The Last Word

Issue #501

July 2016

Boom! Tea Party activist busted for selling drugs
We nailed it. We at The Last Word always do. But this time we really nailed it!
I told you the Tea Party—like the CIA and several Republican administrations—was selling drugs. Drug
dealing is a leading source of funding for the Tea Party’s rallies, political campaigns, and transportation for
supporters to vote in multiple locations. I figured this out last year because the heroin pandemic seemed to follow
the Tea Party everywhere it went—even when you break it down to the neighborhood level. This became more
and more obvious with some smart detective work as I put on my Sherlock Hemlock hat.
Now anyone who argued, sighed, and scowled that I was just being paranoid or making it up altogether
has just had a humble pie smashed in their face. Happens every time—but this time it’s like a whole Soupy Sales
episode full of humble pies!
Best all, the Tea Party’s long-awaited
comeuppance happened right in my
hometown of Highland Heights, Kentucky!
In April, I attended a 5-hour-long
meeting of the Campbell County Fiscal Court
about heroin programs, one of which was a
needle exchange. A man with a white beard
and a blue Donald Trump cap plopped down
in the chair next to me and kept arguing with
the county commissioners about the cost of
the programs and implying that they were
enabling heroin addicts.
That man is a fixture in the local Tea
Party. He was one of the plaintiffs in the Tea
Party’s frivolous lawsuit that tried to shut
down public libraries—because all things
public are eeeeevil according to them. He also
had a history of run-ins with the law. He was
the subject of an emergency protective order
by a woman who accused him of opening her
mail and other harassment. He was also
charged with cruelty to animals for allegedly
neglecting his horses. An animal control
officer quoted him as saying he didn’t “give a
shit about those horses” because they actually
belonged to his former girlfriend. I’m not
making any of this up. This has been
documented elsewhere.
Not long after the meeting, Campbell
County Fiscal Court rightly approved the
syringe exchange in a 3 to 1 vote. My jaw just
about hit the floor. This may have been the
first time in 30 years that local government
said no to the Tea Party—or whatever the Tea
Party was called 30 years ago. Tea Party members have spent their lives being mollycoddled and pampered—but
someone finally told them no. It was the word they needed to hear but nobody in government had the guts to say.
Just a couple weeks ago, Highland Heights Police also told the Tea Party no. Remember the bearded man
with the Trump hat at the county meeting? Cops arrested him on a felony charge of selling oxycodone, a highly
addictive opiate.
Just imagine. The biggest and most consequential Tea Party drug bust ever took place in my hometown—
the city where this fanzine of freedom was first published! In a nation with thousands of cities and towns, the

biggest drug raid ever to befall the Tea Party took place in the very town where I lived my entire youth! Maybe
it’s because I raised such a commotion about Tea Party drug dealing that the cops knew where to look. But I think
it’s just an incredible coincidence.
Who was really enabling addicts? If you don’t want to enable them, don’t sell the stuff. Simple. Just goes
to show that people who yell the loudest about everyone else being on drugs are usually pushers themselves.
The man in this story lives in Cold Spring but went to Highland Heights to prey on the community. He
wouldn’t confine his business to his own neighborhood and instead poisoned someone else’s. Now the Tea Party
activist faces up to 5 years in prison if convicted. But, you understand, that will only happen if poo. However,
after this drug bust—while the man was free awaiting trial—he fled to Clay County and was busted there for a
series of crimes including burglary. Despite all this, I wouldn’t be surprised if he somehow gets off on the drug
charge. As I’ve seen lately, officials in northern Kentucky seem to look the other way to try to keep their cronies
from getting in trouble for selling dope. According to them, everybody in the world is either using or selling—
except the Tea Party.
Bakeries specializing in humble pies have done good business in these parts. It’s the local dessert ever
since I started calling out the Far Right more. But I’d rather my suspicions be wrong than win the consolation
prize of wielding a pastry of humility. I wish the Tea Party wasn’t selling drugs. Another humble pieing took place
when Pathway Family Center was shut down after it was revealed to be abusive. When this happened, my
accounts of abuse in teen “treatment” centers were instantly proven right, and everyone who doubted me was
proven wrong. It was a case where I’d rather be wrong.
I’m sure some people are so stubborn that they still won’t get it—even with smoking gun after smoking
gun. They think no form of authority—which for them includes the Tea Party—could ever be involved in any
criminal activity. In their minds, I shouldn’t be taken seriously because “kids complain a lot”—even though I’m
43. Some people don’t take complaints of abuse by authority seriously. They never do—no matter how much
proof there is. Even if they became a direct victim, they’d never believe it themselves. I also think the myth of
“kids complaining a lot” was created to cover up mistakes of authority figures. It’s just like how the myth about
today’s young adults being loafers who live in their parents’ basement was created to cover up right-wing greed.
May all the Tea Party’s Chuck Woolery videotapes become Pepsified.

People go Krogering the unconventional way
For the best of everything, let’s go Krogering and trash the place.
This is a trilogy of stories
of people laying hulk to Kroger
supermarkets. The Cincinnatibased grocery chain has been
under siege lately, and it’s all for
the funnier.
Incident #1 happened
right here in the Tri-State—as
local newscasters like to say.
(That’s one of their favorite
phrases, like “much-needed rain.”)
At a Kroger in Cincinnati’s
exclusive
Hyde
Park
neighborhood, a man defecated
(pooped) on a U-Scan machine at
the self-checkout lane. He stripped
naked in front of a store employee
and did his business on the
machine. A court document said
the man stank of alcohol.
A Kroger customer in
Peoria, Illinois, put the “pee” in
“Peoria”—and in “pizza.” A
woman was seen urinating in the
frozen pizza freezer. A man who
witnessed the ghastly event asked
her what she was doing—as if it
wasn’t obvious—and she gestured

for him to keep quiet. The woman was cited by police for a host of offenses including criminal damage to
property. The store issued a statement that no food “that was even remotely impacted” by “this bizarre incident”
would be sold.
An incident at a Kroger location in Michigan also sat poorly with the mavens of Krogishness. A woman
showed up in the bakery aisle to pick up a children’s birthday cake she had ordered. The cake was supposed to
feature Superman and Batman. The woman considered the decoration on the cake to be of shoddy quality, so she
marched behind the counter to try to fix it herself. Then—according to the store manager—she grabbed the cake
and drop-kicked it, yelling that the bakery had “ruined” it. (The magic word!) This caused frosting to splatter all
over the bakery aisle. Then she stormed out of the store, kicking over a “WET FLOOR” sign in the process.
It’s sort of like the Sesame Street episode where Big Bird angrily knocked over the gumball machine on
the way out of the library because they didn’t sell birdseed. Except there never was such an episode. So complain
to HBO until they make one.

London calling
It’s bad enough that the National Football League doesn’t know what the definition of a “home game” is.
Hell, it’s bad enough that the NFL treats their fans like shit. They frisk every spectator like they’re a criminal, and then
they had the nerve to black out TV coverage of games that weren’t sold out. They even blacked out the Super Bowl in the city
where it was played until 1973.
But it’s clear they don’t know what “home game” means. A home game is a game that’s at least reasonably close to the
home team’s city or region. If they knew what a home game is, why are the Cincinnati Bengals scheduled to play a so-called
“home game” in London (yes, England) this year?
Oh, and it gets worse. I’ve been privately predicting something like this for a while now, and nobody seemed to doubt it,
and now it looks like it’ll happen, so here it comes: Not very long ago, the Bengals and the Reds both demanded that local
taxpayers build each team a stadium. They got a sales tax increase passed—and the teams still keep raiding other public services
to pay for features at these stadiums, which are still practically new. The Bengals’ field has been open for only 16 years. But—
after learning about the debacle that unfolded in St. Louis—I’ve been forecasting that either the Reds or Bengals will start
demanding another new stadium soon and will threaten to leave Cincinnati if it isn’t built.
Well, guess what?
The NFL has been eyeing a London team for several years now. There are now rumblings that an existing team is
planning on moving to London outright within the next few years. Can you guess what team? Here’s a hint: It’s not the Green Bay
Packers. It’s not the Memphis Rogues either.
That’s right: the Cincinnati Bengals.
Looks like our hometown team may be
headed to jolly old England on a fixed basis. This
isn’t wild speculation. This is an educated
prediction.
I’m not a sports diehard. I’ve enjoyed
attending some action-packed sporting events in
recent years, but I don’t obsess over it. The
experience matters as much as the outcome of
the game. I thought I’d bust a gut laughing when
I saw an Eddie Money look-alike at a baseball
game. And it was uproarious when I went to
Riverfront Stadium years ago and saw X-rated
graffiti regarding two local sports celebrities
scrawled on the restroom wall. One of the items
on my bucket list is to attend a forfeited Major
League Baseball game. But that’s tough to do,
since no game has been forfeited in 21 years, and
you don’t know in advance when a game will be
forfeited anyway. Attending a forfeited football
game would be even harder: According to the
Interdoro, NFL games are only forfeited when a
team flat-out refuses to play, and a forfeit would
probably result in the team being sued by fans, so
there’s an incentive not to forfeit.
But hope springs eternal. I would love to
attend the very last Bengals home game before

they leave Cincinnati, and be an active participant in the utter trashing of the stadium that fans are sure to engage in. Maybe that
would be a good day for Tea Party Demolition Night.

Warm cookies for Roads Scholars
Starting in 2013, I had hoped to attend at least one roadmeet per year. A roadmeet is an event at which
people get together and visit roads just because roads are cool. You never know what you’ll see at a roadmeet. A
new exit ramp? An old yellow yield sign? A person farting? Many people farting? Roadmeets have something for
everyone!
There was a Cincinnati roadmeet that year, and our annual out-of-town roadmeets have included
Huntington, West Virginia; St. Louis; and Madison, Wisconsin. People ripped bunker blasts at all of them. I
probably won’t go to one this year—partly because hardly anyone else is.
There’s one coming up somewhere in the Midwest, but one of the reasons I plan to skip it is that the
official motel for it is part of one of the priciest hotel chains around. I’m talking luxury accommodations here.
It’s so luxurious that when I looked up the website for that location, it invited guests to “enjoy a warm
cookie on arrival.”
The way this exhortation is worded is a trigger for me. It represents feelings resulting from experiencing
tenderness and toughness on an alternating basis. It’s like when your dog bites you and apologizes later—or the
terrifying animated segment on Sesame Street where a naked Ziggy look-alike picks flowers and they die, so he
decides not to pick the rest of the flowers. We’re so sorry that your breakfast at the hospital when you had your
kidney stone got cold because they had you in the x-ray room for too long—so here’s a warm cookie to make you
feel better. That was really rotten in 4 th grade when the school didn’t give you your Rice Krispies Treat because
you acted up on the field trip to the Kentucky Horse Park—so how about a warm cookie? And it was horrendous
when your teacher smeared ketchup on the rest of your Kentucky Horse Park tickets so you couldn’t use them—
so you need a warm cookie.
I remember once when I was about 3 years old, my own carelessness resulted in the needless wastage of
an entire bowl of Frosted Flakes. Did I ever hear about it from the oldsters! I thought all the stars and planets had
fallen on me and I’d never get to eat Frosted Flakes again! But a fresh bowl of Frosted Flakes was then lovingly
prepared. To this day, when I think about events like this, I get a nervy feeling originating in my rib cage.
You can’t figure out whether you deserve a warm cookie or not. Part of you thinks receiving a cookie isn’t
a big deal. You don’t obsess over it. But part of you remembers whatever hurt you suffered most recently, and you
want nothing more than to be coddled and loved. What says love like a warm cookie?
Bigly make cookies great again.

Cool people used to burn stuff on Fourth of July
Remember the ‘90s? Remember grainy photos, helmet hair, and toilets?
The Last Word used to burn stuff every Fourth of July—and sometimes other days too. We burned phone
books, a ruined 1991 Barbie calendar, light bulbs, a broken radio, an old TV set, dog shit, styrofoam plates, empty
deodorant sticks, an old formica kitchen table, congressional newsletters, political campaign signs, a broken
Cloak Girl action figure, a smashed Vanilla Ice CD, an electric razor—and yes, bubble gum. You name it, we
burned it. I’ll never forget the time we filled a plastic Mountain Dew bottle with water and placed it upright in the
fire, which burned a hole in the front of it and made it appear as if it was urinating in a wide arc. We also blew
apart soft drink and beer cans with fireworks.
But there’s one thing that would be neat to burn and I don’t think I ever got to burn it: a gob of nasal
mucus. Also, a squeaky hamburger dog toy. My dogs went through a zillion of these. Squeaky hamburgers back
then weren’t as colorful as they are now. They were mostly just yellow and orange. They would inevitably split
where the bun met the patty—rendering them unsqueakable. But eminently burnable. My dogs also had a squeaky
miniature football that was yellow with red tips. Whenever one of my dogs got a hold of that, they clung onto it
for dear life. They had it for years before it began splitting. Why didn’t I ever get a chance to burn this squeaky
football after its useful life had expired?
Being able to burn stuff was one of few arguments at the time for not plunging your own face into a
mercury-laden Ohio River and letting eels slowly gnaw off your flesh.
Copyright © 2016. All rights reserved.