. The answer is, as always, less government. Government is not the answer to the problem. Government is the problem. It's time for government to get off the backs of these people and turn them loose to do what they do best!" Amidst thunderous applause, the executive stepped down from the podium, gave a short dedication to the new stewards of our coast, and then led a candlelit march towards the river where he ceremoniously set alight a towering forty foot pyramid of waste. In a surprise recapitulation of his earlier performance, Kid Rock descended the burning pyramid performing his new song Garbridge to Miami as Mr. Torres slowly circled the proceedings in an armada of glossy black garbage trucks, tiny bulldozers, street sweepers, self-propelled industrial drills, mobile bikini car wash stations, and his new DHS supplied six-wheeled amphibious contamination units. Edward “Ned” Diefenthal, CEO of Southern Recycling, added to the festivities by using every spare blower unit in his employ to scatter over 1.5 shredded tons of his companies past citations, subpoenas, affidavits and other pending legal documents over the crowd in a celebratory makeshift ticker-tape parade. All this while one of the largest fireworks shows ever discharged at the Capitol left most bystanders in a state of awe. Henry 'Junior' Rodriguez, the only elected official embroiled in the scandals, was almost unavailable for comment. "Pretty much how I expected" he said when asked about the ceremony, caught trying to tiptoe away through the darkness. "We all have our role to play, I'm not worried about it. Now, who is gonna clean up all this mess?"

SEASON'S GREETINGS FROM THE NOPD

Bill O'Reilly Flip Out Tributes

Enjoy!

A Legacy of Ass

Legacy of Ass

"I'm shakin' the dust of this crummy little town off my feet and I'm gonna see the world. Italy, Greece, the Parthenon, the Colosseum. Then, I'm comin' back here to go to college and see what they know. And then I'm gonna build things. I'm gonna build airfields, I'm gonna build skyscrapers a hundred stories high, I'm gonna build bridges a mile long..."
--George Bailey, "It's a Wonderful Life"

"I want to build booty. Big, fat fuckin' jigglin' ass, baby. Ass, baby, A - Z - Z."
-- Al Copeland, 1974

Like George Bailey, Al Copeland was a national treasure; a true rags to riches story if there ever was one. Born in a Chalmette tenement in the 1940's and enduring a stint in the St. Thomas housing development, Al assuredly paid his dues before making it big as a fast food mogul and overall self described "seriously classy dude" before finally making the move to the Northshore in the late 1990's.

Although Al had many entrepreneurial adventures since founding the legendary Popeye's Chicken franchise in 1974, he will always be remembered for his margarine soaked snack treats, faintly toxic, starchy, chicken fat delights and otherwise greasy, booty building cuisine. It's easy to lose sight of Al's immense legacy, whether by being blinded by his five hundred kilowatt Kenner Xmas light display, the thirty two ounces of pure gold held aloft by a delicate tsunami of graying chest hair, the sheer classiness of his shockingly upscale Metairie Sweet Fire and Ice™ combination barely legal oxygen & cheesecake martini bar and aromatherapy chain, or deafened by the loud roar of one his many chicken themed racing boats - so we must go back to the original, unveneered Al: the Al of 1974, who declared himself the "Booty Czar," when he was just stepping out into the world to build - in his own words - a "vast empire of ass." Indeed, he wasn't stopping at St. Bernard parish, where the very first Popeyes opened in 1972 just outside the Tastee Donuts dumpster in Arabi.

By 1980 there were 120 Popeye's locations in Orleans parish alone. The indulgent cuisine of Mr. Copeland, however, led to an Excess Ass crisis that would dominate behind-closed-doors Orleans Parish politics for the next two decades. According to the state Bureau of Statistics, the metric tonnage of excess booty increased tenfold from 1974 to 1980, with another twenty-fold booty increase by just 1990. By 1995 the Excess Ass Index for Orleans Parish alone had surpassed even the entire state of Iowa - long considered unthinkable - finally peaking and holding somewhat steady at an astounding 500 million cubic tons. This had rippling effects throughout the entire Louisiana economy; for example, the now nearly forgotten Schwegmann's grocery store chain - which once dominated the tri-parish landscape - struggled vainly to keep up with demand, widening aisles in all locations by 15% and switching too a 100% chips, pork products, package liquor and soda inventory - just before going utterly and completely bankrupt. And it wasn't just the grocers. Former criminal sheriff Charles Foti, now serving as criminal Attorney General, interviewed from the Popeye's on Broad and Tulane right across from where you get out of prison, stated he resisted widening prison beds, shackles and orange jumpsuit sizes for almost 10 years. "Then I just gave up. Those inmates were just too fat. Plus, the Federal funds were plenty enough to handle it, plus last years kitchen renovation in my Metairie home" he said, scarfing down a supersized Popeye's go-cup of red beans, with injected chicken fat and bacon grease. Added Foti: "Lord, that bacon fat makes this good. I'd have had Copeland cater to the inmates - I'm all for privatizing - but the deal fell through. He wanted way too much and I still needed to renovate my mothers carport at the time, and prison labor alone won't cut it. The man was a ruthless deal maker, even though I have to say, he was a total class act. The man was one hundred percent class."

Mr. Foti, however, should not shoulder all the blame for ignoring the crisis. According to Ivor van Heerden, a scientist at LSU, the city's entire leadership was to blame. "Five hundred million cubic tons of excess ass. How can you ignore that? I mean, this is right in your face, every single day of every single week. The streets are literally crumbling" said the svelte definitely-not-from-Louisiana van Heerden. "If this goes on much longer, we are talking doomsday. And still, no one's listening to me, as usual. No one. We did a study on this in 1989. Nineteen eighty nine. Katrina was nothing compared to this. And the city still considers this issue on a 'need to know' basis. Like it's not obvious? Who in hell do they think they're fooling?"

By the time Marc Morial was swept into office in 1998, it was impossible to find a pair of slacks with less than a sixty inch waist at the Macy's downtown. In part, Morial was re-elected to handle the Chafing and Bunching Crisis of 1996 that had literally engulfed the city. "A shortage of tracksuits and sweatpants had been going on for years" said Mr. Morial in a rare post mayoral interview at the oxygen bar in the Sweet Fire and Ice location on Veterans, sipping on a big gulp blueberry cheesecake martini daiquiri. "We had been in grave discussions with the Wal Mart leadership about this, and that is the reason we have an uptown superstore at this time. The citizens who resisted the Wal Mart simply do not understand what was at stake. Only Wal Mart could deliver the over sized clothing in the numbers necessary to see the city through this crisis, and with the deal they gave us, we were able to retrofit 95% of N.O.P.D. uniforms with elastic stretch bands."

The riverside Wal Mart brought an estimated 576% increase in tracksuits, stretch pants, sweats, scrubs, maternity wear, shower caps, flip flops and various anti-fungal powder products to the parish area. Even the city's Goodwills had all but shutdown, including the popular uptown location, due to all the busted and broken shoes, frayed undergarments and donated slacks and pantsuits that had gaping holes worn into the inner thighs. "They were simply inundated with useless inventory." Continued the ex-mayor: "and not everyone has a car to get to the Wal Mart or Target in Jefferson Parish, and the bus ride into Jefferson on Claiborne is a bitch, especially the shift switch at Carrollton."

Local vampire novelist, apoplectic uptown snob and goth doyenne Anne Rice, who has since procured all rights to Mr. Copeland's lifeless corpse, took out a full page ad in the Times-Picayune once again using her inestimable literary talents to verbally obliterate the famous businessman. "I hated that piece of Kenner trash ... TRASH" hissed Mrs. Rice through clenched teeth in a phone interview Tuesday, her voice cracking, seething and white with rage. "I'm holding his grand soirée funerale at St. Alphonsus' in the Irish Channel. Afterwards I will have his corpse run over with a garbage truck a few dozen times right out in front of the Cheesecake Bistro™ on St. Charles as I sip delicately on one of his 'signature peach champagne cheesecake martinis,' whatever in gods name that is. Then Lestat and I will simply deep fry him, just as I promised him I would in my last full page ad in 1992. Won't we, my Lestat?” Added Mrs. Rice: “Lestat c'est moi!"

Archbishop Phillip Hannan, who was instrumental in Copeland's winning p ilot contract with the New Orleans Archdiocese to use Popeyes™ brand biscuits in lieu of the more traditional communion wafers, will be exhumed to somehow preside over the Anne Rice what-have-you, or funeral, or whatever. In better days, His Excellency described Al's life as a "grand salvific journey from ass to class. Whether it's from Popeye's™ to Sweet Fire and Ice™, or from the Ninth Ward to the Northshore, Mr. Alvin Copeland's life was a journey - an odyssey devoted to God & Class." Al's lifelong journey was not an entirely pleasant one, however. He had a string of ugly divorces and only mildly successful face lifts, was unable to retain the heart shaped swimming pool - paved in pure Alaskan cubic zirconium - from his first marriage, and he was the only billionaire ever cheap enough to make a failed bribery attempt on Governor Edwin Edwards.

As of this writing Mr. Copeland's new line of Popeye's flavored baby food products is pending FDA approval.

Farewell, Al, New Orleans will miss you.