For the 20th anniversary of Bubba’s big reveal: Monica’s Song.

“I never had sex with that woman, Miss Lewinsky.”

“I never had sex with that woman, Miss Lewinsky.”

A Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie story

March 8, 1998

To be sung loud and fast, a sassy girl-group sound:

They say he’s a cruiser, a good-for-nothing user
They tell me he’s a tar-pit of deception and guile
But I can judge him better than the law of the letter
I sink into his wink because I’m stuck on his smile

        So I’m his co-dependent co-defendant
        Yeah, I’m the kind of girl he can count on
        I’m his co-dependent co-defendant
        He stands for everything I sit down on

He cheated on his wife but that’s the story of his life
But then he tripped on Linda Tripp and she pushed “record”
But they won’t take him to the cleaners for high crimes and misdemeanors
I don’t have Betty Currie’s worries, I’ll just fall on his sword

        And be his co-dependent co-defendant
        He’s finally found a girl he can count on
        I’m his co-dependent co-defendant
        He stands for everything I sit down on

    My friends say, “Monica, Monica, you’re Betty not Veronica
    You need to have a practical plan!”
    I know it’s all true, but what else can I do?
    I’m just another little fish who’s been hooked by that man!

Extracted from Bubba:
How the Predator-in-Chief pulled it off.

Buy Bubba. Then: Bye, Bubba!

Obstruction of justice may make people mistrust us
But that Nero is my hero and I love to feed him grapes
I know he’s gonna wail until they let me out of jail
We’re registered at Sak’s and mom is shopping for drapes

        ’Cause I’m his co-dependent co-defendant
        I’ll always be the girl he can count on
        I’m his co-dependent co-defendant
        He stands for everything I sit down on

        Oh yeah, he proudly stands
            He steadfastly stands
                He stands for everything I sit down on

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Want to send someone a greeting card with some oomph? Send a Willie book, instead.

I wrote a ton in 2017, lots of everything. Among other works, I published four new Willie books. They’re short – because I leave out all the boring stuff – but they’re cheap – because I want them to be read.

They’re cheap like greeting cards are cheap, and I wish y’all would deploy them that way: By sending my books as gifts to people who you know could profit by them. That kind of recommendation gets a book read – and that’s what matters.

These are the new books:

Las Vegas Redemption: Pastor Trey Coyle and the reincarnation of Sarno’s Ghost. Jay Sarno’s Ghost takes you on a frolicking adventure in Las Vegas – with the world’s biggest televangelist, Pastor Trey Coyle. The yarn is pure farce, and it has nothing whatever to do with Pastor Joel Osteen.

Traindancing: Bedtime stories for your inner child from The Mall of Misfit Families. Listen in on the thoughts of Loco Willie, the carney-in-kiddie-portions who runs the choo-choo train down at the mall: “Mock me if you like. I know I will. But this is loco engineering. This is how it’s done.”

Dusty: An elegy of hope and love. Dusty is about a road trip – back from a funeral. And it’s a buddy story – about a dog. It won’t take you an hour to read, but it will breathe new life into your hopes – in languages living and dead.

Bubba: How the Predator-in-Chief pulled it off. Watch as His Bubbaness, erstwhile Predator-in-Chief, takes you on a tour of the America he made for us: Sex scandals, political paralysis – Bush, Obama, Hillary, Trump – and more sex scandals.

Bubba is rough stuff, ideal for any political junkie still capable of laughter. The other three are benedies, redemption songs. They’re all built on Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie’s ham-on-wry sense of humor, and they’re peopled with peculiar people and precocious kids.

So: Please go buy, read, review and share some Willie today.

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President Biff Tannen in four words: Accidentally like an übermensch.

“What? Me, president?”

A Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie Story

Thursday, January 26, 2017

“So here’s the idea,” said Manny Kant. “It’s the ‘Big’ trope – boy wakes up in adult’s body – but with a twist.”

“Seen it, done it, took a bath on the action figures.” That was The Movie Mogul’s clipped retort. He’s a big, imposing guy, so he’s The Movie Mogul because, if I told you his name, he might punch me in the nose. He’s the big boss of a small film studio – some production, mostly investment and distribution – lots of indies, lots of awards – and they throw dollars around like blocks of ice. He said, “What else ya got?”

Manny was caught short – and it could be he’s losing his edge. He’s certainly grayer than I’ve ever seen him: Not just the threads of gray in what used to be jet black hair, but gray in his skin, too – gray in his soul, maybe. Wearing a gray sharkskin skinny-suit didn’t help. He might have seemed merely desperate in Lower Manhattan, but he was a man out of time in the sculpted greenswards of a suburban Los Angeles office park. “But you haven’t let me tell you the twist!”

“You came to me with one idea?” The Movie Mogul demanded. “You finagled this appointment, and all you had to pitch was one tired, played out gimmick? Fine. Hit me with your twist and get out.”

Manny stood up, but I don’t know if that helped his case. The Movie Mogul’s office might be in an unimposing location, but it’s a very imposing space. Huge, for a start, with The Movie Mogul’s desk, a sitting area and a conference table all surrounded by vast wide-open spaces. The soaring windows look out onto the greensward, with a view of the freeway in the distance. The furniture is Danish Modern, black and chrome. Standing up seemed like a misstep to me, because the chairs are so low and deep that you sit in them by falling into them, and, as Manny demonstrated, you get up by clawing your way (more…)

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TweetSchooling @YaronBrook on the death spiral of both #AynRand’s and #Marxism’s anti-fecundity.

Both #Marxism and #AynRand seek to reproduce by recruitment and indoctrination – cherry-picking the soul-broken Ci’s from Dc or Cd families, as religions have always done – but this is a diminishing return in the downward spiral of Marxist education.

Photo by: Sharada Prasad CS

I miss 140-character Twitter, to say the truth. I liked the challenge of fitting big ideas into small spaces. Too easy to write, now, and less pungent to read. Oh, well…

Here’s me taking the Ayn Rand Institute’s Grand Poobah, Yaron Brook, to task. He thinks pretending to ignore me is some kind of strategy, where in fact it’s simply a tell: He doesn’t respond because he can’t. More fun for me, plus I pick off the least-Ci-blinded victims of the big-O Objectivist cult one by one.

Vide: The argument promised in the headline in four tweets:


Wanna learn about philosophy, @YaronBrook? Here’s why #AynRand’s Ci creed and Ci #Marxist dogma are both doomed: Survivorship bias. You refuse to reproduce – or even to understand human reproduction – and, accordingly, your ideas die by the hearseload.


Here’s why: Socially-repulsive empathy strategies produce offspring rarely and poorly, where socially-attractive strategies are enduringly bounteous. Ci marries Ci, the mating ideal for both #Objectivist and #Marxist couplings, is a self-anhilating praxis.



Both #Marxism and #AynRand seek to reproduce by recruitment and indoctrination – cherry-picking the soul-broken Ci’s from Dc or Cd families, as religions have always done – but this is a diminishing return in the downward spiral of Marxist education.


#Marxism dies at Bill Ayers’ funeral, #Objectivism at yours. People who do not raise children will not have raised them to carry on their ideas. The future belongs to the fecund, because only their kids will be present (ahem) for it.

Much more to learn, when you’re ready for it.

I’m not holding my breath. It’s hard to push a man off of the error that’s feeding him. But his error doesn’t have to be yours. I have the game theory of everything. Yaron Brook could learn it, but he cannot dare to risk it. What’s your excuse?

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Love at first sight, twenty years later: Someone to thrive with.

I wrote this fifteen years ago today, but it describes events that happened twenty years ago. You’ll figure it out… If you wonder what a gorgeous woman like that is doing with a schlub like me, I commend you to the power of poetry. –GSS


Someone to thrive with.

So… She says it’s time she goes
But wanted to be sure I know
She hopes we can be friends

I think… “Yeah, I guess we can,” say I
But didn’t think to ask her why
She blocked her eyes and drew the curtains
With knots I’ve got yet to untie…

What if I were Romeo in black jeans?
What if I was Heathcliff, it’s no myth?
Maybe she’s just looking for
Someone to dance with…

The song is ‘No Myth’ by Michael Penn, a very folky kind of Rock ’n’ Roll. There’s this one and ‘Thunder Road’ by Bruce Springsteen: “You can hide ’neath your covers and study your pain, make crosses from your lovers, throw roses in the rain.” We never had an ‘our song’ because we always had two.

I found her on the internet, like every good thing. It was just after Christmas in 1997. She was a widow awash in sadness, and her sister pestered her into posting this completely impersonal personal ad:

Women Seeking Men, Phoenix, Arizona

Intellect, Hubris Appreciated

Relationship: Talk/E-mail
Religion: Gnostic, Hermetic
Other: Doesn’t Smoke, Drinks, Doesn’t Have/Want Children

Description: I haven’t started dating since my husband
    died… and I’m not ready to start yet. I do, however,
    enjoy stimulating discussions, and am interested in
    expanding my network of gentlemen friends without
    having to go out and meet anyone. You may fantasize…
    I am lovely… but do not be crude or too graphic. It
    seems that the chatrooms I’ve scanned are populated
    with people looking for anonymous opportunity to be ill
    mannered. Please do be eclectic, though. There is so
    much fascinating knowledge to be shared and adventures
    to be enjoyed, that the mind should not be limited by
    crassness or trite vocabularies. If you don’t
    understand, please go to the next on the list.

I was in the same sort of spot. I had been through a completely vicious divorce, very costly financially and emotionally, and I had no need or use or plans for (more…)

Posted in Love and marriage, Poetry and fiction, Splendor! | 4 Comments

“Baby, it’s cold outside!” – and that’s when it’s the best time to be a mammal.

Nothing attracts like mutual attraction.Photo by: Kevin Johnston

Mammalian empathy is evolution in action.

Want proof? Turn off the heater before you go to bed tonight. If you are lucky enough to be happily enspoused, you’ll find a way to stay warm(er). And even if not, you’ll still be better off than reptiles and bugs – who are freezing to death by the billions right now.

Wait… Warm-bloodedness is not empathy!

That’s correct. Warm-bloodedness is evolution’s answer to the mass die-offs occasioned by cold-blooded errors of judgement. Birds and non-human mammals aren’t any less clueless, mind you. They’re just better equipped to deal with the consequences of ineptitude.

By internal temperature regulation, yes, but also by the brand new type of empathy strategy engendered and made possible by homeothermicity: Sharing body heat.

Birds of a feather will huddle together, and you can’t keep mammals from cuddling. That’s the origin of mutually-reciprocal empathy – the Sociable strategy – which is itself the source of storgic love – the enduring love of families.

The give-and-take of mammalian empathy is there from conception, with sharing of resources being the sine qua non of the gestation of birds and mammals. We feed our young after birth in hugely empathy-rich ways, and for all of our lives, we live as a part of a pack or clan or family.

Warm-blooded creatures thrive by mammalian empathy. They all deploy reptilian empathy among strangers, but the existence and persistence of the storgic community is caused solely by mammalian empathy – by practicing give-to-get and by taking enormous delight in the opportunity to give-to-get.

This is what we are, too, regardless of what we say about it. That’s why Ci (“Transreptiles and Borgbugs unite! You have nothing to lose but your survival strategy!”) is doomed as a cultural strategy: Mutually-repulsive empathy is hysterically (ahem!) infecund.

Every other argument I can make for Ds and against Ci or Dc is trumped by that simple fact: Nothing attracts like mutual attraction, and only Ds is enduringly mutually-attractive at every level of social interaction, from strangers becoming friends to neighbors cooperating in commerce or defense to loving families (more…)

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When I say, “Who wants a handful of red hot Willie for the New Year?” – you say, “#MeToo!”

“Whose Festivus do you have to grab to get some laughs around here?”

Cover illustration by the incomparable
DonkeyHotey | Creative Commons.

New for the New Year:

Bubba: How the Predator-in-Chief pulled it off.

What is it? Twenty years of brutal jokes – with songs!

As implausible as it might seem, a theme emerges from fifteen Willie stories written across twenty years: Hillary Clinton is a battered wife. It’s hard not to say “None so deserving,” but it’s there, regardless. Willie first saw it in 1998 – the garden party events he describes are all strictly factual, supported by contemporary photos and video. That much is not funny, but it’s there all the way to the end of the book.

Sad to say, there’s a movie in here. Manny Kant shines in the second act, which I had not foreseen. I wonder where his hands have been…

Buy the book. It only costs a buck, so that’s no objection. What’s left? Afraid you’ll learn something that makes your shoes pinch? Afraid you’ll laugh?

For all of me, I wish you would gift this book upstream to whomever you think it will amuse or annoy the most. Prometheus freed us from the gods, but it is laughter that frees us from tyrants.

When you mock Bubba, you mock ignominy, abomination, insolence and profanation.

What could be funnier than that?

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