Used to be if you were a comic one of the guaran-dam-teed high-larious things you could do was run for president. Pat Paulsen, Lily Tomlin of the “Stop It Party” and Ron Paul have all done it. Now, thanks to Stephen Colbert, you can’t just run for president. No, now you have to have your own money- belching anonymous Super PAC. And me? I’m still trying to figure how to get my Kindle Fire books out of the goddam cloud. Sidebar: never fire up your Kindle Fire lying in bed. It’s like an over the bed porn mirror, not that I know anything about that, the point being, just don’t. But after doing the math on; Mitt Romney’s How Dare That Black Man Be President PAC; Rick Sanscrotum’s No Man on Dog Sex PAC; Jon Huntsman’s It’s My Daddy’s Money PAC; Chuckie Gingrich’s I’ve Changed With Callista PAC; Rick Perry’s I Walk Like This Because of My Penis PAC, I have decided to join them. I like Sarah Palin’s business plan: take the money and don’t run. As always, the big challenge is coming up with a PAC name. Here’s what my crack team of consultants has come up with: Embrace Your Extinction PAC; Just Send Money to Tammy Baldwin PAC; America, We Won’t Be Your Wedge Issue This Time PAC; What is Your Damn Problem With Gay Marriage PAC. My crack team, emphasis on the crack, doesn’t get the brevity soul of wit thing. So I’ve decided to crowd-source, as the kids call it. What shall I call my PAC?

One Saturday afternoon when I was maybe five or six, my Dad was reading the paper and I was watching some grim Dickens-ish movie on little our black and white GE console. A tattered, beaten down family was sent to a huge dark, foreboding end-of-the-line-for-you Debtors Prison. Under the big white wig, the judge who sent them resembled Newt Gingrich. It was an ineffably sad story.

As the credits rolled, I asked my Dad, “But how will they make money in prison?  If they can’t work, how will they ever pay their debts?”  My Dad looked over his paper at me.  Not like I was some junior Josephine Stiglitz.  I don’t think he said anything.  I got what I think was a “you got that right” nod.

This Trumped-up maniacal, medieval drive to reduce deficits by enacting pound-of-flesh, down-to-the-bone austerity measures is creating a worldwide open-air Debtor’s Prison. It is shameful and it is the poor who are shamed.  The age old pre-occupation of punishing the poor for the extra vagrancies of the wealthy is ineffably sad and infuriating. I can’t read Paul Krugman if there are sharp knives present.

The cruel collective debt guilt trip is so chickenshit. If I were in charge I would act boldly. I would declare the collective hunch of the debt crisis over, print more money right now and double down my bets on education, invention, infrastructure, healthcare and peace. Jobs would come.

Basta, no mas, enough!  And viva Elizabeth Warren!

Last Saturday night, the smell of overheating lamination machines wafted from Catholic Church basements in the US, Canada, UK and India.  The next morning, parishioners lucky enough to attend churches not downsized by pedophilia payouts, consulted freshly plasticized pew cards for the new wording of their Mass. Rome had ordered up the change in a move some (me) interpreted as intentionally distracting from larger scandals.  Instead of the familiar version of the 1973 Missal, the Clothmen had mandated language that carefully followed every word of the original Latin text and syntax. Earlier translations had been guided by a more flexible, accessible “dynamic equivalence”.  Rome heard “sin tax” and errant dangling modifiers. The Catholic Church had last rebooted in the 1970s after Vatican II.  Priests known only by the backs of their heads, shadowed faces or felonies turned around and faced the people.  They spoke in English, though sermons in my church, Our Lady of Psychological Warfare, sounded as if they had been translated directly from the Latin with the end of sentences saved for all the verbs.   And the whole rite was set to a hootenanny guitar beat. When I finally understood what was being said, like many others, I left. I have been lapsed a while and some claim my right to complain has expired.  But I am still a recovering Catholic. I still see and feel the deleterious effects on LGBT people of the Church’s virulently unchristian preaching about the abomination of homosexuality. I feel quite comfortable giving some feedback. So CC, you go to all that trouble to change the response from “and also with you,” to “and with your spirit.” That is so last synod.  Why not go right back to the original famous Latin area code, “Et cum spirit 2-2-0”?  Omnius obsoletus est novus again. CC, I predict you are going to have problems with the communion “entering under my roof.” Before the post-Vatican II practice of plopping the host in cupped hand, like it was a Bugle snack, First Communicants lived in terror of getting the host stuck to the roof of their mouths.  I am eternally grateful to Mother Church for the cunning lingual moves I learned to unstick the host, but the roof reference might trigger impure thoughts for many of my generation. Kudos on the re-introduction of “consubstantial”!  Take it from a former high school English teacher: Catholic kids just jumped three points on their language SATS!  Now they can stop turning around home statuary on SAT Saturday mornings or praying to Great St. Joseph of Cupertino, patron saint of exam-taking. The Credo change from the more communal “We believe in one God,” to the more individual, “I believe in one God,” is chilling.  I am well aware we die alone, but before that, in this hyper-capitalized, secularized, atomized mean old world, it is heavenly to have a community of believers in the day-to-day. Though I quibble, I have taken some collateral inspiration from the recent reforms.  Early in my career I spoke in a radical lesbian-feminist language that was baffling to a larger audience.  Then I began to use a more flexible, dynamic language accessible to a straighter audience.  They got lazy. My LGBT audience drifted. I was too accessible. Thanks to you, CC, I have been trying a thicker lesbian accent and making my audiences work a bit harder to get what I’m talking about.  I might throw in a little Latin now too.  Nullum means nullum.  Facio amor non bellum.  Occupius Murus Streetus. Occupius tuus ecclesia. Gratias.

I’ve had a major recurrence of my Bush Tourette Syndrome*. At its peak, it was debilitating. Once when I was screaming at then somehow President George Bush on TV, a friend’s three-year-old, terrified by my outburst and very very bad language, pleaded softly, “Please use your inside voice.” My doctors had warned me of a recurrence. Nevertheless I am shocked by its virulence. It has been flaring up during the World Series, this year between the St. Louis Cardinals and the Texas Rangers. Perhaps my system is predisposed to relapse by the disoriented realization that neither team is the Yankees. Both teams are young, scrappy, never-say-die and fun to watch. It’s not that. It starts whenever the camera flashes on a Texas Ranger warming up in the on-deck circle. Over his right shoulder, slightly obscured by fencing, I spot a catatonically still Laura Bush with a twitching George next to her. Once after some nifty Ranger play the camera caught Bush smirkily high-fiving Ranger owner, Nolan Ryan. Uncontrollable screaming seized me, veins popping out my neck, spittle hitting the flat screen. Spitting is a big part of baseball but since this is a family website, I won’t give you my rant’s full rendition. Here is the gist: Why is George Bush having such a swell life for himself? Why is he not in jail? *In using the descriptive “Bush” I mean no insult to anyone with Tourette syndrome.

My galpal gets the Wall Street Urinal because she likes to know what the capitalists are thinking. I was looking for the WSJ weekly crossword puzzle in case I finished the NYT Sunday puzzle in a timely fashion or by Tuesday. A full-page ad with the word “I-Tomb” caught my eye. The “I” had roots or cracks or varicose veins growing down. The image was a simple elegant upholstered chair, with a white coffee cup on the chair arm, an opened book on the seat, before a window of hazy white light. The text above the fold reads: “Build your Immortality. Life is worth it.” Below the fold in a smaller font: “everyone needs an I-Tomb.” And then: Build your immortality. Say what you have to say. Do not leave unprepared. Let www.i-memorial.com become the fully secure guardian of your lifetime, the best place to leave the trace of your passage on Earth. Join a Human Revolution. Tell the story of those who have left you. Bring your loved ones back, anytime, anywhere, when you want to cherish and remember with www.i-tomb.net, The World Virtual Cemetery. I admit I am frequently late to the e-i-e-i-o-party down on the virtual Farmville. I just got Angry Birds. Did I miss I-Womb? Did you know about this? Have you already written your message on I-Tombs where people can visit to “get to know who you were, what your life story was and what your thoughts of the world were”? Hopefully the visitor is not your long-term i-matey who checks in to see who the hell she was living with all those years. Check it out. Help me out here. Give me a clue.

When some guesthouses in our little resort town have no room left at the inn, instead of hanging a tasteful “No Vacancy” sign, they hang a “Sorry” sign.  Sometimes the ‘sorry’ is in quotation marks. Are they not really sorry? Are they being ironic?  What is the translation for this hospitality term of art? “Sorry you thought you were going to step off the ferry, roll your dear little bag up to our door and get a room.”  “Sorry you thought we would be keeping the light on for you"   “Yeah right - you with your three night stay and parking needs.” Perhaps I’m a little sensitive since being downgraded.  And they can say ‘downgraded’ all they want but personally I feel degraded like some shoddy product.  That S&P thing was like one big ‘he’s-just-not-that-into-you.’  And just when I thought I was done with shame. We’re in a sorry state of affairs.  There’s a big embossed ‘sorry’ sign hung out over the Congressional Inn.  It’s in quotes.  “Sorry you thought we were going to do anything about the environment, education, the poor, healthcare.”   “Sorry you thought we weren’t in it for the money and power.” “Sorry you thought those Boehner tears were real.” Now we who naively hoped that our country was on a different path two years ago, could just bow our heads and hang a ‘sorry’ sign off our neck and get back to Jersey Shore reruns.  Or we could circle George Bush’s Crawford/Dallas spreads and demand he stand trial for war crimes.  We could march on Bank of America.  We could volunteer at a Planned Parenthood Clinic.  We could work for the re-election of those NY Senators who stood for marriage equality, or the re-election of President Obama, even when he’s being too sorry. All over the world, people are rising up, risking their lives, fighting back. What’s your plan to give the right-wing Christo-fascists something to cry about?  What’s your plan to kick some sorry ass?  Let’s make them sorry they were ever re-born.