A tribute to Howard Hursey
The Unknown Writer
Mr. Hursey is due his due. Here it is. (NO FREAKIN' CRITIQUE IS
NECESSARY)
MISTER SLOGAN
By the unknown writer
The sexual life of the camel
is stranger than anyone thinks.
At the height of the mating season
he's been known to bugger the Sphinx.
But the Sphinx's posterior passage
is blocked by the sands of the Nile.
which accounts for the hump on the camel
and the Sphinx's inscrutable smile.
With the final point of punctuation placed at the end of the last
sentence, Howard Hursey smiled at the eight lines of poetry in his
typewriter and exhaled a proud sigh of relief. For of all the great works
of genius he had purloined over the years, this was no doubt his greatest
act of plagiarism.
Oh, sure, he had enjoyed success with his risqué satires *WHITE MEN CAN'T
HUMP* and *BONFIRE OF THE PANTIES*, but they were child’s play. And it was
also he who had first cleverly dubbed CNN "The Controlled News
Network"--much to the chagrin of his fellow democrats who hoped to keep
that fact a secret.
But this was the first thing he had stolen in his entire life that
actually had pacing; and it rhymed besides. His wife would be so proud.
--What woman in her right mind would not be.
Of course, there had been some failures--near misses, he preferred to call
them: CLINTON/GORE IN '94 was one of them. Too bad the election was held
in ‘92. (It had been a replacement for his likewise untimely HUG A TREE IN
'93, which would have been a big vote getter for the future Vice-President.
Also a bust)
Could he help it if nothing seemed to rhyme with '92.
*Dear God, is it fair for one man to be endowed with such talent while the
rest of the world still scratches in the sand with a stick*, he wondered?
That cerebral contemplation had always gone unanswered--and well it
should. For must God be forced to admit His own shortcomings? No, of
course not. This unGodlike quality in the Creator, decided Howard, would
remain a secret just between the All mighty and himself.
He doused the office light and closed the door behind him as he left.
Beneath his arm was a folio of new orders from people of means who had
recognized his talent and wanted to engage his wit and wisdom toward the
furtherance of their causes.
MR. SLOGAN, he was called.
Anchorman Peter Jennings wanted a slogan that would epitomize his style.
Howard had quickly brought one up from his storehouse of genius: *ALL THE
NEWS THAT FITS OUR VIEWS*.
Jennings loved it.
That solitary line alone had brought Jennings up two points in the
ratings.
Howard Hursey boarded the elevator and contemplated the other requests he
had beneath his arm. He frowned slightly when his thoughts settled on one
from the powerful Gun Control Commission of Greater D.C. This was going to
be a toughie.
A staunch Democrat himself, Howard felt a dedicated adherence to the
utopian, politically correct mandates that emanated from the leadership of
modern liberalism.
However, he did own a gun--a semi-automatic Glock. As with most members
of the party of FDR, he felt the laws were not written for him. After all,
he knew how to handle a gun; therefore, there was no need to give up his.
Let the other do-gooder idiots go around unarmed if they wanted to.
Himself, he intended to stay alive by keeping his and denying them to the
other less capable citizens. --Especially those that might rob him and
steal his Rolex.
After all, if Loraine Bobbit had used a gun instead of a knife, he
wouldn't have gotten that bonus for his great line: GUNS ARE GREAT--EVEN
JOHN BOBBIT has A SMALL *PIECE*.
True, only military veterans were able to catch the play on words--that of
using the jargon word "piece" for weapon--so he had come up with a second
one to aid the neophyte: JOHN BE NIMBLE JOHN BE *QUICK*. JOHN JUMP UP AND
FIND YOUR P...PIECE.
He was sure the sharp minded could figure out the clever hidden clue.
However, he was proved wrong when he discovered that the editors had no
knowledge of firearm nomenclature; and seeing that the versed did not
rhyme, they changed the entire wording to read: *JOHN BE CLEVER JOHN BE
SMART. JOHN JUMP UP AND FIND YOUR PART*.
Even though it lost a lot in translation, everyone thought it was
hilarious. --Except for the Knife Lobby from Little Rock which threatened
to sue the newspaper
.
But his gun sympathies notwithstanding, he was determined to write a good
slogan for his client--something to really express what the anti-gun lobby
was trying to say. Although nothing he had put down the last few days
seemed to fit.
His first slogan, *GUNS AND GASOLINE DON'T MIX*, didn't cut it, he knew
it. So, he had tried *GUNS AND CONDOMS DON”T MIX*. Also a loser. Then
came the third bomb *GUNSHOT CAUSES CARDIAC ARREST*.
But then, just when he had decided to throw in the towel, the slogan of
the century had popped into his mind:
*SHIT HAPPENS--because you own a gun*
* * *
It was two days before the November ‘94 mid-term elections. Things were
not looking good for Democrat incumbents, and the ad agency where Howard
worked was teeming with activity.
Howard had spent the last three days and nights slumped behind his desk
working on ideas that could turn this campaign around. His wife had come
to the office daily with a clean shirt and underwear; and he had managed to
survive on Pizza and coffee and an occasional cat nap between being shaken
to consciousness by his slave-driving boss with orders to "Snap to". God,
would this campaign never end.
Former Republican Senator Barry Goldwater--the aging turncoat now
languishing in the guarded custody of his younger liberal wife--had given a
national address on TV urging conservative Republicans to eschew their
former errant ways and follow him to the polling booth for fellow
Democrats.
Upon finishing his speech, the senile octogenarian's young wife smiled at
the camera and gave a victorious thumbs-up as she shepherded her dawdling
husband to Exit Stage *Left*.
"We need a slogan," Howard’s boss had said that morning in the writers’
meeting. "Something to capture the American spirit and vault the Democratic
Party to victory."
He turned to Howard. "What do you have up that sleeve of yours, Howard, my
man? Give us something hot that will blow the lid off this thing."
But Howard had not slept in three days. His thinking box was shut tighter
than Mother Theresa’s cunny. Nothing he had written would blow the hat off
a bald man's head.
"I can't think, Boss. I need rest. Everything in my head is all mixed
up. I don’t know the good guys from the bad."
"No time to rest now," said the boss. "I want you to sit down in that
corner and come up with some gems. That's what we're paying you for. Now
hop to it, boy. The future of the Party depends on it."
Howard squirmed to stay awake and tried to settle the myriad of pictures
going through his mind. Oh, what he wouldn't give for a nice soft cot to
lie on and a pillow to cushion his head.
"Come on, Hursey. Stop stalling," shouted the boss just as Howard was
nodding off. "Get that brain of yours in gear. You're the one they call
Mister Slogan. Don't tell me you've been digging your work out of Geno’s
trash baskets all these years. If you don't come up with an idea--and
fast--you're gonna find yourself downstairs writing copy for cereal boxes."
Copy for cereal boxes, thought Howard Hursey. Is this what it has come
to? Would they really sell me down the river at a time when I'm too tired
to remember my own name? Would they really can me after all that I've done
for them?
You bet they would. I'm just grist for the mill.
And suddenly Howard Hursey, Mister Slogan, saw the light. This was, after
all, politics. And Politics is a dirty nasty game. With politics it's
sink or swim, every man for himself and let the big dogs eat the pups.
They want slogans? Okay, I'll give them slogans. *FUCK THE BIG ONES AND
DIP THE LITTLE ONES IN SHIT*! Howzat?!
He was mad as hell, and he wasn’t going to take it anymore.
* * *
It was 7:10 the next morning when a clean shaven Howard
Hursey stood before the live TV camera on *Good Morning America* to unveil
his latest battery of campaign slogans.
This was what Democrats had been holding their breath for--for this would
seal the Republicans' fate in tomorrow's election.
Howard's boss had worked until after midnight before finally knocking off
for the day--leaving him by himself to draft his masterpieces. No one had
seen them. No one had even been given a hint of what they were--until this
moment of truth.
The show’s host knew this. He was, after all, a Democrat himself, and he
could hardly wait to get the scoop.
"And what do you have for us, Mister Slogan?" He asked with a smug smirk.
Howard returned the smirk and flipped the cover from his prizes.
“Here they are,” he said:
*GOLDWATER IS PUSSYWHIPPED*, the first one blared in six-inch red and
white letters.
*TED CAN'T SPELL CHAPPAQUIDDICK EVEN WHEN HE'S SOBER*, said the second.
*OLLIE NORTH’S MAMA CAN WHIP PATSY SCHROEDER’S DADDY*, said the third.
*BOB DOLE CAN DO IT WITH ONE (good) ARM TIED BEHIND HIS BACK, said the
fourth.
And for the grand finale:
*PAULA SAYS BILL IS CUT ON A liberal BIAS*.
Ende
Howard Hursey
"The Unknown Writer" <int...@worldnet.att.net> wrote:
>Mr. Hursey is due his due. Here it is. (NO FREAKIN' CRITIQUE IS
>NECESSARY)
>
>
>MISTER SLOGAN
>By the unknown writer
>
>
>The sexual life of the camel
> is stranger than anyone thinks.
>At the height of the mating season
> he's been known to bugger the Sphinx.
>But the Sphinx's posterior passage
> is blocked by the sands of the Nile.
>which accounts for the hump on the camel
> and the Sphinx's inscrutable smile.
>
> With the final point of punctuation placed at the end of the last
>sentence, Howard Hursey smiled at the eight lines of poetry in his
>typewriter and exhaled a proud sigh of relief. For of all the great works
>of genius he had purloined over the years, this was no doubt his greatest
>act of plagiarism.
>
[snip]
>
>
>
>Ende
>
NEWS ITEM:
Celebrated slogan writer, Howard Hursey, is being held by police
following a Hemingwayesque attempt to end his life. Sources close to
his cats say that the writer, while attempting to clean his
Chinese-made semi-automatic SKS carbine assault rifle, fired four
banana clips of 7.62 mm rounds at his head, missing each time.
After depleting available ammunition, the writer jumped from his
office window to the hard ground below -- a distance of 18 inches --
several times.
Next, he turned on the oven and stuck his head in it, hoping to
suffocate. Unfortunately it was an electric oven and the writer
simply sustained burns on his nose.
Overcome by his failure, he dialed 911 and turned himself in.
Authorities say that Mr. Hursey will be fined $200 and released with
several live grenades.
Darrow
The Unknown Writer wrote:
>MISTER SLOGAN
>By the unknown writer
James Carville, eat Mr. G. Unknown's dust!
Darrow