Name: KanGo, aka "KGV"
Posts by KGV:
Are lady lumps languishing? Are bouncing boobs really getting in the way? According to our resident know-it-all, KanGo Vyrall, that’s an affirmative people. A recent article in ESPN magazine relating to women in sports, reveals their “burden with boobs” and exposes just how these floppy treats hinder their scorecard. She’s all yours…talk it away KanGo!
First, a little history is in order here, to further educate my dumbing-down masses. As the scripture and the song’s lyrics tell us, God made man in his own image and women with the remaining 100-pounds of clay. God finished his hour-glass-shaped figure by Saturday, but while resting on Sunday he noticed even more clay leftover in the plastic bag. What’s a guy to do, the lord pondered? Once again, and fortunately for mankind, he saw the light!
On the sacred potter’s wheel, he shaped the remaining 5-pounds into two cone-shaped lumps and plopped them symmetrically onto the figure’s thorax. God then stood back, gazed at his creation and exclaimed: “Wow”! He called his new creation “wowman” (later changed to “woman” because of an early hieroglyphic’s typo). God had created lots of lovin’ for man, a man-magnet for wowman and consequently guaranteed man’s prolific propagation. Although unbeknownst to him, was the amount of infatuation his lovely lady lumps would breed.
The confused masses ask for KanGo’s guidance, again, “Where are we goin’ with all this KanGo? No prob…right”?
Wrooooooong! The rapid north-south migration of these hang-loose, mushy mensbranes, apparently impedes wowman’s sporting abilities. It appears that some sports-minded women, bestowed with the product of Gawd’s very own clay maker…don’t really appreciate his generosity. Some gals-gone-mad, have even resorted to lopping off the distractions; down-sizing the Van Gogh way, if you will.
The most recent disciple of downsizing is a world-class female tennis player, who rejected the pleas of 1400 mostly male fans to keep her cleavage intact. How’s that’s for gratitude, big guy? Wowman, your wowmen, known for their sometimes cantankerous candor, are objecting to the mandatory management of these God-given, last-minute, add-ons. However, by far the most popular, mind-of their-own-boob-going-rogue story, tells how a long-distance runner flashed an unbridled boob for a Guinness World Record 18-minutes (eat your heart out Janet Jackson). Fortunately for all concerned, the covered gland overheated, forcing her to pull over…to raving fans gawking giddily by the roadside.
Me Merrymen, let us now break for a lesson in every-day physics. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. In layman’s terms: what goes up must come down. Since Title-IX opened sports opportunities for the fairer sex, women have been attempting to anchor their boobs, to prevent the bouncing that we men know, love, and have come to expect. Early attempts to batten down the boobs involved tying two jockstraps together. American ingenuity reinvented, perhaps, and why not, these strong elastic straps have safely restrained our family’s jewels for years. Modern day sports bras, made from space-age material originally developed by NASA to prevent spacewalkers from becoming human satellites, harness the appendages as never before, by flatting them to resemble granny’s deliciously thick buttermilk pancakes; and about as sexy as a Diller named Phyllis.
And I would not be KanGo if I did not duly note that the ESPN article also reports a burgeoning business is rapidly developing, one that explores the ups and downs of man’s best friends. It’s definitely hands-on, uncharted territory. Right now, predicting these persnickety peaks and their mischievous meanderings are
anybody’s guess. Hormones, water content, disposition…all must be considered. We must even take into account the tides and the fullness of the moon. But hey, sign me up!
Men…let us all pause for a moment, stand at attention and salute the fine efforts of our dear lord. Now, join me, in song, to Nancy’s national anthem: Ready…a one and a two, “These boobs are made for bouncin’ and that’s just what they’ll do…and one of these days these boobs are gonna bounce all over you.”
Color KGV GOOOOOOONE!
Dateline Madison, WI:
Once again, perplexed in his very own hometown, KanGo considers himself obligated to divulge another debacle, soon to be perpetrated on his fellow citizenry. MadTown, the state capitol and cradle of looney liberalism, is a city that seceded from the union the day after it was incorporated. What has transpired here as of late is more indicative of Fascism festering, just beneath its progressive cloak. A dumber-than-dumb alderman from the 14th District has come up with another of Madison’s over-educated examples of how to prevent a Boston-style bombing in this fair city. Book-smart Madison, a community that surpasses all other cities in cumulative college credits but ranks near the gutter in street wisdom, and has once again demonstrated its progressive prowess for all to ponder.
If ex-radical Mayor Paul and the council have their way, and they will, zippered backpacks will be outlawed, replaced by Madison-mandated, city-supplied clear Plexiglas packs. Originally this bill was adopted to prevent the homeless from becoming a threat to Madison’s bureaucrats. However, ever since the ever popular Populist busing program, which provides the down-on-their-luck, a free, one-way bus tickets to the city of their choice, the homeless phobia in Madison has subsided. Never to be deterred, the powers-to-be have recently expanded the law, zeroing in on the more than 40-thousand free-thinkin’ University of Wisconsin students.
Custom molded by Madison’s refuse container manufacturer, each see-through pack costs $75 and all students are required to utilize the packs throughout their college careers, then have the option to return them for a mere pittance. Therefore, beginning next semester, a limited quantity of used but reprogrammed packs will be available at UW bookstores.
Unbeknownst to the students, each pack includes a well-hidden GPS and fertilizer-ingredient detector. If at any time, any of the thousands of NSA-trained monitors, spying at an undisclosed bunker in Bulgaria, detect suspicious activity, Madison’s eye-in-the-sky drone, coined “Bulls-Eye” by a winning 3rd-grade contestant, will release a Bucky bomb toward the intended target. Collateral damage, hopefully, takes out any co-conspirators and spares valued university landmarks.
As a bonus feature, for an additional $19.99 per month, parents can monitor their kid’s binge-drinking toga parties and resulting sexual sorties. For only twice the intoductory price, just $150, the packs can be ordered with the “BP” option: packs made from space-age, bomb-resistant plastic and developed for the Special Forces by NASA. I know, I know it seems pricey but consider another recently approved initiative, designed to deter drinking in this beer-basted town. Chief, not so Noble hisself, now encourages the use of deadly force on any unsuspecting reveler with an assumed blood-alcohol content of more than 2.0. In light of this, another progressive first, KanGo highly recommends that all parents who care, purchase this option, especially considering it comes with a NATO-approved, Kevlar, 9-millimeter, bullet-proof vest.
Once again the politics of political correctness takes center field, albeit this time the 50-yard line, to play…football. The Washington Redskin’s owner, backed by his star quarterback, have denounced the politically-correct drumbeat of their team’s namesake and vowed “NEVER” to change the team’s name.
So, would this necessarily make the red man red? Shall we see? It seems that this is a Native-American-named club, which like all others, is staffed predominately of African Americans. In order to, once again, unbiasly solve another of our nations nagging no-nos, KanGo has lassoed the less-than-honorable Aryan Knight, “The Dixie Devil” hisself, off his high white horse to get his unique bigoted wisdom on this derogatory debate.
“Seems ta me son, that this boy, RPG-3…has got it all wrong. He says, ‘In a land of freedom, we are held hostage by the tyranny of political correctness.’ What’s that, a crap trap? Just who’s he tryin’ to kid. Freedom and black guys in the same sentence; come on…that’s an oxymoron. And what’s them savages got to do with Washington anyway. We whites, excuse me, Caucasians, chased them oudda there eons ago. Weren’t good fighters neither; couldn’t stand up to our fancy repeatin’ rifles any better than a ground hog. All for naught though,
’cause when the unpatriots freed all them blacks, they just replaced the injins anyway. That was also the beginning of the end of America’s dominate world order. We had it all back then! With free labor, we were on top of the world! Well, that eco-advantage has sure come back to haunt us now, don’t cha know! Seems to me, the supreme one here… excuse me one moment. Say Hun, you got the tar oudda my robe yet…I looked like a damn Dalmation at the last campfire; I have an unspotted image to uphold you know! That’s it, that’s it! Tar, the “Washington Tar Stars. Summon the Imperial Knights, for I have a solved the political correctness issue! From the gridiron to the hardwood courts, south of the Mason Dixon line anyway, I will be forever know as the “Supreme Solution.” I think a book or movie is in order, maybe even a regal reality show of sorts. Gawd bless this America! Naw, I best mount my white horse here. I sense another bad backlash and quite frankly, I’ve grown a weary wizard as I age, gain more wisdom and insight if you will. So, here’s the real deal, the perfect PC solution, all mustered up from the massa hisself: Being the supreme wizard of wayward ways…it was always here, right in front of my nose. This is Wershington, is it not? Then…how’s ’bout, drumroll please…’The Washington Waywards.’ There ya go! Damn, am I good or what? I should make a run for president. No better way to return us to our roots. There, how’s them their apples Mr. KanGo?”
Tower, KanGo, ready on runway 180-Left.
KGB, you’re clear on 180-left, enjoy the flight.
Color me gone,
Gawd’s favorite democracy, albeit now under strict corporate control, has finally come to clips in our never-ending, no-guns-no-gory debate. We are now the only free country on the spinning sphere where an entire first-grade classroom of tiny tots may be obliterated, another baby blasted in his stroller…and we still, STILL, bellow out: “Gun Bless America.” Give me a freakin’ break!
“Calm down KanGo, easy big fella!”
OK, OK, let us now put our poignantly pungent past behind and tackle a much more pressing problem, same-sex marriage. Our Supremacist of Grand Poobahs to be, have retreated to the Depends Room to begin discussing this landmark “Kiss & Tell” case…involving the legal legality of gay marriage. And, what better way to experience their bi-curious fantasies…than oral arguments. Maybe even one, or more, of the pompous ones are actually gay themselves, exuding the epitome of hypocrisy itself. If so, perhaps they should excuse (yeah, I know) themselves to Washington’s nearest Turkish bath…for a once (or twice) over.
And who gave these wisdom-wrinkled, self-righteous-minded morons the power to rule what humans can kiss what other humans anyway? God’s already been there-done that. Have they not noticed? same-sexuals have finally become very politically correct. Although considered by some, a freak of nature, gaiety does harbor the double-super-secret solution to save our burgeoning earth ball. How can a supposed genetic abnormality now be preferable over assumed normalcy you ask? Well…in case you have been out of this world for the past 50-years, you will have witnessed our heteros propagating faster than rabbits after nibbling Viagra-enhanced chocolate Easter eggs. In just four decades we have fattened from 3 to 7 and are forecasted to soon reach 9-BILLION BODIES, all sharing the same planet turf. Yeah, brings more meaning to the phrase “turf wars” don’t it? You still don’t get it do you? OK, OK, KanGo will explain…AGAIN!
If there ever was a time to accept an alternative lifestyle, it is now more than ever: Imagine a color-coordinated world, a high life of high style and high fashion; void of the tussles of high “T.” A world wallowing in the mellow-minded passivity of low testosterone; a world where all couples, thinking from the same side of their lobe, are all on the same page, the same wave length. Imagine men conversing with men from Mars and women doing the same with their Venus partners. This overwhelming sense of copasetic serenity should be enlightening…so much in fact that we may all voluntarily turn in our multi-firing muskets for wine tasting, a sunset-laden blanket and a cop-a-smooch.
Our new elevated life-style would be dominated by creative and passionate people who make simple things look simply fabulous, with no desire at all to display bravado for the boys; no need to blast Bambi with a bazooka then hang the killing cannon just below her stuffed head. And, in lieu of supporting the NRA and its good-as-dead remedy for curtailing future growth, how ’bout we send the hard-earned-cash to support our very own NRA, the National Remediation Association…to remedy America’s diabolical learning disabilities?
And now, what you all must still be wondering, the double-super-secret save-the-planet solution is: ZERO POPULATION GROWTH!
This is the collateral damage of all this new-found sexuality! And, and with it come the residuals: no diaper-clogged landfills, more of everything: jobs, resaurant tables, ball-game tickets, parking spots and no epic battles over shortages of oil, water, food…not even said parking spaces.
So without further adieu, take a “moment,” me very merry rabble…just think of the possibilities.
Hope has sprung!
Over an’ out,
KanGo has gone missing, again, and the rabble is restless. Word on the street is that he simply had had enough already; with all the partisan bickering that is. He was last seen purchasing a one-way ticket on Mr. Peabody’s “Wayback Machine.” However, he apparently hit the “flip-flop” button and is now residing perhaps more peacefully, somewhere in the future.
Dateline Texas 2023:
KanGo observes it is indeed very peaceful here. Everyone is outgoingly cordial and way too friendly. How can this be? This is Texas, is it not? Where’s all the side arms anyway? And how can this great American melting pot of people coexist so well together. “Sompin’ just don’t seem riiiiight here,” KGV drawls.
A bus on a field trip pulls up and parks in front of a Texas-sized, military-surplus store, called, “No Guns No Glory.” KanGo wanders in with the group and discovers it is in fact an NRA-sanctioned and a state supported, mandatory sortie required before graduating from high school (6th-grade). Here, our futuristic reporter discovers a true revelation: guns are now officially obsolete. NO WAY! Have we all finally found our lick of long-lost sense? Have we put aside our differences, our racial/political divide and become the much heralded, “one nation indivisible under God, with liberty and or justice for all…and why remember the Alamo anyway?”
Whoa, not so fast; hold your mustang down KGV! “This looks more like a model airplane show from my youth,” KanGo surmises as he saunters. Suddenly, a nearby hawker’s hark, alerts him to the reality that surrounds him.
“Have I gotta drone just for you…BOY! Says so right on the side, see! This puppy, is called, “Fat Chance,” named in honor our the original nuke, “Fat Boy” hisself; the one that started stealth itself son! And his not-so-sorry sibling here can take out an entire classroom of bullies in one fell swoop…no collateral damage neither! And best of all, I’ll take that locked-away, antique AK of yours in trade too, son. Come closer, lemmy explain just how she works.”
KanGo realizes he is not in Kansas anymore, but has landed on ground zero of the amendment that is responsible for the deaths of more of its citizenry than most of our…other wars. For it is here that the interpretation of the second amendment has been stretched to its epitome; where God’s gotta-have-a-gun guys, you know, the musket is good but a machine gun better but a drone…the darn-shootin’ best (for now anyway).
“Simple son, first, yah target the bad boy here on your iphone, press the “L” for lethal or “S” for stun, say “yes” to confirm then push the launch button and say your prayer: God bless America! Damn, just don’t get no better than this son! So, let’s get this rodeo rollin’…just sign here son.”
KanGo graciously declines and meanders out back, where the big boys have congregated. He sees many discarded/donated, fully refurbished, full-sized CIA drones on display for discerning, deep-pocketed buyers and a background check with these guys would be utterly insulting. High-stakes security personnel from paranoid gated communities and VIPs representing major sporting events such as the Olympics, the Super Bowl and the Master’s golf tournament, bid furiously in hopes of acquiring not only first-rate protection, but also an unsurpassed piece of American Americana, for each comes with a certified “kill history.”
Dateline: Any School, Anywhere, USA.
Billy runs out for recess and plays on the monkey bars. Two bullies approach and demand his lunch money. Billy says “sure, just a sec” as he retreats to the top of the bars, takes out his phone, targets the ruffians then clicks the “confirm” button, authorizing his hovering drone into sneak-attack, stun action. In an instant, his threat is neutralized. The bad boys drape lifeless but alive over the lower monkey bars, convulsing and drooling. Recess ends, Billy retreats to the school lunch room and eyes his favorite, mac and cheese.
Before Clint Eastwood became Dirty Harry, the heaviest-heated of them all, he gained fame in an early spaghetti western titled, “A Fistfull of Dollars.” A KGV “updated” quote from that tall tale…tells it all: “When da man with da AK comes up against the man with da drone….da man with the assault rifle loses.”
Color me back,
38 to 13.
The University of Wisconsin football team opened up a can of “whoop-ass,” and once again, creamed the Minesota Golden Gophers at Camp Randall on Saturday afternoon, retaining the yearly traveling prize, Paul Bunyan’s giant ax. Soon after the border-battle brawl, aptly coined the “reciprocity ruckus,” between the two neighboring football teams, mascot Bucky Badger was spied, by barley-bloated, reveling redshirts, offering Goldie Gopher the game-prize ax, that has eluded the Gophers and their mascot for the last nine games. She was observed, fondly fondling the shalf of the giant ax, followed by an
affectionate gaze into Bucky’s eyes.
This coming together of sorts, the ultimate show of sportsmanship, a true journey onto the field of dreams, parlays into a spontaneous adventure, a reciprosity romp…deep into Buckyville. The fur bearers, frantically frolicked on the practice field’s plastic green grass behind the stadium. Goldie Gopher was diligently instructing Bucky on the (“Pointer Sister’s”) fine art of the slow hand, but without, the easy touch. In an animalistic display, of Darwin’s Ballistic Biology 101, the two are viewed pawing at each other’s pelts, faster than the make-out madness of two teenagers on a hormonal high. In laymen’s term’s, she was indeed teaching him or her, “how to Bucky.”
Voyaging U-Dubya students began an impromptu “jump around,” to urge the merge. And the dirt diggers oblige, by accelerating their petting with our very own Bucky providing the rapid, game-day push-ups required for proper propagatory proliferation. Again, a layman clarification: Bucky is making a baby, a genetically-altered mascot, perhaps much different from the one we all know and love. But a quandry has always lurked here on campus: We don’t even know if our very own Bucky is really a buck, now do we? The fans could very well be witnessing a bi-blitz, or a hetero heated rush. However…is this not Madison, the don’t ask, don’t care capital city of the fruited plains. And, do not badgers and gophers dwell on these very plains? Are we not the home of the free and the land of the tolerant? Should we not rejoice in our own diversity? After all, we have welcomed Labradoodles and Yorkie Poos into are midst, yes?
OK, now the tuffy…what to call this newly copulated DNA-mixed, masquerading mascot: Badfer, Gopherbad, Badgopher…no wait…KanGo knows…reciprocity’s, “Rucky Rodent!” Yeah, yeah, you bettcha!
Color me gone,