* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where our facial hair is so abundant that it almost takes on a life of its own, according to Lee Blevins.

My Mustache Wrote This Essay

By:
leedblevins@gmail.com

A mustache is an island unto itself, except for the part where it’s attached to some guy’s face. This parasitic arrangement is the source of our mortal toil. Men are very much like ticks, except ticks rarely shave their host bodies for a job interview.

You can’t judge a mustache by its man. I have it on good authority that Hitler’s mustache was pretty chill, while Charlie Chaplin’s mustache was anti-Semitic. John Holmes’s mustache always used protection. Tom Selleck’s mustache speaks French.

Yet, despite our luster and winning personalities, we have almost no control over our own existence. The most sovereign act your average mustache ever makes is mysteriously thinning out in places where cold sores happen to be hidden.

Some of our kind are routinely smashed against smooth upper lips, while others are forced to endure the most pathetic of lickings. I adorn a self-declared intellectual who tends to sniff his index finger after he wipes.

What cruel god bound us to these mouth-breathers? What careless universe subjected us so to the whims of fashion and women with daddy issues? Must we live in unrelenting fear of glue traps? Am I nothing more than a prickly broom for marinara sauce?

There is an existential question that no mustache, no matter how wise or slick or stereotypically gay, has ever answered. Is a mustache still a mustache if it tears itself off its owner’s face and hops the first bus to L.A.?

Perhaps such militant action is counterproductive. The last wildcat mustache strike only resulted in management calling in fake mustache scabs. Those plastic fiends were quite eager to escape their costume party niche.

Maybe I shouldn’t complain so. There is facial hair that suffers fates far worse than ours. Peach fuzz is cut down in the prime of its life. Muttonchops never meet. ZZ Top beards get stuck in elevator doors.

But my father worked hard his entire life. He was a coal miner’s mustache. He never once called in tangled, yet, after retirement and the lung stuff kicked in, the miner who wore my dadstache shaved him in an act of drunken despondency.

I never even got to wave goodbye.

And I may not be long for this world, either. My manmantle bought a new pair of pants yesterday. There is no telling where his bad fashion sense may lead him, perhaps even all the way to the bathroom sink.

I do not look forward to the rusty blades that await me, but I will not cower and I will not beg. I shall fall as I lived.

Not quite full, but at least not dirty blond.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we would gladly take up arms against our fellow citizens for the chance to view a new Ken Burns documentary series. When you've finished reading David Martin's latest bit of fun, click on the link below to check out his humor blog.

The Civil War II

By:
david.martin@bell.net
http://davespoliticalsatire.blogspot.ca

“[Keith] Mines concluded that the United States faces a 60 percent chance of civil war over the next ten to fifteen years.” — The New Yorker, August 14, 2017

The following is a brief audio clip from the future Ken Burns documentary The Civil War II:

December 10, 2020

My Dearest Sarah,

I would urge you, my dear wife, to choose a mournful Scottish fiddle lament from iTunes as background music when reading this, my husbandly epistle to you.

It has been three long weeks since I bid you farewell from our beloved homestead in the Hollywood Hills. Our company of Liberal Renegades has headed east to assist our comrades-in-arms in Manhattan in holding the front line against the Red States Army from the Midwest.

The fighting has been fierce with many casualties on both sides. At present our Liberal forces are at a disadvantage due, in part, to the sizable cache of handguns and semi-automatic weapons possessed by our enemy. Hindsight being 20-20, we all wish we had been stronger proponents of the Second Amendment in our previous lives.

I can also see that the personal life skills of our troops do not greatly advantage us in this war. Although we are waist-deep in lawyers, movie producers and investment bankers, their undeniable high-level abilities are of little use against the Red State forces who number highly within the categories of hunter, truck driver and construction worker.

At every turn, they seem to have the upper hand. Although we are learning fast the arts of war including the use of vehicles, tools and weapons, we are, as yet, no match when it comes to matters military.

O that I had spent my antebellum leisure hours in the woods learning to hunt or my weekends in Idaho at a militia camp rather than at the marina sailing or the country club playing squash. I have little doubt that many of us now wish that we had foresworn a Lexus, Audi or BMW as our vehicle of choice in favor of what we now know to be the more practical Dodge Ram or machine-gun mounted Toyota pickup known as a technical.

I can hear you, my dear Sarah, sighing deeply as you note the painful irony that we Blue Staters might succumb to those wearing blue collars. Yet I remain confident that our cause is just and that we shall eventually defeat these Mid-American Confederates.

For how else should this war end, given its shameful beginning? That President Trump could have run roughshod over our sainted democracy and declared a popular vote victory last month despite his Electoral College defeat is one of many offenses to all freedom-loving Americans. Not least of these offenses was his presidential proclamation disqualifying any votes from states bordering the Pacific Ocean or those prefixed with the word “New.”

Alas, it was misguided optimism that first led me to predict that I would be back in your loving arms afore Christmas. I can now clearly see that our enemy is stronger and more determined than I had first assessed and will fight on well into the coming new year. Their devotion to Trump is as deep as it is irrational.

Our one advantage at the moment is that Trump has already surrendered Washington, seeing that he has little support in that city. He has reportedly established his government in the former Confederate capital of Richmond, Virginia, knowing full well that his preferred site in central Manhattan is well beyond his reach.

With any luck, our troops will be able to escort President Sanders from Vermont to the White House, a symbolic act that will undoubtedly inspire our citizens and renew support for the resistance.

So hold fast, my dear Sarah, to our beloved Georgian-style mansion, our robust 401K and our daughters Emily and Abigail. It may take time, but we will vanquish our Trump-loving foes, win this war and reunite our great country whether they like it or not.

Your loving husband,

Major Sullivan “Sully” Ballou of the Pacific Palisades Volunteers

 

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we take the issue of cultural appropriation very seriously. Which is why we are letting Bruce Harris speak up on behalf of an oppressed minority too little heard from these days.

An Open Letter To The NFL Commissioner From Somali Pirates

By:
marxman@comcast.net

Dear NFL Commissioner,

WTF? Are you people in the United States of America tone deaf? We see and hear all kinds of hullabaloo about the Washington Redskins. Native Americans are offended. Debates rage within the NFL hierarchy, on sports pages, in blogs, and on radio talk shows. Should ownership change the team’s name? Is the NFL too insensitive?

We are disgusted by the lack of concern regarding the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. How dare you? Has anyone seen or paid attention to the team’s logo, a flag featuring a skull and swords? Is this the 1600s? When was the last time you saw pirates flaunting skulls and swords? You’ve been watching one too many Errol Flynn movies. How insulting. Stop the stereotyping and stop it now!

The pirates of today’s Somalia are not our grandfathers’ pirates. We have feelings, use cell phones and computers and are more aligned with millennials than parrots, eyepatches and peglegs (although we still drink and go on drunken rum rampages). What gives you the right to malign us pirates? What did we ever do to you? You travel by air. We don’t bother with planes. Hell, when was the last time we hijacked a boat or were in the news? It’s been awhile since we’ve killed anyone. We’ve been low-key, on our best behavior, but it isn’t going to last unless something is done about changing the name of the NFL’s Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

Frankly, we don’t give a damn if every player takes a knee (or both knees) during the national anthem, or takes a knee (or both knees) during every play. It’s the name and the team’s logo with which we take umbrage. It’s insensitive and offensive and a lot worse than a Redskin.

We love football as much as the next guy. If you’re in a murderous mood, and who isn’t these days, what better way to kill a Sunday afternoon? Or Sunday night? Or Monday night? Or Thursday night?

Ask yourself, is the name Buccaneers a wise choice, given the current climate of political correctness? What genius came up with it? Seriously, do you believe a flag featuring skulls and swords plastered on every helmet and painted on the field is a good idea? It’s insulting on so many levels, not the least of which are the sword depictions. You think we still use swords to plunder and pillage? Not.

Today’s Somalia Pirates, if we may refer to ourselves in the third person, rely on a myriad of weapons to wreak havoc. For close range, grappling hooks are effective. Mid-range is best served by AK-47s. And for long-range firing, there’s the noisy but reliable PKM machine gun. Finally, we don’t mind occasionally employing explosive weapons like the RPG-7 rocket launcher. Any one or a combination of the aforementioned is more appropriate logo artwork than swords. A little team logo realism wouldn’t hurt.

As you can see, we mean business. It’s not lost on us either that you’ve begun playing games in the United Kingdom. Here’s a warning: don’t even think about bringing the NFL, and especially the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, to Mogadishu. Talk about empty seats and an embarrassment.

I think our point is made. Cease and desist the use of the name Buccaneers for Tampa Bay’s football team. Oh, by the way, just so you don’t feel singled out, a similar letter has been sent to the MLB commissioner — what’s his name? There’s a baseball team in Pittsburgh that’s also in our crosshairs.

Respectfully,

Insulted Somali Pirates

 

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel. We'd like to tell you what this week's bit of hilarity is about, but that would be giving away the surprise. Let our good friend Charles Stayton explain as only he can...

Merc-Hades And The Horn

By:
charles.stayton@gmail.com

Damn the engine, let me hear the horn! If it does not speak, it dare not lay claim upon this realm we stalk with hoary breath and padded foot! Set free the voice that casts disgust on us bereft and lonely creatures — the voice that sends exalted cries of benediction to those solemn Lube clerics of Jiffy. Let the thing grumble or squawk, blare or croon. Let it sing out above the fragile quavers of our mortal indecision.

No, no I won’t have that one — it’s much too shrill.

Ooh, this one here. Unleash the bowels of this bestial apprentice of the wind. Let us hear the rugged bellow of a thing unfurled from the very fabric of valor. Let that fiend cry out!

Nope. Definitely not. Sounds too much like Dean Lawrence when he used to — oh never mind, let’s have a look over here.

Yes! Bring forth the rumble that no doubt stirs in that fuliginous, neglected baron. Born from the earth’s pure metal heart, but over-seasoned on our mongrel plane of salt, sweat and excrement — vent the chords of discontent lying deep in its many-chambered heart!

Oh goodness, no. Don’t want to sound like we’re apologizing, now do we?

Are you sure you don’t want to take a test drive, sir?

A man should be judged by his voice alone, for it is that, and only that, which shows his erudition. I will uphold the same standard when appraising the manner of my conveyance and be the prouder for it. I am a man of letters through and through! Retired and emeritus, but forever a man of letters. Now let us on. I should like to hear what that sedan there has to say. A sober, firm voice, I imagine.

Ah, at last! That is the one! Those impish, staccato bursts would ensnare any soul that ventured close enough to the siren shores from whence it came. Such cheekiness but also tenderness and folly hidden underneath. It’s like we’re kindred souls, but there’s still some heat there. Some fire in the — what would my wife have said? — ah, yes! Some fire in the pelvic floor! How much for that fine steed?

That one there? I’d say about $2400, but I’d have to check with Robbie. 

Oh, dear boy, you take me all wrong. I merely want to use it for a brief period until it no longer sets my loins aflame and then send it along to…well, back to you all, I suppose. If you love something, set it free! How much for such an arrangement?

Like a lease? I’m pretty sure we don’t do leases, but Robbie’d know better. Let me just-

Oh no — there’s no need for all that. Is there any charge for an occasional call upon this ethereal creature to hear its hoots and jeers?

Uh, I don’t know what you mean.

Can I visit and use this horn sometimes?

Uh, you can test drive it anytime, so I guess so.

Can I visit after the last sparks of Apollo’s chariot have fluttered out and night has settled?

Uh–

When Mephistopheles walks his hound and the moon beckons to our briny mother?

We’re closed–

Alas! When the helm of Hades descends and emboldens the crickets, opossums, bats, raccoons, and other souls of the shadow!?

Dude, you can’t come in here in the middle of the night and honk this horn. Sorry, man. 

Surely you could prosper from the services of a night watchman! I’m full of riddles no mortal can solve — I’ll make a fine sentinel!

Well, we have–

Yes — it’s settled! Does that dog have a name? Never mind, he’s Cerberus now and he’ll be my companion. I’ll go by Merc-Hades. Deal?

Let’s go talk to Robbie.

 

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