Name: KanGo, aka "KGV"
Posts by KGV:
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,
KanGo has an idea. He has lots of these before his meds mellow his moods. For perhaps obvious reasons (a very long, hot summer), he has, of late, been fixated with barley-induced blogs. A few days ago, upon reading of a potential new Olympic sport, his fractured front lobe fired up yet more of his infamous wild-mind creates, and yes, beer is again on tap.
The US Pole Dancing Championships (USPDC) recently concluded in NYC and word is spreading among Olympic organizers that this is a sport the whole family can truly enjoy. And…what better way to introduce the next probable Olympic sport than to hold a world champion pole-pouncing exhibition surrounding Munich’s bier gartens in front of six million merrymakers at the 2012 Octoberfest celebration. Beer, babes and brewskis…just ain’t no better way to welcome autumn to the Northern hemisphere.
Just imagine a merrymakin’, rabble-rousin’, man-magnet beer bash…and, a world peace summit of sorts, all under one big circus tent and held up by the world’s sexiest polsters. However, to fully understand the magnitude of such an event, we must journey (once again) in Mr. Peabody’s time-traveling, “Wayback Machine,” to Munich, Germany just prior to this country’s ill-fated and ill-advised attempt at world domination. There are other ways of being supreme you know. The following is a shoulda-woulda-coulda that shoulda:
Dateline: Munich, Germany, October, 1939
KanGo sips suds and engages none other than a Luftwaffe legend and air force Commander-in-Chief, who is being bombarded with bubbly brews by cute blonde-haired, but very hairy-legged, frauleins. Kango asks, “Are you not worried that the Americans entered the war?”
“Naw, you kidding me, all dey can make are razor blades and sign poles.” At that moment, hundreds of B-17 bombers approach overhead, escorted by speedy P-51 Mustangs. Sirens blare! “Oops…I think my goose is cooked; KanGo, can you please help me?” We quickly retreat to the concrete-encased, bomb-bunkered, beer basement and commence our save-the-world slurping conversation.
“Okay, sure, big guy, you don’t have to be Von Braun, your (soon-to-be-our) rocket scientist to figure this out. Just ask any 5th grader. Germany has the best beer and gorgeous, although furry, frauleins; yes, and we, the U.S. of A. and our factories, churn out great quality razor blades and sturdy street-sign poles, no?” I sense I’m divulging my drift…so here we go. Germany just needs to agree to a swap of sorts. We ship da blades and poles, and you guys brew the beer and set up da tents, with our poles firmly embedded. Just think, commander, hundreds of barrels of free-flowing beer, fueling beer-lovin’ boys, while freshly shaven, scantily-clad babes, oozing Irish Spring scent, perform acrobatic spin moves, such as my fave, the upside-down, all American ‘Eagle,’ on each of the tent poles, slathered with pretzel grease.”
Dreams of domination surrender to world peace. Shrieking cat calls drown out the awful oompah music. A voice from behind, coming from a short man, clad in a tacky overly decorated gray uniform and sporting a funny little mustache, salutes us. “SEIG HEIL KANGO (Hail Victory KanGo)!”
“KanGo’s work is done here. Home please, Mr.Peab.”
“Home it is KG, and I took the liberty…the ‘Beatles’ and ‘Beach Boys’ are incoming, airborne over the channel.”
Color me gone,
A Flor-i-duh man recently called 911 when his uncooperative daughter refused his repeated request to get off her dead ass and journey willingly to the local 24-hour quick mart to bag him some badly-needed barley (it is hot down there you know). So…is this too much to ask of this ungrateful sibling that he fathered into this world, fed and clothed, changed her diapes and taught her everything except proper manners? HELL NO!
For God sakes, the Budweiser boys trained their dog to fetch their beer. How hard is it! Come on, do we not have kids not to just keep the family gene pool flourishing but to reduce our chore load considerably? And…is beer not the essence of life itself? Indiana Jones did discover beer recipes in hieroglyphics on the walls near of King Tut’s tomb. Just how good does a cold brewski taste after moving a few giant pyramid blocks in the desert sun? Yeah baby! And did not Hollywood producers find faint traces of beer-brand ads on the sides of ancient carriages during the filming of “Ben Hur”? Perhaps this was the precursor to NASCAR, where barley-saturated fans bet on what color cart would round the last turn first, Jimmie Johnson or Charlie Heston.
Perhaps a short incarceration would re-align this kid’s mannerisms and or or a few hundred hours of community service working as a cart girl at the local public golf course. If these persuasive ploys have no affect, then just unplug the damn computer and she will dart to the mart faster than Bolt boggles the mind in the hundred-meter dash.
And one interesting aspect KanGo uncovered researching for this blog was that Samuel Adams, yes the father of our very own constitution and a master brew master himself expressed dismay in the decision to use “In God We Trust” as America’s official slogan in 1956, overriding his suggestion….”In Barley or Bust.”
Color me thirsty,