Monthly Archives: January 2016


by Dell Franklin


Mr. Kroenke wanted to show LA sports fans he is not a cold-blooded corporate prick, but a man who can cry over a football team. Boohoo.

Billionaire chiseler/phony Stan Kroenke, after shafting St. Louis and choking up over taking their football team away from them, is now in Los Angeles, which is about as opposite of St. Louis as day and night, and he is again all choked up over promising poor so-called pro football-starved Angelinos the wretched Rams that were stolen from them decades ago by a crew of chiseling phonies not worth mentioning.

The chiseler/phony with the old-country mustache also promises to build a $3 billion tacky Taj Mahal of a football stadium to rival the tacky one built in Dallas by fellow sentimental rival, Jerry Jones, a chiseler so canny, ruthless, and scarily predatory he’s intimidated the entire cabal of chiseling/phony NFL owners and their puppet commissioner, Roger Goodell, who during the meat appraisal NFL draft hugs first round picks like a cuddly uncle before turning them over to the ruthless chiseler/phonies.

Mr. Kroenke wanted to show LA sports fans he is not a cold-blooded corporate prick, but a man who can cry over a football team. Boohoo. If this guy ever ventured into a working-class tavern he’d be stoned within half an hour. He and his shark-like right hand man, Kevin Demoff, who would also be stoned in a working-class tavern within 30 minutes on looks alone, want you to think it’s ALL about boosting a poverty stricken black community like Inglewood and pleasing LA football fans, who are the most disloyal, distracted and superficial west of Miami Beach.

Fat chance.

Look, guys, LA sports fans have better things to do—like taking selfies 24/7 and admiring them…and shopping, primping, dressing, tanning, posturing, posing…and checking and rechecking those little hand phones to see who loves them.

The chiseler/phony already has number-one LA sports fan Magic Johnson in his camp. Magic’s going to buy season tickets. $100 just to get on board, and then we start very high up in the stratosphere of the Taj Mahal for $300, which means if there’s two of you it’s $600 just for games that are not exhibitions, so if you’re filthy rich like Magic you can dole out about $3,500 for one game and probably be close enough to a celebrity to share a selfie, unless of course they’re sealed into the hierarchy glass luxury cocoon where $100 wines and gourmet cuisine is shared by the chiseler/phony and his coterie of sycophants, who stand and cheer when he does, and sit down when he does, and stand again to turn thumbs down and deliver the kill sign when the team gets booed out of their tacky Taj Mahal.

Roman days indeed!


LA Coliseum, under construction in 1922, is in much need of upgrading, where returning LA Rams will play until their billion-dollars dream stadium is completed.

Does anybody who likes to watch a football game in a working-class tavern have a shot to go to these games? Most of the population of LA sports fans are so awash in hi-tech gadgetry they have the attention span of hummingbirds, which means that the day they enter the super hi-tech Taj Mahal they will be in hi-tech heaven and get to test out their own gadgets against the plethora facing them everywhere, a spectacle, really, lights flashing everywhere throughout the game, unless they’re waiting in line to gorge on junk food, quaff over-priced beer, or stand in agony in long lines trying not to pee in their pants.

Meanwhile, for the next three years, these dodos get to revisit the dreaded, dilapidated, uncomfortable Coliseum, where the urgent need for hi-tech gadgetry will be in short supply and the dodos will have to actually watch parts of a football game and see the replays on their own gadgetry; this after inching along on freeways and side streets for two hours, idling and lurching and gnashing their teeth in parking lots for 45 minutes, waiting to be searched for weaponry for 30 minutes, before finally being admitted into a bowl so distant from the field one will need high-powered binoculars or a mini-screen of their own to see what actually happens.

But it’s not all bad. There will at last be a NFL football team in LA. Though it is a football team coached by a lackluster wash-out with a losing record wherever he’s gone, without a quarterback or any semblance of an offense, a team about as boring as the place it came from—St. Louis. Will tattooed, spray-painted barbarian/zealot fans similar to Raider low-lives be allowed to form their own dog pound? Can they afford it? Who wants to rough-house in a glass-encased Taj Mahal surrounded by boutiques for the Rodeo Drive crew?

In any case, the true football fans/marauders can pool their money and barbecue in the parking lots just off the Coliseum starting at six in the morning and get so drunk by game time they’ll have to take saliva tests before entering, but once they’re in it will be like the old days, guzzling, screaming, hooting, cursing, booing, arguing, staking out territory, fighting, causing a panic, maybe drawing the cameras for a split second before the goody-goody boys in the production trailers and broadcasting booths pooh-pooh their discordant behavior and turn us back to the spectacle produced by America’s foremost chiseler/phonies this side of Wall Street—the PR hogwash of good citizenship and humanitarianism among people trying to dismember limbs and in the end immobilize brains—all for love of the game and a few bucks.

Yeh, LA sports fans demand a professional football team; deserve a professional football team; demand and deserve a winner, according to the chiseler/phony. So good luck, LA sports fans, surely you deserve this. §

Dell Franklin grew up in working-class Compton, Calif., at a time when professional sports, venues and players were mostly accessible to the roiling mass of fans/marauders who could then still afford to attend games. For more of Dell’s sports commentary, visit


Tex & I were gently drinking another
day away on Teri’s front lawn, when
the time came for him to walk the
block or so to work. But we yearned

for still more sodden camaraderie,
so it was decided that if I could throw
three plastic figures of small black
children — which happened to be

handy — into Tex’s shirt pocket, he
would quit his job, and we could
continue our revelry. One, two, three,

Tex was unemployed, and we lay
back joyously reveling in the magical
figurines and the thrill of ambivalence.

—Todd Young

The GOP obsession with Bill Clinton’s sex life

Above: Bill Clinton, the Teflon horn dog by Christopher Cobblewright 

Republicans are still blowing their load over Bill’s blowjob

by Dell Franklin

They’re at it again, this time comparing him to comedian and one-time black role-model Bill Cosby, accused as a sexual predator who doped up young women and underage girls, stripped and molested them in their blacked-out state, as alleged by about fifty of his victims. They’re on the warpath again, still pissed off that the other Bill, Bill Clinton, had the audacity to allow a horny little star-struck intern infatuated with power to give him a blowjob.

“Shame on you, Bill, you awful sexual degenerate.”

Even more hideous, Bill took this poor unsuspecting innocent to the LINCOLN ROOM! Of all the nerve! But where else could a man with as high a profile as President William Jefferson Clinton take a plump horn-dog in heat for a little organ hounding—Motel 6? Certainly not the Marriott or Hilton or the Four Seasons. He was already in enough trouble for taking up with hussies like Paula Jones and Gennifer Flowers, a tough one to resist, that one.

I admire a man with a healthy sex drive, as long as he’s not trying to steal my woman or committing rape. Unlike some of our past Presidents, like Nixon, Reagan, Carter and probably would-be President Romney, I don’t think Bill slept in his pajamas, unless Hillary was beside him. Bill’s a cad. As a bartender, I’ve observed men like Clinton, with the gleam in their eyes and the smooth gift of gab that reels in the ladies, irresistible sexual magnets we as fellow men all admire and at the same time envy—by men like Nixon who probably got laid by one woman his entire life (and had to beg for that) and then had to witness JFK poking everything that walked, the lecherous rascal, turning the White House into his own private brothel.

Typical goddamn liberal Democrat, ey?

So those sexually repressed puritanical Republicans, who as a collective agency profess to worship the Lord and marry one woman for life and never stray, are dredging up Bill’s blowjob again and acquainting it with sexual predator status, the flavor of today. The party of deeply religious closet gays in Congress pawing up pages and molesting teenage members of a wrestling team and hanging out in bathroom stalls at airports (all tight-assed against gay marriage, mind you) and senators paying for prostitutes is at it again, led by the thrice-married Donald Trump, trying to drag poor old Hillary Clinton down for being married to perhaps the most sexually active man to ever live in the White House and seldom screw his own wife.

Typical goddamn liberal Democrat, ey?

Christ, Hillary didn’t marry Bill for his dick, she’s too sophisticated and savvy a woman—she married him for his brains, charm, humanity and ambition, not to mention he’s just about the most charismatic rake to ever come down the pike.

Trump’s no one to talk, tossing off one wife after another for younger flesh. The Donald, who has stated he likes sex with ladies rather than drink booze, is suddenly a sanitized sentinel of high moral ground as he joins fellow members of the saints’ party to demonize the First Lady who put up with his ongoing adultery, even accusing her of enabling his dastardliness.

Christ, she didn’t marry him for his dick, she’s too sophisticated and savvy a woman—she married him for his brains, charm, humanity and ambition, not to mention he’s just about the most charismatic rake to ever come down the pike.

The trouble with most of these Republicans holding office, the same ones who tried to impeach Bill for lying about his adultery when everybody knows you lie until caught when it comes to cheating, is that, from grammar school onward, they were too busy being ambitious as well as perfect while Bill was getting laid in many different forms, realizing early on nothing compares with indecent sport-fucking of the forbidden fruit, and especially painted floozies like Paula Jones. (Just ask rogue writers Henry Miller and Charles Bukowski).

Poor paranoid prude Richard Nixon, who accompanied his wife on a first date as a hanger-on while another man squired Pat, and Carter, who admitted looking at young shapely pussy, swallowed hard, denied his prick, and kissed Rosalynn on the cheek and showed us his cheesy saved smile while Jesus forgave him for having naughty fantasies. Reagan, of course, must have gotten plenty in those Hollywood days when he wasn’t fingering so-called communists and turning them in, and could hardly pose as pious when he married an ex-actress who tried unsuccessfully to fuck every movie mogul in town to become a star, and failed, but ended up as a White House First Lady urging young people to be strong and celibate in fear of disease while she steered Ronnie around like a somnambulist.

Currently Rand Paul’s wife, Kelley, a kind of vivacious winsome blonde, is on cable TV attacking Bill, claiming it will be hard for Hillary to be a candidate espousing women’s rights when her husband’s a sexual predator. Well, when one is married to a pantywaist like Rand one could hardly distinguish between a predator and a playboy, the latter of which she’s badly in need of. Like all the blonde reptiles after his hide, from Ann Coulter to Megyn Kelly, Bill’s going to stick in their craws until the bitter end, especially when Hillary gets elected President, gag gag.

Thing is, what will they say when their worst nightmare occurs and Hillary’s in the White House and Bill’s First Man? God forbid she goes on a foreign policy trip to meet with Merkel and Putin if they’re still around and Bill’s on his own in the Lincoln Room, the old coot well into his seventies but still highly suspect of sleazing after 20-year-old interns, if, of course, Hillary allows young succulent babes on the premises. My guess is her advisers will insist she hire all young male Ivy League twerps to keep an eye on him.

I can still see the outrage after rumor of Bill’s first suspicious act of indecency—“He’s at it again! He’s committing fellatio with interns, the rotten no-good sexual predator, he’s soiling the sheets in the Lincoln Room! The sneaky depraved cheat just can’t get enough, and he’s an old man!”

In gyms and marketplaces and bowling alleys and post offices and hair salons and coffee houses and diners and meeting places, media centers all over America will issue an eerie bereaved chant—“He’s at it again, he’s at it again, we can’t get rid of him, we can’t get rid of him…he’s getting blowjobs, he’s getting blowjobs….”

Eat your hearts out, pencil-necks! §

Dell Franklin writes from his home in Cayucos, Calif., where he lives with his rescue dog Wilbur, a disturbed chocolate lab who will bite your head off if you say another word about Bill Clinton’s blowjob. Dell maintains an online presence at