February 14, 2008
by Volt and Electra Penn
Every February 12th , when I call my baby brother Danny to wish him happy birthday, I think of Bond, James Bond that is. More like a lovable older uncle than a younger sibling, Double O Danny lives all nine of his lives 'continental style'; a bodyguard covering his back at all transactions, transgressions and transportations. Danny gets this preferred treatment because he's a hireling in the Gangster Business Class.
You better believe it when I tell you that my Double O Bro drinks only the best with the very best, served up neat and in profusion. He runs with rulers whose foot-long oysters are fresh, beef aged and scotch ancient. And price tag? He don't need no stinkin' price tag! Not when there's a throw-away shirt for sticky situations and an instant tux for snap occasions.
What town, city or metropolis can assuage such eclectic cravings? Why, only the biggest, best and brightest of world-wide high spots where the 'hotties' undulate with the movers of matter and the shakers of entire civilizations.
Ho, hum, it's all in a hard day's night for Danny. A man has to do what a man has to do when it's his job to keep Exxon Mobile and the red Pegasus flying. Even if that includes jetting from his swank London home to Paris, France, where, after sampling cheese and wine for few days he whirlybirds on to Munich, Germany for a pub crawl through the beer barrels. He eventually comes to rest in Mother Russia's nest to go down to, as they still say at the home office, BIDNESS.
In Moscow, it's only after the oil is barreled, the pipeline laid out and the divvy split that Double O Danny and his corporate crew toss down straight shots of Liquid Ice, with chasers of Old Bastard's Suds brewed in Steamboat Springs Co. The objective for this peculiar toasting and male behavior is to separate 'buck' stamina from who goes comatose. Let it be noted that Danny is one of the head bucker-uper's.
This past summer, when my Bro let us know his home base in London came with a spare room, it didn't take long before Electra and I dropped into Heathrow and stuck our heads in Danny's door. We were on a mercy mission to replenish a few missing stem cells for Electra. Back in the U.S.S. of A. we'd learned that the best possibility for a successful procedure was at Britain's National Academy of Science and Stem Cell Research run by Sir Richard Gardner, FRS.
The evening before our appointment with Sir Gardner, previously scheduled through his associate Dr. Diana DeGetter, we went trekking for supper; hopefully something that hadn't been hammered, breaded or boiled to mush. It was while we were quaffing a mug-full at a London CHEERS where 'everybody goes and everybody knows', that we slipped into conversation with a cockney-talking woman.
The Duchess of Melvery loch Lynn, who preferred to be called the Duchess, claimed to be the granddaughter 'to the sixth power' of Charles Darwin. The dame was a nice little terrier, a mix of Margaret Thatcher and Tony Blair, full of daffy serious talk colored in dark rhyming humor. Oh hell, this was one bad lady who'd put you in your place if she caught a whiff of untruth.
You can bet that during our extended chat everything got a say, including the subject of sex. It seemed the Duchess was privy to many of Darwin's more obscure works, and had no qualms about broadcasting to those within earshot that in one of her g-g-g-g-g-g-grandfather's papers was an odd observation that had been squelched due to Victorian reefer madness. One of many unpublished curiosities passed down from Darwin, the Duchess inferred that on one occasion the reluctant evolutionist observed, wrote and experimented with the common hemp plant.
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In lengthily sentences sprinkled with glowing accolades to Darwin, the Duchess said, "You heard me right dearie.a male hemp plant blows sperm at a phenomenal rate. If my grandfather's calculations are right, and I haven't had time to find out, they're timed to a beating human heart. Continual ejaculation of microscopic sperm powder for days on end. If a human male exhibited the same repetitive reproductive characteristics he would blow himself off until his brain fried?like an ostrich egg."
The Duchess belched louder than a sailor. She called for another tank-full, but before she got her vocal chords re-oiled, I indicated that the time was getting late and we didn't want to sleep through our stem-cell appointment scheduled for the next morning. As we were gathering up to take our leave the Duchess placed a small white envelope in my hand. There appeared to be several postage stamps inside, each with a portrait of the queen.
"You are such a nice sort, sport," the Duchess told me, then woozily turned to Electra. "Next time your bloke gets droopy in the proboscis, have 'im stick a stamp under his tongue. They're microencapsulated with hemp aphrodisiac. Are you game, dearie?"
Electra and I have been back in the U.S. of A. for quite some time now - waiting for a thumbs-up from the stem-cell laboratory, waiting for another invite to reunite with Double O Danny and waiting for me to work up enough courage to postmark the Duchess' gift. But I don't mind, because it seems we've been waiting forever anyway; waiting to find WMD, waiting for the troops to come home and waiting for impeachment hearings.
But wait! What am I thinking? Impeachment is 'off the table'. Why? Because the political collapse of Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi is, as one writer reflects 'the most awesome since Neville Chamberlain'. But need I remind everyone that unlike Chamberlain, when his time had come, had the decency in his duty to step aside. Ms. Pelosi still claims to be The Speaker of the House.
Where is Winston Churchill when you need him? Where is America's bulldog? How long do we have to wait for someone with enough raw courage to be honest? Who of the 6th power among us is willing to go to a window, throw it open and shout to the world, "I'll tell you all the truth, all the time!'?
I'll tell you this, if Churchill ever does show up for a 'second coming', I sure as hell hope he gives us the truth we so sorely need, and gives those responsible for the death of millions, the waste of billions and the squandering of trillions, the freaking justice they so richly deserve.
Now, as for the envelope of queens in my closet, they still sit waiting.their time to get licked will come, too.
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Have Penn they'll listen. Volt Penn writes speeches for Progressive Populists and reasoned arguments for those on the left of center. He has also written speeches for anybody who has read his work. You can reach Volt Penn through his artist friend, b.b.kemp, at bbkemp@bbkemp.com
Volt/Electra Penn copyright 2008
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