Jimmy the Fetus
Hey, kids, Jimmy the Fetus here, your guide to moral values in the Midwest, helping everyone see that what we learned in Sunday school really matters.

Dear Jimmy:

I don’t like being the jealous type, but I’m on the road for business a lot, and I have a sinking feeling that my wife might be fooling around with one of her co-workers on the side. I don’t want to accuse her of something she didn’t do, but I’m wondering if you have a suggestion.


Prairie Village

Dear Bill:

Naturally, the Bible is a huge help in this circumstance. Numbers tells us there’s a simple way to find out if your wife’s been dogging you without having to ask her outright. Simply take her to church and hand her over to a holy man, who will then sit her down, scrape up some dirt from the floor, and throw it into a cup of holy water. “When he has made her drink the water, then, if she has defiled herself and has been unfaithful to her husband, the water that brings the curse shall enter into her and cause bitter pain, and her womb shall discharge, her uterus drop, and the woman shall become an execration among her people. But if the woman has not defiled herself and is clean, then she shall be immune and be able to conceive children.” Now, I may be no bigger than a Chicken McNugget, but even I can see that this is gonna cost a lot less than a private eye with a daily per diem, know what I mean?

Got a moral quandary? E-mail Jimmy at

The Problem With Being Blunt

You know Democrats are desperate when they get all over Matt Blunt like flies on a Taneycomo trout just because he makes a little joke about them.

A couple of weeks ago, The St. Louis Post-Dispatch reported that Missouri’s little prince governor was giving a speech at the state Republican Party’s annual Lincoln Days confab down in Springfield when he shruggingly said that, to find Democrats and the people who love them, “you have to go to places where nobody wants to live anymore.”

Predictably, this provoked all sorts of whimpering among insulted Democrats. Roger Wilson, the chair of the state party, supposedly called for the firing of Blunt’s speechwriter, whoever that was. Kansas City Rep. John Burnett told The Kansas City Star that Blunt’s comment was “almost racist.” A state senator from St. Louis demanded a public apology for dissing his district.

Kansas City Mayor Kay Barnes wisely refused to comment, perhaps recognizing that it was beneath her dignity to get drawn into a snit fit in which she’d have to defend the honor of her city — or her party, though these days you’d hardly know she’s a member of it.

Cripes, what a bunch of whiners these Democrats are. Before the election, they were incapable of, say, convincing rural Missourians that they wouldn’t be the ones who’d try to balance the budget by taking away Medicaid checks; now, since they pathetically lost the House, the Senate and the governor’s seat, they’re moaning like a bunch of broke-dick dogs chained out behind the woodshed.

We wanted someone to tell us that Democrats were just cryin’ ’cause cryin’s all they can do. And we knew exactly the person we wanted to tell us that: someone who lives in Brookside’s 6th Ward, in a precinct where nearly 77 percent of voters punched their cards for Claire McCaskill last November, in a town where nobody wants to live.

But the governor’s sister, Amy Blunt, didn’t return our call.

Net Prophet
Notes from KC’s blogosphere.

I tended bar at the Richmond Arms in Houston for over ten years, on and off, and that’s what I was doing one afternoon in 1988 or ’89, when a goofy-looking man in a straw hat and glasses walked in and sat down at my bar. He ordered, and when I put his glass down in front of him, he launched into conversation. No matter where our discussion led, his eyes never spent much time on my face, and when he finally made some crude comment about my boobs, I read him a very mild version of my standard riot act. He apologized and ordered a sausage roll. We carried on. He told me he was a writer. I told him I loved to read. He asked if I’d ever read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I said “Duh.” He stated matter-of-factly that he wrote it. I smirked. “Of course you did. And I wrote Hitchhiker’s Guide.”

“You don’t believe me?


“Frankly, I’m surprised you don’t recognize me.”

“Well, I don’t. And it doesn’t matter anyway; Hunter S. Thompson or not, you still don’t get to talk about my tits.”

He snickered. I rolled my eyes. He shook his head. I brought him his sausage roll, and he stayed for another hour or so, asking questions, telling stories, and ranting about politics. He was odd, but extremely interesting. Direct. Dogmatic. Self-absorbed. A little creepy. But smart and shrewd and entertaining as hell. I enjoyed serving him, not just that afternoon, but the four or five additional times he came in looking for me over the years. And of course, he actually was who he claimed to be — I’d seen his face on television and on book jackets.

I just learned he’s killed himself. Sad news. But not surprising.

R.I.P., Mr. Thompson.

From “,” the online diary of Kansas Citian Reecie Davis

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