The “Man-i-fication” of Marco

OMG … It’s “Bootgahzi.”  Marco’s cheesy $139 slick Florshiem ankle boots sparked a media frenzy over this smooth talking sleek walking South Beach presidential candidate.

Party insiders cringed.

It was as if Marco had strolled into his beloved Miami Dolphins’ locker room sporting a furry pink jockstrap and shouted, “Are you ready for some football?”

An even bloodier scenario emerged courtesy of fellow candidate Chris Christie:  Hillary’s soft manicured left hand rests on Marco’s choirboy head while her wolverine clawed right hand rips his heart out.

Marco’s campaign team, completely terrified by his shrinking prospects, immediately huddled-up to “Manify Marco!”


First – Arm SOFLA’s Latin Lover.  On Xmas Eve Marco bought a handgun, according to him, to fight against ISIS.  Check – Gun lover!

Second – Get Marco some “football chops.”  Photos and video of Marco flipping a football.  He’s already married to an ex-Miami Dolphin cheerleader.  Check – Football chops!

Third – Show Marco delivering “red meat” to the GOP base.  He’s promised that all Terrorists “will get a one way ticket to Gitmo” and he plans to “get them to tell us everything they know.”  Break out the buckets and dust off the waterboards!  Check – Red meat!

But what about the machismo “Celeb Endorsements?”

Ted Cruz hammered Marco when he beat him to the premier Duck Dynasty endorser, Duck patriarch, Phil Robertson.

Taking Cruz’s endorsement challenge, The Donald plunged feet first into the celebrity pool and surfaced with Mama Grizzly Palin on one arm and Duck Dynasty’s CEO Willie Robertson, son of Phil, on the other.

Not to be left sucking testosterone fumes, rumors have Marco’s people blitzing Clint Eastwood for another go-round with Mitt Romney’s empty chair!

Terrified GOP leaders are panicked there’s no “Establishment” backup for Marco.

JEB!’s sidelined.  Been out of the game so long he’s calcified.  Christie’s only shot is to lure Hillary into a winner-take-all Summo wrestling match.  Fat chance of that happening!

So the GOP’s last best hope is to “Make a Man outta Marco,” which by the way is their 2016 bumper sticker.  Their campaign’s “fight song?”  You guessed it, “Macho, Macho Man!”

Just to be safe, Marco might want to get some “tatts, too!”  Body ink oozes manly!

Just sayin.

Trump RBF Walls!

I’ve got it!  I’ve got it!  Can you see my hand raised and waving?

I’ve got the answer …  I know why Trump’s in the GOP primary campaign.

He’s a business man – Real Estate and construction.  He acquires land, negotiates and builds.

The last thing he wants is to get stuck in the muck trying to build a Congress or a country.

So here’s what Trump really wants to do.

Trump’s using his GOP campaign to launch his “huuuygest” startup ever … TRUMP RBF WALLS!  That’s Really Big F**king Walls!


Trump’s stolen Jeb’s exclamation mark for his TRUMP RBF WALLS! logo.

He’s compared his Mexico RBF Wall! to the Great Wall of China.  By stating that the Mexican government will “pay for his RBF Wall!,” Trump’s already started negotiating with Mexico, whether they know it or not.  And to build up demand, he’s scared the beejeezus out of everyone he talks to.

Why do you think he wants to deport undocumenteds?

Why do you think he wants to completely halt immigration?

Easy … if you keep ‘em out or get rid of ‘em, you’ll need a TRUMP RBF WALL! to make sure they stay out.

Wherever Trump can successfully foment hostility and stoke fear, something he is both “fantastic” and “tremendous” at, he creates a “really huuuge” market!

A TRUMP RBF WALL! will be waaaaay more prestigious than Trump Towers.

Every Middle Eastern country, tribe and/or sultanate will ask Trump to build a TRUMP RBF WALL!

The EU will probably pay for a TRUMP RBF WALL! to make sure those lazy corrupt Greeks can’t escape their bankrupt country.

Because he “adores women,” he might even ask Sarah Palin, who can see Russia from everywhere, to be the promo-queen for the Bearing Straits TRUMP RBF WALL!

Hungary desperately needed a TRUMP RBF WALL! when Syrian refugees literally walked across borders seeking safety.  Hastily erected chain link fences proved to be no substitute.

If we can piss-off the Canadians, what a godsend for a TRUMP RBF WALL!

Hell, maybe even Key West will resurrect their “Conch Republic” cessation movement with a TRUMP RBF WALL! separating the Keys from the mainland.

The man should stick with what he does best … self promotion and construction.  He’d make an RBF President … That’s a Really Bad F**king President!

Just sayin’.

Obama’s Kitchen Aid

If you’re pissed about “Obama Care,” wait until you read this.

Not only is President Obama meddling with our hospitals, doctor’s offices, insurance companies and personal birth control, he’s also cavorting in our kitchens with Betty Crocker and Aunt Jemima.

Now he’s had the audacity to demand that the manufacturers of our Mix Masters, Keurigs, VitaMixes and all other appliances re-engineer them so they will no longer be the watt-guzzling budget suckers of American households.

Before you say, “So what?” listen to this:  these sweeping changes could save consumers, that’s us, over 14 billion dollars in 2016, and 100s of billions by 2030.

Yes, that’s “billion” with a “B.”  Wow, how’d this happen?


Before you get too carried away, this isn’t the result of a suddenly cooperative Congress in a hand-holding Kumbaya group hug moment with our President.  These changes have been creeping into our kitchens since 2009 as a result of “dreaded presidential executive orders.”

Yep, as in Obama the Emperor, the Dictator, the Over-Reacher.

Why isn’t the GOP screaming about abuse of power, job killing and too much government interference when the President’s in our kitchens?

Maybe it’s because he hasn’t tried to make us go through a background check before we purchase our Amana freezers or register our deadly central A/C units and convection ovens.

Or possibly it’s because there isn’t a black market for illegal sales of stolen washers, electric carving knives and steam irons.  And I’m not aware of anyone killed by a radio … except in old Alfred Hitchcock movies involving a bubble bath murder scene where the radio is tossed in the tub.  ZZZZZT!

Where are the threats to “take the President to court?”

I can see Scalia giggling as he pounds his key board issuing his scathing dissent on the cultural dangers of energy efficient bagel toasters backed up by Thomas’ rant over Bosch dishwashers’ low energy utilization.

God forbid the “gub-mint” helps the little guy … the middle class … the poor person paying ever increasing utility bills.  So let’s hear it for the “Chef-in-Chief of America’s Kitchens.”

Hip-hip-hooray – hip-hip … wait a minute is that the voice of dissent I hear in the kitchen wilderness of America?

Oh … the Association of Home Appliance Manufacturers thinks these changes are coming too fast which could result in the industry turning out shoddy appliances?

What?  Don’t they mean shoddi-er?  They think we still manufacture shit here?  No way!

Just sayin’.

I Resolve

It’s New Year’s Eve 3:50 PM.

I just finished my last session of this year and resume again on January second of next year.  In our last session, my shrink and I talked about my New Year’s resolutions.

I think a lot about my resolutions.  I want resolutions I can keep.  You know – practical achievable goals.  I want to do what my shrink advises.  He told me:

Jason, you need successes, not failures.  Given your demeanor, I suggest you make resolutions that are manageable.  Don’t set yourself up for more failure. Your path to success must be walked one step at a time.  It’s a long path.

He said that to me at 3:20 PM during my last session.  I sat there looking at him then at the floor, alternating back-and-forth.  The remaining thirty minutes of our fifty minute session passed in silence.

I think that’s a rip-off.  After he makes one of his pronouncements or asks a question, if I don’t respond, he just sits there.  With that look.

You know, the look – the Jason, it’s your turn now look.

And there’s that thing he does with his fingers.  When he clams up after one of his smirky statements, he clasps his fingers together like we used to do when we were seven years old.  He makes that little steeple thing.  Like he’s some kind of religious church praying guy.  As he waits, he tips his finger-steeple toward his purplely lips touching the tip of his hairy nostrils.

I wonder if he knows I can see the nose hairs that grow from his nose like the Jack-in-the-beanstalk vine. What a rip-off.

Here’s another thing I hate about this guy.  I don’t get a full sixty minutes.  A full hour for the outrageous fee he charges me.  I’ve done this every other day for sixteen years and his price has gone up almost every year since I started.

So, we sit and stare.

The guy’s amazing.  It’s like he doesn’t even breathe.  We look at each other.

I’m always the first to blink.

Then I squirm a little.

Squeeze and release my butt cheeks rapidly to get some feeling back in them.  My fat ass aches and burns –   feels like it’s glued to the wooden seat of the chair.

Why don’t I ever choose the couch?  At least I’d be comfortable while my fifty minutes pass.

I look at him and I realize that in sixteen years he hasn’t aged a day.

I hear the “ping-ping” of his fifteen thousand dollar Tag Heuer.  He drops his hands, clears his throat, and closes his notebook.  It’s his sign that our session’s over.  I wish I could say, “Thanks, doc. I feel a lot better after our little talks.”

But I can’t and don’t.  I get up, walk out the door.

Later in the privacy of my bacon cheeseburger and Cheetos reeking studio hovel, I write out my resolutions.

Next year I, Jason Mariana, resolve to:

Not slit my shrink’s throat.

Cut down on the number of times I use my favorite expletive – instead of totally dropping it from my favorite’s list.  You know, quit blurting it out like I’m a Tourettes’ sufferer.

Lose only twenty pounds, instead of the sixty I need to lose.

Once a week, instead of every day, call my mom and listen to her whine over the phone about how life has screwed her.

This shouldn’t be too hard.  I can keep these.  Practical and manageable just like “Dr. Fruedin-schtein,” that’s what I call him, advises.  He’ll be happy, too.  We’re meeting tomorrow afternoon at two PM.

It’s 2:08 and I’ve just finished reading my New Year’s Resolutions.

The doc’s expression doesn’t change as he looks at me and asks, “Do you actually think you can keep these resolutions?  I must say, Jason, I’m surprised at the first one.  Do I detect a trace of hostility with regard to your first resolution?  We work hard to keep your hostility in check, Jason – in control.  Yes, I’m surprised.”

It’s 2:15 and now I’m standing here with blood on my hands.  Fruedin-schtein’s flat on his back on his precious Karistan – twitching, bleeding out.  Throat slit from ear to ear.  I’d have to say that he did have a look of surprise on his face.

Fuck.  Guess since I’ve already fucking blown number one on my fucking list, I really fucking don’t have to fucking worry about how many fucking times I use my favorite fucking expletive this fucking year.

I dial mom for the second time today.

As her phone rings I mutter, “Fuck the twenty pounds, and empty the Hershey’s Kisses from the dish on Fruedin-schtein’s desk into my jacket pocket.

As I open the office door I look down at him.  He really hasn’t aged a day.

Until now.

My Resolution Free Zone

For years I stood in front of the guillotine of New Year’s Resolutions before I finally learned that the primary purpose of resolutions is to make you feel guiltier than sneak-gulping Krispy Kremes in your closet at midnight.

Show me a resolution and I’ll show you a long-faced person feeling the full weight of disgust, disappointment and self-loathing, who two or three weeks earlier uttered, “I resolve to ….”

That’s why I’ve decided to surround myself, wherever I am, in a Resolution Free Zone.  A no anxiety bubble.  A zone where the air is pure, the breezes soft, the emotions mellow … and I’m not stoned.

I’ll be hogtied and dragged across the prairie before I make another New Year’s Resolution.


I hereby resolve that I will not resolve to:  lose any weight, drink less, start smoking, stop driving over 25 mph in a 25 mph zone, start shaving every day, stop belching and/or farting, read that book I couldn’t finish which everyone else has read, stop craving a bacon cheese burger slathered in mayo with a cold beer and French fries, hot-hot from the deep fryer.

I won’t break the habit of deriding myself with diabolical and vulgar names when I do the next and next and next stupid thing(s) in my life.

I won’t resolve that I’ll remember your birthday unless it’s in my E-Card file with automatic reminders, and I happen to look at that email before your birthday.  Face Book has saved me from a lot of near misses in 2015, but there’s a distinct chance of a miss in 2016.

I further do not resolve to keep a running tally of any of my non-resolutions that I have either broken or maintained beyond next week.

Actually, I wonder if I keep a non-resolution does it create a “backdoor resolution,” and therefore, by resolving to not keep any resolutions I’m making resolutions?

No wonder I feel guilty.  It’s reported that 88 per cent of Americans still make resolutions in spite of the fact that they only have a 20 per cent success rate at keeping their resolutions.

Twenty per cent?  No effing way.  You gotta be kidding me.

Sounds like a lot of face-saving delusional self-reporting to me.

Just sayin’.


For a short but decidedly not sweet fictional take on the dangers of New Year’s Resolutions, check out my story, “I Resolve” by clicking on Flash Fiction in the menu.