"In New Hampshire, Mr. McCain did everything he could to reassure people that he would remain in the race. He delivered a somber speech on Iraq, gave local interviews, met with the editorial board of The Manchester Union Leader, and even held court with stories about his adventures as a midshipman, politics and Ernest Hemingway to a group of staff members and reporters over sodas at a pub near his hotel."
- New York Times June 16, 2007
WTF John, you little slut. Where do you get off associating my literary celebrity and brilliance with that gory massacre, that political My Lai known as McCain '08.
"Oh yes Uncle John tell us another story about old Ernie Hemingway." Yes, I'm sure the press was hounding you for those. "No Senator we don't want to hear anything about your promising plan for Iraq or if you'll relieve a six trillion dollar debt the same way you so properly balanced your own campaign budget, just tell us about that time Hemingway got his ass blown up in France."
No, there's only one Hemingway tale that hack knows. The press was smart enough not to reprint the story McCain told (due to strict censorship and my public threat of disembowelment), but before some trendy 'on the campaign trail' blogger and his MAC powerbook totally ruin my image, I'll share it with you here first.
The year was 1958 and McCain was in his senior year at the Naval Academy. I was in Annapolis, in leave from my home in Havana, for the annual Whore & Rum Family Picnic, a fundraiser for disabled children I sponsored with Puffin Press and that bull dyke Gertrude Stein. Anyway, after the picnic, I went to a local bar to finish up my night with whatever quantity of liquor the advance for my unpublished novel, Temptress in a Bottle, would buy me. It was there at that bar I met a young Navy man named John McCain. He said he was on R&R and I told him I was on my eleventh bottle of whiskey and had once fought a bull. We got to telling stories and I decided I would rock his face off with a story from my glory days at the Kansas City Star.
While reporting for the Star I came across word of a secret society located in downtown Kansas City. They'd been around since the early days of Western expansion and I was eager to join up with an established group of men I could drink heavily with and whisper secrets to. Needless to say, two weeks later I found myself in their secret chambers with the other recruits, all of us stripped down to our boxer shorts. Before long one of the leaders had brought a young goat into the room. From beneath his friar like cloak a dark, bellowing voice announced that if we wanted to become members of this secret brotherhood one of us would have to fuck the goat before dawn. Hours passed and no one had made any move towards this goat. It was almost sunrise and I was still pretty drunk from the previous afternoon so I stepped up and volunteered for coitus with the goat. All the other recruits slapped me on the back with thanks and praise and I knew once we had been initiated I would be remembered as the man who made the dream of joining a secret society a reality for so many young men. Naked and preparing to mount the young goat, I was quickly stopped by the man in the cloak. "Congratulations Brothers," he spoke, "you are all now in the secret society." Then he turned slowly towards me. "Except for you Ernest Hemingway," he said coldly, "we don't want any goat fuckers in our secret society." And from there I was cast out into the street naked, ashamed, and without my $15 cloak deposit.
It wasn't until weeks later I realized that in revealing that story I had jeopardized my reputation as the manliest man ever. And after years of living in fear I was relieved to hear that McCain and my most embarrassing story had been shot down over southeast Asia, but only to reappear on the scene six years later to my dismay. And now, in his time of political crisis, he's trying to deter negative media coverage from his failed presidential camp by making a fool out of Ernest Hemingway.
On his campaign website Senator McCain (R-Arizona) lists 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' as his favorite book. Oh John, you shouldn't have! Well guess what mofo, I just changed the dedication of that little book of mine from, ' to Martha [Gellhorn]' to 'VOTE MITT ROMNEY IN '08'
Suck it.
WTF John, you little slut. Where do you get off associating my literary celebrity and brilliance with that gory massacre, that political My Lai known as McCain '08.
"Oh yes Uncle John tell us another story about old Ernie Hemingway." Yes, I'm sure the press was hounding you for those. "No Senator we don't want to hear anything about your promising plan for Iraq or if you'll relieve a six trillion dollar debt the same way you so properly balanced your own campaign budget, just tell us about that time Hemingway got his ass blown up in France."
No, there's only one Hemingway tale that hack knows. The press was smart enough not to reprint the story McCain told (due to strict censorship and my public threat of disembowelment), but before some trendy 'on the campaign trail' blogger and his MAC powerbook totally ruin my image, I'll share it with you here first.
The year was 1958 and McCain was in his senior year at the Naval Academy. I was in Annapolis, in leave from my home in Havana, for the annual Whore & Rum Family Picnic, a fundraiser for disabled children I sponsored with Puffin Press and that bull dyke Gertrude Stein. Anyway, after the picnic, I went to a local bar to finish up my night with whatever quantity of liquor the advance for my unpublished novel, Temptress in a Bottle, would buy me. It was there at that bar I met a young Navy man named John McCain. He said he was on R&R and I told him I was on my eleventh bottle of whiskey and had once fought a bull. We got to telling stories and I decided I would rock his face off with a story from my glory days at the Kansas City Star.
While reporting for the Star I came across word of a secret society located in downtown Kansas City. They'd been around since the early days of Western expansion and I was eager to join up with an established group of men I could drink heavily with and whisper secrets to. Needless to say, two weeks later I found myself in their secret chambers with the other recruits, all of us stripped down to our boxer shorts. Before long one of the leaders had brought a young goat into the room. From beneath his friar like cloak a dark, bellowing voice announced that if we wanted to become members of this secret brotherhood one of us would have to fuck the goat before dawn. Hours passed and no one had made any move towards this goat. It was almost sunrise and I was still pretty drunk from the previous afternoon so I stepped up and volunteered for coitus with the goat. All the other recruits slapped me on the back with thanks and praise and I knew once we had been initiated I would be remembered as the man who made the dream of joining a secret society a reality for so many young men. Naked and preparing to mount the young goat, I was quickly stopped by the man in the cloak. "Congratulations Brothers," he spoke, "you are all now in the secret society." Then he turned slowly towards me. "Except for you Ernest Hemingway," he said coldly, "we don't want any goat fuckers in our secret society." And from there I was cast out into the street naked, ashamed, and without my $15 cloak deposit.
It wasn't until weeks later I realized that in revealing that story I had jeopardized my reputation as the manliest man ever. And after years of living in fear I was relieved to hear that McCain and my most embarrassing story had been shot down over southeast Asia, but only to reappear on the scene six years later to my dismay. And now, in his time of political crisis, he's trying to deter negative media coverage from his failed presidential camp by making a fool out of Ernest Hemingway.
On his campaign website Senator McCain (R-Arizona) lists 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' as his favorite book. Oh John, you shouldn't have! Well guess what mofo, I just changed the dedication of that little book of mine from, ' to Martha [Gellhorn]' to 'VOTE MITT ROMNEY IN '08'
Suck it.
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