• The Midnight Strangler (with sincerest apologies to the Rolling Stones)


    You know the song Baby Boomers, sing the lyrics to the tune:

    Did you hear about the Midnight Strangler?
    Ev'ry liberal bitch has got to go
    Did you heard about the Midnight Strangler,
    the one that shut the Supreme Court door?

    He don't give a hoot of warning
    wrapped up in a black cat cloak
    He don't go in the light of the newscasts
    He's sticks past the time the headlines crow

    Talkin' 'bout the Midnight Strangler,
    the one you never seen before
    Talkin' 'bout the midnight mangler
    Did you see him jump the witness stand?
    Roarin' down the blogosphere loudly
    Listen and you hear his legal advisers pand(er)

    Talkin' 'bout the midnight mangler
    Ev'ry liberal bitch has got to go
    Did you hear about the midnight mangler?
    Well, honey, it's no Supreme Court show

    Talkin' 'bout the Midnight Strangler,
    the one you never seen before
    Oh, I'll do that
    Oh, I'll do that
    Oh, I'll do that

    Did you hear about the Midnight Strangler?
    He'll leave his legal opinions up and down your hall
    Did you hear about the Midnight Strangler?
    Did you see me make my committee meeting call

    And if you catch the Midnight Strangler
    I'll steal your headlines from under your nose
    Well, go easy with your open meetings
    I'll stick my precedents right down your throat
    Baby, and it hurts!

    In homage to WI state supreme court justices Bradley and Prosser: grow up, will ya?

    Lenny Palmer 6/29/2011


  • Ask Mrs. Grabowski


    I'm a news junkie. I have to be. I work in talk radio and keeping up with the news is Job One. Especially local news. If listeners feel that I don't know what I'm talking about, or engage in that worst of talk radio sins; boredom, they have the glorious opportunity to turn the dial to one of the other 135 radio stations in my market. That's the beauty of America: you can pick and choose just about anything without some idiot leaning over your shoulder nagging you about your choice.

    The right to choose is under assault right now. You see it in legislative efforts to curtail your rights to smoke in saloons, have a bacon double cheeseburger or maybe a shot and a beer after a hard day's work (for those few of you who are fortunate enough to have a job). A woman in San Francisco is suing MacDonald's for putting toys in Happy Meals, stating that it encourages bad eating habits in children.To protect children from obesity Texas schools have removed flavored milks from their lunch room menus, and everywhere across this great land there are clarion calls to limit your choices. These elite few, whom I have labeled as the "Advocates" control the petty desires of pettyfogging legislators who have no greater ambition than to stay in office. Advocates manipulate the political extremes, and it is the political extremes who are motivated to vote and also to donate generous sums to the campaigns of those Pavlovian dogs who salivate at the thought of money and votes; AKA elected officials. The greater good, the glorious right of personal choice has no place in this incestuous relationship. The people are slowly being left out in the cold, with no way to halt the creeping rape of their personal liberties.

    Like any successful person in my business, I realize my audience is the key to my success. I try to keep things lively and keep them engaged. One of the tools used by those who ply my trade is to having a tiny core of "eclectic" callers who become characters on the show. They enjoy hearing themselves on-air, and we play each other like dueling fiddles. I hang a moniker on them and they respond by justifying the tag with calls that vary between utter lunacy and the inspired. When I am out and about engaged in radio-guy events, I most often hear from other listeners not about my brilliant political screed but instead am questioned about this core of characters who flesh out my show. It keeps the ol' ego deflated and also validates my belief that it is the audience who makes the show as much as the host.

    One of my greatest characters in not a real person, however. She never calls because she is a phantom of my nostalgic remembrances. Mrs. Grabowski; a composite of all those old immigrant ladies in the neighborhood of my early youth. Italians, Poles, Lithuanians, Jews, Blacks from the deep south, Mexicans and hardscrabble whites from Appalachia. They were hard-nosed, common-sensed women who had seen the worst life had to offer and appreciated the few gifts they were given by this great country: a dry roof and warm, dry beds for their children, clean water that ran hot and cold, public schools that actually taught the basics, jobs for their husbands and good food for their families. Simple things we take for granted today, but precious freedoms to those who had been denied access to these most basic of life's wants and needs. You couldn't slide much by these broads. Mrs. Grabowski personifies these tough women. She could smell an Italian kid's b.s. from a mile away, and didn't go running for a cop when the chubby little wop was caught rummaging in her garden, stealing her kohlrabi. She gave him a swat upside the head, grabbed him by the ear and marched him across the street to his grandparent's corner grocery store. Italian gramma and Polish gramma would then engage in a lively immigrant-heavy pidgin English that would result in another swat upside the head, this time by Italian gramma and an order to get to your room post haste. You obeyed because you knew if you didn't there would be further repercussions to your errant behavior: slaps upside the head from the men in the family, and those really hurt. Adults stuck together in those days. They knew they were in charge and accepted the responsibility. They hadn't yet been bifurcated by the screaming mimi Advocates who have gleefully torn the family asunder in modern America.

    Mrs. Grabowski didn't have the ol' college sheepskin. In fact she had the most basic of formal education; maybe a few years of grade school where she learned to read and write in her native tongue before she was integrated in the world of everyday work: cooking, cleaning, making and raising babies. She learned English on her own with the help of  friends and relatives, and integrated herself as best she could  into the customs of her new country. She was tough but loving, uncompromising but still willing to bend when it came to the greater good. Her principles were simple because she had seen deprivation up close and personal and she wanted to protect her children from the horrors she had experienced as a child. She also didn't need bar charts, pie charts, half-truths and pseudo-science to bolster her beliefs, as so many do today. She was brilliant in her simplicity: "You want kolachkis? Eat cabbage roll. Drink milk. Then kolachkis." Or the sage advice: "Go outside. Play. Come back for supper." And of course the fundamental lesson in book learning. "Do homework. You want to be bum all your life?"

    She is now long gone, Mrs. Grabowski. I mourn her, and all those wonderful old ladies from disparate corners of the planet who had gathered in one small neighborhood in a tough American Midwestern factory town and who shared a fundamental philosophy of hard work and minding your own business that translated into success and that most precious of American commodities: personal liberty. They had been denied it in their homeland and they guarded it fiercely in their new land.

    Mrs. G, where are you now? We need you. Desperately.

    Lenny Palmer 6/27/2011


  • A Prime Candidate For A Public Ass-Whipping


    James Richard Verone lost his job as a Coca-Cola truck driver and found himself with a sore back and a limp, working part-time in a convenience store. Then he lost that gig and developed a mysterious "protrusion" on his chest. Jobless and with no immediate prospects for employment he was without any health insurance and reluctant to lean on his family for help, so he did what any red-blooded American would do in his situation: he robbed a bank. Not for the money to pay for his health insurance, but to instead be tossed into the pokey where he could receive free health care at public expense. Prior to his descent into a life of crime, he mailed a note to the local newspaper claiming that by the time they had received the note, he would have robbed a bank.

    How noble! How grand a gesture! How wonderful that he pointed out the plight of so many Americans without access to affordable health care!

    Bullshit. This guy needs a world-class ass-whipping, a good old-fashioned Singapore-style public caning for the way he punked a serious public issue. He's 59 and has a sore back and a limp? Welcome to the world of the senior citizen, asshole. That lump on his chest? What is it? Is it a cancerous tumor, or did he just accidentally swallow his dentures? He broke the fucking law! He robbed a bank! I'm 64 years old, and my back hurts every day of the week, and my knees, and my elbows and my neck and yet I go into work every day and do my job to the best of my ability and do my best to pay my bills and drive a 12 year old heap and and live in a dinky apartment with my 18 year old son and all without whining like a simpering crybaby about my lot in life.

    Hey Jimmy-boy; here's a few words of wisdom for ya: life ain't fair so suck it up, bitch. You handed a hold-up note to a bank teller who got so frightened she had to be taken to the emergency room for observation. You got in front of a sympathetic judge who lowered your bail from 100k to 2k, and because you only asked for a buck in your note you were charged with larceny, not a felony, and then told the judge that if the sentence wasn't long enough for all of your real and imagined maladies to be cured that you'd go out and do it again. Then you expressed your desire to spend a few years in jail at public expense until you were old enough to collect Social Security and live off the public dime on a beach somewhere.

    And to continue your affront to decency you also presented the view that if the United States had a health-care system which offered people more government support, you wouldn't have had to make the choice you did. Guys like you aren't the cure; you're the disease.

    I'll give you some choices asshole: how about getting an education, to start? Maybe if you would have worked hard and gotten the ol' sheepskin you wouldn't have had to haul around Coke bottles all day. My old man worked like a sled dog his entire life, so hard that he needed a spinal disc fusion operation and never once did I hear him bitch and moan about how his condition was the government's fault or responsibility. He only knew he didn't want his children to labor the way he did to make ends meet, so both my mother and he made sure we were literate and educated. Here's another revelation for you: every illegal immigrant who sneaks into this country knows that they can sashay into an emergency room and get gold star health care at the public's expense. It's the law, stupid. Why didn't you use an emergency room, or were you just pulling a politically motivated stunt to get your name in the headlines? I say you were. And you yanked the chains of a lot of gullible people who couldn't see through your charade and clucked their  sympathetic tongues at your horrible plight.

    Well you'll get no sympathy from me, but if I were your judge I'd grant you one of your requests, asshat. You expressed a desire to spend a few years in the comfort and security of jail until you became old enough to collect Social Security and live on a beach? I'd give you that: as Bubba's prison biatch, where you'd spend the rest of your sorry-ass life guarding your posterior every time you dropped the soap, you jerk.

    Lenny Palmer 6/22/2011


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