What Would Kinky Do?: How to Unscrew a Screwed-Up World Read Online Free
Author: Kinky Friedman
Tags: Humor, General, Political, Essay/s, Topic, Form, Literary Collections, American wit and humor
write this, 1.2 million black Christian and Muslim Sudanese are starving to death, thanks to the Arab government in Khartoum and the worldwide mafia of France, Germany, China, Russia, and practically every Islamic country on the face of the earth. What happened to the little boy who cried when Adlai Stevenson lost? He died in Darfur.
"I don't know what happened," I said. "But as Joseph Heller once wrote, 'Something happened.'"
"You'll be back," said Kerry. "You'll be back."
He was telling me about his new health plan and how the economy was losing jobs when I heard a beeping sound on the blower and realized I had incoming wounded.
"Hold the weddin', John," I said. Then I pushed the call-waiting button.
"Start talkin'," I said.
"Hey, Kinkster!" said a familiar voice, this time with a big, friendly Texas drawl. "It's George W. How're things goin' at the ranch?"
"Fair to Midland, George," I said. "John Kerry's on the other line telling me about his new health plan. What's your health plan?"
"Don't get sick," said George with his own practiced, good-natured chuckle.
"He also told me the economy is losing jobs."
"What do you care, Kink? You told me you never had a job in your life."
"That's not true," I said. "I used to write a column for Texas Monthly, but it got outsourced to Pakistan."
"Kink, the economy's doin' fine. The country's turnin' the corner. We even have bin Laden in custody."
"I remember you told me that. Where is he now?"
"Time-share condominium in Port Aransas. His time's gonna run out two weeks before the election."
I chatted with George a while longer, then finished up with John. I had just returned to my chair and unmuted Fox News when the phone rang again. I power-walked into the office and picked up the blower.
"Start talkin'," I said.
"Kinky, it's Bill Clinton. How's it hangin', brother?"
"Okay, Bill. I just talked to George Bush and John Kerry on the phone."
"Skull and Bones! Skull and Bones! Tyin' up the telephones!" he chanted. "Hell, I still think about that night in Australia when you and me and Will Smith all went to that Maynard Ferguson concert. Too bad Will didn't bring his wife, wasn't it? Man, that was a party!"
I remembered that night, too. Millions of people undoubtedly love Bill Clinton, but I've always believed he has few real friends. That night he and I had talked about the recent death of one of his very closest, Buddy the dog. Like they say, if you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.
"Hey, Kink. There's a big ol' white pigeon sittin' on my windowsill here at my office in Harlem. Do you recall once asking me why there were white pigeons in Hawaii and dark pigeons in New York?"
"Sure. And you answered, 'Because God seeks balance in all things.'"
"That's right. Hell, I always wanted to be a black Baptist preacher when I grew up."
"Be careful what you wish for."
"Imagine, a white pigeon right in the middle of Harlem. If the whole world could see that, what do you reckon they'd say?"
"There goes the neighborhood?"
There followed the raw, real laughter of a lonely man who'd flown a little too close to the sun.
"Just remember, Kink," said Bill. "Two big bestselling authors like us got to stick together. Those other guys? Hell, they're only runnin' for president."
EPILOGUE
n January 4, 1993, the cat in this book and the books that preceded it was put to sleep in Kerrville, Texas, by Dr. W. H. Hoegemeyer and myself. Cuddles was fourteen years old, a respectable age. She was as close to me as any human being I have ever known.
Cuddles and I spent many years together, both in New York, where I first found her as a little kitten on the street in Chinatown, and later on the ranch in Texas. She was always with me, on the table, on the bed, by the fireplace, beside the typewriter, on top of my suitcase when I returned from a trip.
I dug Cuddles' grave with a silver spade, in the little garden by the stream behind the old green trailer where both of us lived in the
"I don't know what happened," I said. "But as Joseph Heller once wrote, 'Something happened.'"
"You'll be back," said Kerry. "You'll be back."
He was telling me about his new health plan and how the economy was losing jobs when I heard a beeping sound on the blower and realized I had incoming wounded.
"Hold the weddin', John," I said. Then I pushed the call-waiting button.
"Start talkin'," I said.
"Hey, Kinkster!" said a familiar voice, this time with a big, friendly Texas drawl. "It's George W. How're things goin' at the ranch?"
"Fair to Midland, George," I said. "John Kerry's on the other line telling me about his new health plan. What's your health plan?"
"Don't get sick," said George with his own practiced, good-natured chuckle.
"He also told me the economy is losing jobs."
"What do you care, Kink? You told me you never had a job in your life."
"That's not true," I said. "I used to write a column for Texas Monthly, but it got outsourced to Pakistan."
"Kink, the economy's doin' fine. The country's turnin' the corner. We even have bin Laden in custody."
"I remember you told me that. Where is he now?"
"Time-share condominium in Port Aransas. His time's gonna run out two weeks before the election."
I chatted with George a while longer, then finished up with John. I had just returned to my chair and unmuted Fox News when the phone rang again. I power-walked into the office and picked up the blower.
"Start talkin'," I said.
"Kinky, it's Bill Clinton. How's it hangin', brother?"
"Okay, Bill. I just talked to George Bush and John Kerry on the phone."
"Skull and Bones! Skull and Bones! Tyin' up the telephones!" he chanted. "Hell, I still think about that night in Australia when you and me and Will Smith all went to that Maynard Ferguson concert. Too bad Will didn't bring his wife, wasn't it? Man, that was a party!"
I remembered that night, too. Millions of people undoubtedly love Bill Clinton, but I've always believed he has few real friends. That night he and I had talked about the recent death of one of his very closest, Buddy the dog. Like they say, if you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.
"Hey, Kink. There's a big ol' white pigeon sittin' on my windowsill here at my office in Harlem. Do you recall once asking me why there were white pigeons in Hawaii and dark pigeons in New York?"
"Sure. And you answered, 'Because God seeks balance in all things.'"
"That's right. Hell, I always wanted to be a black Baptist preacher when I grew up."
"Be careful what you wish for."
"Imagine, a white pigeon right in the middle of Harlem. If the whole world could see that, what do you reckon they'd say?"
"There goes the neighborhood?"
There followed the raw, real laughter of a lonely man who'd flown a little too close to the sun.
"Just remember, Kink," said Bill. "Two big bestselling authors like us got to stick together. Those other guys? Hell, they're only runnin' for president."
EPILOGUE
n January 4, 1993, the cat in this book and the books that preceded it was put to sleep in Kerrville, Texas, by Dr. W. H. Hoegemeyer and myself. Cuddles was fourteen years old, a respectable age. She was as close to me as any human being I have ever known.
Cuddles and I spent many years together, both in New York, where I first found her as a little kitten on the street in Chinatown, and later on the ranch in Texas. She was always with me, on the table, on the bed, by the fireplace, beside the typewriter, on top of my suitcase when I returned from a trip.
I dug Cuddles' grave with a silver spade, in the little garden by the stream behind the old green trailer where both of us lived in the
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