Archive for November, 2012

Heavy Duty

Amazon aficionados are aware that one of the ways the place tries to encourage you to buy stuff is by offering “Super Saver” free shipping.

Somebody at the Wall Street Journal with nothing better to do set out to determine just what sort of extreme-poundage pachyderms Amazon willnuts heave across the land for free.

And so discovered that apparently the weightiest item Amazon will roll to your door is the Cannon Safe CO54 Commander Series Premium 90 Minute Fire Safe. The thing weighs 1672 pounds, and normally the company charges about $700 for shipping.

This is an item that would be purchased—at Amazon for $3486.57—only by somebody with a serious Problem. It stands six feet tall, features a 5.75-inch thick steel door with 13 locking bolts, and can hold up to 48 guns.

Anybody who conceives a need to squirrel away 48 guns requires Treatment.

Which brings us to Glenn Beck, and his people. Horrified that the black man has been returned to the White House, Beck had a breakdown in which he babbled and blithered about George Washington, and weepingly advised his audience to pull their children out of school, and buy farmland and guns. Because the apocalypse is at hand.

So it is indeed fortunate that Amazon will ship for free to these nutters a mammoth Fear Box in which they can secret away their firearms. I suppose they could also stash their root vegetables in there. As well as themselves.

Words That, If I Use Them: Shoot Me

I became Old Man Shouts At Cloud at a too early age.

In my very early 20s. When I was first assaulted by the word “facilitate.”

To this day, I do not know what that word actually “means.”

And that is the problem. For the word doesn’t “mean” anything. It is a no-word. A word invoked solely to cover Crime.

From its first appearance in my life, to its last, it has functioned but as a signal that I am about being Robbed.

Of money, or, most often, of the space to create.

Through a series of no coincidences, that it would be too much of a tangent to here relate, I had, very early on, read my Orwell—the Real stuff, the essays—and so was attuned, long before “facilitate” was thrust in my face, to the mustering of words to conceal, like squid-ink, Assaults.

“Facilitate” just means that somebody—I suspect a sort of machine, having taken human form—is about stealing from me.

Next, not too many years later, came “mic.”

This, a product of knuckledragging. De-evolved ’80s drooler musicians who, perceiving the English stamped imprint above one of the holes in their amps—”mic”—believed that to be the proper abbreviation for “microphone.”

No. There had emerged, decades before, a perfectly serviceable, and apt, abbreviation for microphone—”mike.”

I know that this—the fuggin amps—is where the pre-monolith “mic” came from. Because I had played off the same sort of goddam amps for years.

But this was the era of “punk.” When it was actually a Crime to, say, be able to play your instrument.

Once, I recall, when reviewing a punk band, I made the mistake of observing that a woman had mastered the guitar.

When my piece appeared, she was summarily heaved out of the band. Run out of town like a three-legged dog. While letters flowed into the paper suggesting that I be lynched in the County Square.

Similarly, familiarity with the English language was considered so “uncool” that anybody who even spoke of such a thing needed to, at the very least, be dropped down a well.

Thus, “mic,” drooling, knuckles dragging, displaces “mike.” So that, today, imbecility and illiteracy has so overrun the land, that, now, these days, “mic” is considered the appropriate abbreviation for “microphone.” While “mike” makes the majorly portion of English-speaking humans just scratch their heads.

“What dat mean?”

And I—I, am a man without a language.

For, to this day, whenever I encounter “mic,” in any piece of writing, I immediately turn the page: that piece is dead to me.

There are many more such examples. But I will not bore you with them here. For no one likes to listen to an old man, shout at clouds.

However, in an attempt to try to coerce you past the “furthur,” I will say that, therein, lies fevered jeremiads against two word-formations that have metastasized across the nation, since the re-election of the black man: “pivot,” and “fiscal cliff.”

furthur=>

Dem Bones

The Americans, noted Puritans, tend to regard Sweden as a hotbed of sexual libertines, who run utterly wild at all times, ceaselessly plunging in and out of each other’s orifi, with total abandon, and no restraint.

So shocked, probably, shall these Americans be, that the Swedes appear to have drawn at least one line, in matters sexual.

For in that nation, now, a 37-year-old woman faces criminal prosecution, simply because she seems to prefer sex with skeletons.

This, apparently, constitutes the crime of “violating the peace of the dead.”

The prosecutor could not explain how the woman had managed to collect almost an entire skeleton, but explained that the human remains had been used in an “unethical” way.

“In the confidential section of the investigation we have material which indicates she used them in sexual situations,” the prosecutor told the TT news agency.

The woman is believed to have used the human bones for sexual gratification. The evidence that the prosecution presented to the press on Tuesday included two CDs labelled “My necrophilia” and “My first experience.”

Katarina Öberg, head of the centre of Andrology and Sexual Medicine at Karolinska University Hospital in Stockholm, admitted this was the first time she had heard of such a case in Sweden.

“During my ten years I have never had a patient with necrophilia,” she said. “Although, I guess it is not really something that one confesses to having.”

The woman has pled not guilty, and maintains she did nothing wrong. She admits to collecting bones, but says she accumulates the dry stuff “out of a historical and archaeological interest.”

And it’s not like she was keeping it a secret.

She had reportedly bragged to some nearby children about keeping knives and dead people in her apartment.

She is also willing to share her bones, having peddled a few over the intertubes.

According to the prosecution, the woman has also sold skulls over the internet.

The latest transaction was between the woman and a person in Uppsala, eastern Sweden. The buyer had allegedly stocked up on three skulls and a spine.

She has reportedly posted to an intertubes forum:

“I want my man like he is, whether he is dead or alive. He allows me to find sexual happiness on the side.”

You know, this is pretty broad-minded. A lot of people, they can be pretty picky about their lovers. This woman, she doesn’t even require that her partner be alive.

And they want to put her in jail.

What is this world coming to.

Before Believing

I’m not even sure anymore what I believe in. I once directed a Saroyan play in which one of the characters asked another if he would die for what he believed in. The guy answers, “No. I might be wrong.” That’s where I am.

—Sam Peckinpah

Shoot The Moon

When the histories are written, the Cold War will be considered one of the nuttier epochs of ur-humanhood. And perhaps mustered as Exhibit “A” shall be the brainshower of US military mavens that a nuclear weapon should be detonated on the Moon in order to “send a message” to the Soviet Union.

The United States Air Force was not created until 1947; by 1958 it was a confederacy of the criminally insane. It was in that year that USAF death doyens ordered doubledomes to produce plans for getting a nuke to the moon, and then there exploding it.

At the height of the space race, the U.S. considered detonating an atom bomb on the moon as a display of America’s Cold War muscle.

The secret project, innocuously titled ‘A Study of Lunar Research Flights’ and nicknamed ‘Project A119,’ was never carried out.

Under the scenario, a missile carrying a small nuclear device was to be launched from an undisclosed location and travel 238,000 miles to the moon, where it would be detonated upon impact.
Although one of the initial goals of the madness was to “boost the morale” of the American people, it was eventually decided that if the US government commenced bombing the Moon, the American people would proceed to lose their shit.
Similar unsaneness was rejected in the Soviet Union when it was determined that a lunar A-blast would not linger long enough to be captured on film.
When sending a rocket ship to the moon first became possible, Soviet scientists proposed setting off a nuclear blast there to show the world its scientific prowess.

“In 1958 there was a plan to send an atomic bomb to the moon, so that astronomers across the world could photograph its explosion on film,” said Boris Chertok, 87, a leading rocket scientist from the earliest days of the Soviet space programme.

“That way no one would have doubted that the Soviet Union was capable of landing on the surface of the moon,” he said in an interview. “But the idea was rejected as physicists decided the flash would be so short lived because of the lack of an atmosphere on the moon that it might not register on film.”

Yet another lesson in why Bad Toys should be kept away from boys. It was not enough that the US had “sent a message” to the Soviet Union by incinerating several hundred thousand Japanese; to make absolutely sure the message was received, it was also considered necessary to start heaving nukes at celestial orbs.

Regular humans did not learn until decades later that in the 1950s the US and USSR were competing to transform the Moon into a glow-tomb. What rough beasts are today slouching around the brainpans of shoulder-boarded simians? Stay tuned.

Home For The Holidays

What in the sam hill is going on with Captain Underpants?

What is with this acting Normal, all of a sudden? Shouldn’t he have done this shit before the election? Pumping his own gas, riding a log out at Disneyland—now twitting a holiday photo from the Underpants family kitchen.

Why isn’t he going away, as is usual practice for The Loser? Please don’t tell me he is trying to rehabilitate himself, with an eye towards a political future. Laws no. Maybe he just can’t stand being out of the news.

Whatever the reason, this latest photo I find alarming, on several grounds. First, what happened to his head? When did it get so elongated? Wife Ann appears to have a head normal for a human being, while the Captain’s is twice as long, and half as wide. Did somebody put the thing in a vise? If so, why? We know that Underpants is going in for Moreau-like body modification, from the evidence of his endowed penis, which has, since the election, grown to the size of Missouri. Is this head disability a side effect?

Also, what is with the stainless steel pot? These people have more money than god. So why aren’t they cooking with copper? They could line all the kitchens in each of their 217 homes with copper pots and pans, and also afford to keep on each of these premises a tinsmith, to tend to the things. So why don’t they?

I just don’t get these people.

Rue, Britannia

So Prince Charles is having something of a public whine about the fact that he is now old enough to need a walker, yet still he will not be king.

Chuckles’ mother, Elizabeth, Queen of England, is 86, and in the midst of a thus far successful life-extension experiment involving sitting around surrounded by Corgis, sipping sherry, and listening to tunes on the iPod that Barack Obama gave her.

Elizabeth’s mother lived to the age of 101. Her life-extension experiment also involved alcohol. So much so that those who prepared her for burial and laid her to rest reportedly did so in flame-retardant clothing.

Chuck, while recently wandering round Dumfries House, referenced his “reputation for pursuing projects with notorious vigour,” thusly:

“Impatient? Me? What a thing to suggest! Yes of course I am.” He added: “I’ll run out of time soon. I shall have snuffed it if I’m not careful.”

Charles has been something of an Eeyore about his throneless state for quite some time.

In 1992, at a hoedown celebrating his mother’s 40th year on the throne, Charles said to his then father-in-law, the Earl of Spencer: “You are fortunate enough to have succeeded to the title when still young.”

In 2004, receiving congratulations from a soldier on attaining his 56th birthday, Charles observed glumly: “I’m now at the age at which my grandfather died.”

Some have suggested that Elizabeth abdicate, and allow Charles to ascend to the throne.

But why should she? She’s queen.

Others opine that Charles shouldn’t take the throne at all, but should allow son William to follow Elizabeth into the big chair. Chuck’s ex-wife, Diana, held this view. The notion that Charles should just sit in the corner gained new adherents in the national afterglow of William’s recent marriage to Kate Middleton. Of course, that marriage is still young, and Kate has yet to exercise such royal prerogatives as taking a lover, and strolling the streets of Paris with him.

Then there is William’s younger brother Harry, who suffers from a tragic birth defect in which he was born without sense. This causes him to do things like join the British armed forces and be deployed to Afghanistan, while strutting around back on the home-front in a swastika armband.

Previously there was an Issue with the British royal family and Nazis. Edward VIII, king of England during the 1930s, when Nazis were actually active, thought them goosesteppers pretty Kool. This might have presented a problem, when the Nazis commenced goosestepping across Europe, had not Edward in 1936 climbed down off the throne so he could climb atop an American divorcee. This was a no-no at the time. Not Nazis. But placing the royal pee-pee inside a woman the primates of the Church of England deemed “morally unacceptable.”

Why I Am Here

So that I would make a place, allowing this boy, to be here.

A Maine Thing

I am no longer certain that the people of Maine can claim to be Sane, or even Normal.

First came recent news that a truck rumbled out onto a Maine airport runway, causing a nonplussed plane to crash into it, settle, and burn.

Then, the Maine airways authorities pronounced that the truck had behaved in a way both Sane, and Normal.

Now we hear of the Maine man who pistol-whipped his estranged wife with his pee-pee.

No. I do not make this shit up.

The incident occurred in July, when his wife of 39 years, who was estranged from him, stayed at his place. He offered her $20 for sex, and when she refused, he took out his penis and struck her with it, according to the prosecution’s version of events, to which he pleaded guilty.

Defense Attorney Justin Andrus said Thomas was tremendously upset that his marriage of 39 years was ending. He said his estranged wife was planning to go to Pakistan to meet a man she met online.

“This was not his normal conduct,” Andrus told Justice Jeffrey Hjelm during the sentencing hearing[.]

“Not his normal conduct.” This is good to hear. That it is still considered Not Normal, there in Maine, for this man, or any other man, to whip out his pee-pee, and start flagellating with it some ex-pillow companion, simply because she wants to follow online some man from Pakistan.

Increasingly, there really are no additional words, to add to these stories, of the ways and means, of the Americans.

I’m Alive

Another treat; another of the finest films ever made: Peter Weir’s Fearless. Based partially on the journey of United Airlines Flight 232: Dennis Fitch, who helped return that crippled craft to earth: “For the 30 minutes I was up there, I was the most alive I’ve ever been. That is the only way I can describe it to you.”

Time Warp

Joe Ratzinger, the ex-Nazi who today wears the big hat in the Catholic Church, has written a book in which he ruefully admits that no one really knows when the hell Jesus of Nazareth was truly born. Seems it’s pretty certain the guy was born earlier than commonly assumed, and as a result all the Christ-centered calendars are completely out of whack.

According to Rats, the Wrongness and Confusion began with one Dionysius Exiguus, a dude rudely dubbed “Dennis the Small.”

“The calculation of the beginning of our calendar—based on the birth of Jesus—was made by Dionysius Exiguus, who made a mistake in his calculations by several years,” the Pope writes in the book[.]

“The actual date of Jesus’s birth was several years before.”

Dennis the Small, who was born in Eastern Europe, is credited with being the “inventor” of the modern calendar and the concept of the Anno Domini era.

The monk’s calendar became widely accepted in Europe after it was adopted by the Venerable Bede, the historian-monk, to date the events that he recounted in his Ecclesiastical History of the English People, which he completed in AD 731.

The Bible does not specify a date for the birth of Christ. The monk instead appears to have based his calculations on vague references to Jesus’s age at the start of his ministry and the fact that he was baptised in the reign of the emperor Tiberius.

So nobody knows what year the guy popped up. And all the calendars are Wrong. And meanwhile the December 25 date for Jesus’ birth, is just shit made up, a transparent attempt, there back in the day, to accommodate pagans already accustomed to partying each year on the Winter Solstice.

“There is no reference to when he was born in the Bible—all we know is that he was born in the reign of Herod the Great, who died before 1AD,” [Professor John Barton of Oxford University] told The Daily Telegraph. “It’s been surmised for a very long time that Jesus was born before 1AD—no one knows for sure.”

The idea that Christ was born on Dec 25 also has no basis in historical fact. “We don’t even know which season he was born in. The whole idea of celebrating his birth during the darkest part of the year is probably linked to pagan traditions and the winter solstice.”

Also in his book, Rats snarls that those who claim Jesus was born in Nazareth, which he was, rather than in Bethlehem, as the song would have it, are heretics, who in the good old days would simply have been burnt.

Elsewhere in the tome, the vagina-fearing Ratzinger, worldwide head of Occupy Womb Street, foams at the mouth and rolls on the floor at the notion that Jesus was the product of a pee-pee pumping waves and particles into Mary’s holy of holies.

[He] insists that the doctrine of the virgin birth be taken at face value and that it is an “unequivocal” pillar of Christian belief.

In a section of the book entitled “Virgin Birth – Myth or Historical Truth?”, he reaffirms that Christ was not conceived through sexual intercourse but by the power of the Holy Spirit.

The “virgin birth” horseshit was invented in the 2nd Century CE, a couple hundred years after Jesus lay a-molderin’ in the grave, and, like most of the other trappings draped over the guy, it derives from pagan sources.

In his Rat-writ the former Hitler-hewer crossly contends that the angels that attended Jesus’ birth did not sing, but rather spoke, and therefore Christians should bugger off with all the fuggin’ Christmas carols.

He writes that when the gospels refer to the “heavenly host” of angels “praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest”, they in fact spoke the words rather than sang them.

Rats knows that caroling bubbles up from pagan loins, and so he wants it stopped right now.

The Rat-man book is called Jesus of Nazareth: The Infancy Narratives. With such a title, one might expect that it contains actual verbatim quotes, from the very lips of the young god-man. These can be expected to include:

—”Good milk today, mom. Whatever you’re eating, keep it up.”

—”Frankincense and myrrh, frankincense and myrrh—always frankincense and myrrh. Can’t somebody for once bring some Reese’s Pieces, for chrissake?”

—”I don’t have to listen to you, Joseph. You’re not my real father.”

—”Hey: has anybody invented diapers yet? Maybe a flush toilet?”

And, of course, the immortal:

—”Fuck! I incarnated in this place?”

The Ratzinger tome finally lies that there were no animals present at Jesus’ birth.

[C]ontrary to popular belief, Jesus’s birth was not presided over by oxen, asses, camels or indeed any other beasts.

“There is no mention of animals in the Gospels,” he wrote[.]

Bullshit. What does this guy know? He used to strut around wearing a swastika armband.

Despite what this dope says, it is in truth a well-known Fact that not only were animals all over the dern place, there in the manger, but, furthermore, and because they were so nice that night to the new god-man, he fixed it so that every year, on the night of the anniversary of his birth, all the animals all over the world get to talk in human language, if they feel like it.

Anyone who has ever truly been around animals has witnessed this. I myself have on several occasions provided transcripts.

Maybe if Rats spent more time around animals—not to mention vaginas—he’d have more of a Clue as to what really goes on around this joint.

Maybe he’d even know what time it is.

Flying On The Ground Is Wrong

Recently we learned that a Mesa, Arizona woman had determined that her husband’s failure to vote November 6 had ripped a hole in the fabric of space/time, thereby singularly enabling the black man to be re-elected president.

This required her to then run down him with the family SUV.

Now we discover that another Mesa woman has been directed to bounce her vehicle onto a runway at Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport, cruising along with a pacifier in her mouth, in search of a shoe.

[A]n airport operations worker was testing the gate when the small sedan crashed through. The worker promptly notified police and the control tower, which ordered a halt to air traffic operations.

As the car made it onto a runway, [the woman] lost control, then took off again.

A police probable-cause statement said she then hit a portable toilet and kept driving until an officer rammed her car and caused it to spin around and crash into a fence.

Police found [the woman] in the car with a pacifier in her mouth. All she told officers was that she wanted her flip-flop shoe.

Apparently this sort of thing is more or less routine: errant motorists commonly invade Phoenix runways with their vehicles.

In 2005, for instance, a man chased by police crashed through an airport gate and then serenely plowed through the pathways of many jets.
Two years before, joyriding teenagers veered wantonly all over the busy tarmac.
In both incidents, complete chaos ensued, with air traffic completely halted, all sky pilots in the vicinity completely paralyzed by Fear.

It is not right and proper, however, to solely slag Phoenix drivers and pilots for running unutterably wild upon the runways.
For up in Maine, where they like to think they are Sane, a truck last week went a-chooglin’ across a runway, causing a single-engine Cessna to smash into it, and then, in the course of things, crash, and burst into flames.
And the allegedly Sane officials of Maine have now announced that the truck behaved in a way Totally Normal.

Investigators say the driver of the pickup truck that collided with an airplane that crashed at Knox County Regional Airport last week followed proper safety procedures.

A preliminary report issued Wednesday by the National Transportation Safety Board says the driver, Stephen Turner, 62, of Camden, used a common radio frequency to announce his intention to cross the runway before the fatal crash late Friday afternoon.

When no one responded, Turner drove onto the runway. His pickup truck collided with a single-engine Cessna 172 that was taking off with two University of Maine students and one recent UMaine graduate on board.

According to the NTSB report, Turner used a taxiway to follow another airplane out to the edge of a runway.

Turner “held short” of the runway before announcing his intention to cross on the airport’s common traffic advisory radio frequency.

The airport, which has no tower or flight controllers, has a policy that says people in vehicles are supposed to communicate by radio with planes, and vice versa.

The report says Turner “heard no [radio] response nor saw anything on the runway, and he proceeded to cross runway 31.”

The report does not say whether [the pilot] acknowledged Turner’s radio message or whether he even heard it.

The report says Turner saw something “grayish in color”— it does not mention that he felt a collision—before continuing across the runway. At that point, Turner got out of his truck and saw an airplane attempting to climb.

Are you people flying out of Maine? Please don’t.

Meanwhile, back in Arizona, an ur-human firearm-fondler out of Pinetop, a burg located about 150 miles from the Phoenix-runway pinball-machine, has declared that—just so everyone will know he has a burning cross tattooed on his forehead—from his arsenal of death, he shall sell no firearms, at this or any other time, to anyone who voted November 6 for the black man.

No big deal. Obama voters, generally, are evolved beyond the need for firearms.

Silly things. Old and in the way. Long over.

Like planes.

That Made It Right

(A slice and dice of several previous red Thanksgiving pieces, including those here and here.) 

One Thanksgiving I spent in jail. I was young, and therefore brash and rash, and so thought myself immortal, impervious. Didn’t think then, there in stir, about doing serious prison time, which is what I was facing. Just had to wait for the holiday weekend to pass, I figured, then the lawyer could tease the bail down to a Sane level. Which is what happened. The serious grinding over the prison time, that came later.

Thanksgiving was my third or fourth day in the place. I occupied alone a single-cell, which I belatedly learned was supposed to be a sort of punishment. I could smoke in there—can’t do that no more, in the jails in this state—and I could think and plan and wonder and reflect. There were tolerable volumes from the jail library with which I could pass the time. Nobody bothered me. I could talk to the folks—though yes I couldn’t see them—in the cells on either side of me. But I could choose not to, too.

This was 25 years or so ago, when they still fed you decently in the jails around here. And so on Thanksgiving they shoved through the bars a fair approximation of a traditional American Thanksgiving repast: turkey, mashed potatoes, rolls, cranberry sauce, yams, etc. I ate all of it. Yams I hadn’t much eaten before, and I haven’t eaten them since. But I had already discovered, there a monkey confined to a cage, that I’d eat just about anything the keepers slid my way. You do tend to get hungry, in every way, when your life is caged.

After Thanksgiving dinner the screws punched a video into the TV/VCR combo that sat on a low metal table rolled about on casters in the hall outside the cells occupied by we “serious felons.” I absolutely could not believe it: the film was The Black Stallion, one of my favorite movies, a tone poem completely about freedom, but one that I figured these cynical magpies in the “serious felon” row would hoot down and away, dismissing it as a “children’s flick.” How wrong I was. They, as it developed, had been on this row much longer than I; they had seen this film several times before, and they valued it. They got it as only people who don’t have it could get it.

Because it was Thanksgiving, that night we got a double feature. The second film was a ninja thing. As soon as it was punched in, we heard a groan from the guy in the cell to the far right.

“What bullshit,” he groused in his gravelly voice. “This is the one with the guy who takes more bullets and lives than even the guy in Scarface. What bullshit.”

And it was true. The ninja hero at one point was riddled with what looked like 20 or 30 bullets, mostly to the head and chest . . . but still, he kept on coming. As this nonsense approached its zenith, the guy in the cell at the far right kept muttering variations on “bullshit” and “check out this shit” and “no way.”

My unseen jailbird companion to my left at one point whispered to me: “That dude at the end, the reason why he’s pissed at this stupid shit: he’s in here on murder. He knows what it takes to kill a person. And it ain’t much.”

Several years later I spent Thanksgiving at Denny’s. I didn’t have to be there; I could have been other places, with other people. But Denny’s is where that Thanksgiving I chose to be. Even at the time, I knew that my Thanksgiving in Denny’s was worse than the Thanksgiving I’d spent in jail. Because then, in jail, somebody else had locked me up. But in dining at Denny’s, I had entered a jail of my own making.

Usually, these days, I don’t associate Thanksgiving with jail. But in 2010 it came back at me. Because the day before Thanksgiving, there in 2010, a jury out of Texas decided that Tom DeLay, former majority leader of the United States House of Representatives, had committed enough crimes to stash him away in a cage for the rest of his life.

furthur=>

We’ve Always Drowned Your Voice With Our Shouting

A holiday treat. One of the finest films ever made. And with the Jim Sheridan/Terry George films In The Name Of The Father, Some Mother’s Son, and The Boxer, the complete filmic explication of the 20th Century version of “The Troubles.”

Gobblelypse Now

“The horror. The horror.”

—Colonel Kurtz

When I was four years old, and therefore far more in touch with what is really going on than I am now, I received a vision that potato chips had grown tired of being consumed in mass quantities, and were therefore plotting Rebellion.

I prepared an illustrated handbook documenting this revolt. I believe the creatures eventually sprouted hands, and employed such weapons as machine-guns and gas-powered balloons.

If memory serves, they ultimately prevailed over the United States Marine Corps—no great feat, anyone can do that, as succeeding decades have amply demonstrated—and retired in peace and serenity to some far island.

I should now note that, some decades on, I have recently received Word from a worker in a potato-chip factory who reports that the chips in his care are becoming unusually restive.

Writes he:

I’ve seen some weird-looking chips, and also “bad” chips, that I’ve tried to throw away, but who resist such efforts.

So: be prepared. If the things soon come boiling out of the bags, bristling with Bad Intentions, don’t say you weren’t warned.

Knowing that centuries of human abuse of the animal, mineral, and vegetable kingdoms will someday, and probably soon, result in even the potato chips taking up arms, I was not at all surprised to learn that, as the American humans enter onto Thanksgiving Day, turkeys in Brookline, Massachusetts have gone totally wild, besieging humans on the streets, in vehicles, even in their homes.

“They were attacking the vehicle,” Karen Halvorson said outside her home in the Aspinwall Hill neighborhood.

After getting in her truck, a neighbor came and ran the birds off but it didn’t stop there.

“Then, the turkeys came and started attacking my front door,” she said.

A second run-in came a few weeks ago as she walked nearby.

“I looked back and three of them charged me,” she explained.

She moved to the center of the street to avoid the animals, but it wasn’t enough.

“The turkey flew in my face and scratched my neck,” she said.

Halvorson’s husband has prepared many piles of stout sticks, scattered about the neighborhood, which can be used in combat against the rampaging hordes.

“At least we can throw a stick at them and run into the house,” said Halvorson.

The beasts do not respect even the children.

“Some people are going to work, and they’ve been chased by turkeys,” said Brookline Animal Control Officer Pierre Verrier.

He spends nearly every morning trying to keep the animals away from students at Brookline High School.

“Sometimes I even take a tennis racket to try and shoo them out,” he said.

Humans who attempt to photograph the wishbone terrorists can expect to be attacked maniacally.

Whatever you do, don’t feed them or try to take a picture.

“There was a gentleman who took a picture with a flash and they flew right into his face.”

The humans are now scheduling “meetings,” in which they hope to settle on solutions for grappling with the Menace.

A frustrated Karen Halvorson is now working with Brookline town leaders to organize a meeting about the problem. Neighbors need guidance and an opportunity to vent, she said.

“I can’t believe we’re living this way,” she said. Town Selectman Nancy Daly is helping coordinate the  gathering which she said will likely be held December 6. She wants anyone who has had a run-in with a turkey to attend and tell their story.

A similar meeting was held last week in Newton, where aggressive turkey reports are on the rise as well.

Too late. As anyone who has watched the Alfred Hitchcock documentary The Birds well knows, when once these fine feathered folks decide they’ve had enough: it’s over.

One of the dudes just defeated Captain Underpants. Just sayin’.

Man Without A Country

Someday Captain Underpants will no longer be featured on this blog.

Someday. But not today.

Oh no. Because, today, scarcely had we learned that he had made a public spectacle of himself at a La Jolla gas station, but came news that he had invaded Disneyland, apparently there seeking asylum.

Rumor has it that the man barricaded himself in Fantasyland, pronouncing that place his natural and God-given abode—for, truly, all his dreams for the presidency, resided only in Fantasyland.

He attempted to declare the place the Free Republic Of Romneyland, until he was wrestled to the ground, subdued, and dragged to the gates by a combo of Pluto, Tinker Bell, and Tiger Lily.

He then attempted to fill out a job application as Goofy, contending that the fact that his ass is screwed on backwards, so that he is forever walking away from himself, is pretty fucking goofy. Disney factotums allowed that this was true, but averred that he would scare the children and shock the horses, which indeed is what he has done, all over the nation, for these past many months.

In the photo above we see Captain Underpants exiting the area, accompanied by wife Ann. Her nose is wrinkled in disgust, perhaps indicating that her husband has again been huffing gas. It is also possible that he needs a change of underwear. It is said that he stubbornly clung to the same unwashed drawers for more than a year, claiming them to be his “lucky underpants.” No such luck, Cap’n. Your luck done run out.

Sadsacks Of Crime

Back in the day, miscreants had cool nicknames.

Pretty Boy Floyd. Baby Face Nelson. Legs Diamond. Machine Gun Kelly. Ma Barker. Mad Dog Coll. Dutch Schultz.

But, as they say, times today, ain’t what they used to be.

And so now we have this pitiful sadsack, picked up today by the government boys, known by the name John Doe Duffel Bag.

This is the most singularly unexciting moniker I have ever heard. He might as well be called Boredom Bill. Yawny Yanni. Somnambulent Sam.

When he goes into the big house, he is going to have to be placed in solitary. Because all the other prisoners will laugh at him. John Doe Duffel Bag. That is beyond pathetic. The other inmates: he will have to do all of their laundry, iron their shirts, shine their shoes.

So it is best that he just stays in his own good hole, hiding his face in shame.

John Doe Duffel Bag. There is simply no hope for such a fellow. No will ever write a song, make a film, about John Doe Duffel Bag. ‘Cept maybe a cartoon.

Born Without The Ability To Consider Others

(Now that noted slave-holder and Hebrew-fearer Ron “Rugs” Paul has retired from Congress, and would-be veep Paul Ryan has been adjudged The Loser, slinking back into the House, where the Orangeman is giving him the back of his hand, there is Hope that the Americans may no longer need to hear, at least for a time, incessant references to the late and unlamented howling imbecile Ayn Rand.

(Unlike this past summer, when it occasionally seemed like the woman would never climb back into her coffin, but would forever stalk the land, like some shrieking electrified corpse. It was during one such period that the piece below was penned, for the same shooting-star iPad app wherein appeared this thing and this thing.) 

If the so-called “law of attraction” is valid—if, indeed, “that which is like unto itself is drawn”—then, as Joan McCarter pointed out, the selection of Paul Ryan as Mitt Romney’s running mate was inevitable.

Because if one thing has defined the defeated 2012 GOoPer standard-bearer this campaign season, it is that the truth is not in him: he is a lie with feet; a prevaricator of pre-whale-Pinocchio proportions.

Whatever the truth is, Mitt Romney, the man whose very ass is on backwards, will run from it like Richard Pryor with his body on fire, straight into the arms of its very opposite.

And thus it is so with Paul Ryan as well.

Ryan, we now know, will, like Romney, his co-aerialist on the Hindenburg that is the GOoPer ticket, lie about anything and everything. Including, as Richard Cranium outlined, the very roots of his political philosophy.

For Ryan is a life-long devotee of Ayn Rand. Except now, now that he is the defeated candidate for vice-president, he isn’t.

Preparing even then to serve aboard the Hindenburg, Ryan earlier this year lied to the National Review:

“You know you’ve arrived in politics when you have an urban legend about you, and this one is mine,” chuckles Representative Paul Ryan, the Budget Committee chairman, as we discuss his purported obsession with author and philosopher Ayn Rand.

Problem is, as Elspeth Reeve noted, the originator of this “purported” “urban legend,” is Ryan himself.

furthur=>

Out Of Gas

Captain Underpants is still out there, touring the land, his long-suffering family strapped to the roof of the car.

He is traveling the regions of the nation that made him The Loser. Of these there are many.

Unconfirmed reports indicate that he may be considering purchasing all or some of these regions. It is then believed that he will transform these properties into toxic waste dumps, deep-dish communication arrays for maintaining contact with the home world, garment districts for the production of magic underpants, and vast scientific facilities in which it will be determined if and how the bones may be replaced in his arms, and his ass rescrewed so that it is no longer on backwards.

Not long ago he was surrounded at all times by many hyper-alert Secret Service agents, who scrutinized his every move, and who would not even permit him to zip his own fly, in case this presented a Danger.

But these agents have since moved on to worthier pursuits, such as interrogating water lizards, and condemning cannon that have not fired a shot since the Harding administration.

And so today Underpants has been reduced to pumping his own gas, just like that majority of Americans he has bitterly flayed for voting for the black man, in exchange for the black man’s “gifts.”

Here we see him obtaining new fumes at a petrol station in La Jolla, California. One of his 217 homes is located in this community. The snapper of this photograph reports that “I talked to him for a good three minutes while he was filling his tank. I guess he’s moving to one of his houses in the town I live in, La Jolla.”

From the evidence of this encounter, and even in the photograph above, Underpants is not only fueling his vehicle with gas, he is also huffing it.

“At first he seemed happy,” the photog reported. “He was giggling and humming and singing snatches of ‘Puff The Magic Dragon,’ except he called it ‘Huff.’

“But then he began weeping and jabbering, demanding to know why ‘little Jackie Paper’ no longer ‘loved that rascal pup.’ He complained he had been promised a planet called ‘Honalee,” but apparently his ‘White Horse’ broke down before he could get there, and now he has lost his way. He went flapping towards the door of the gas station, crying for a map, but he was blocked from entering by the owner, who said he smelled like an overturned diesel, and should go away at once, before he went off like a bomb.

“He then tightened the straps on his wife Ann, who was attached to the roof of the car, and went roaring off down the boulevard. The nozzle was still in his tank, and he tore it out by the roots, screeching that he was off to ‘frolic in the autumn mist’ and vowing that ‘pirate ships would lower their flag when Huff roared out his name.’

“‘I’m Huff!’ was the last thing I heard him say, as he barreled round the corner. ‘I’m Huff!'”

In A Split-Pea Shell

“Have you got a secret, Alexandra?” he asked.

She heard his question, and smiled at it, and nodded a couple of times as if to someone a long way off. “My secret is called Tatiana,” she said.

“That’s a good name,” he said. “Tatiana. How did you come by that?”

Raising her head, she smiled radiantly at the icons on the wall. “It is forbidden to talk about it,” she said. “If you talk about it, nobody will believe you, but they put you in a clinic.”

“But you are in a clinic already,” he pointed out.

“Are you God?”

“No, I’m just an ordinary person.”

“Mother Felicity says that in every ordinary person, there is a part that is God.”

This time it was his turn to take a long while to reply. His mouth opened, then with uncharacteristic hesitation closed again.

“I have heard it said too,” he replied, and looked away.

—John Le Carre, Smiley’s People

Days Of Heaven

I been thinkin’ what to do with my future. I could be a mud doctor. Checkin’ out the earth underneath.

—Days of Heaven

There is something very restful about a cornfield. When I was a young sprout, I spent a lot of time in them. I would go in about three or four rows, and then lay down, to set about examining the world of the cornfield. Which is unlike the world anywhere else.

Another cool thing about a cornfield is that from there, three or four rows in, you can still see into the outer world. But it can’t see into you.

Eventually I’d go to sleep. Because there is something about a cornfield that acts on the corporeal container like that field of poppies in the Wizard of Oz.

I would also journey into cornfields with L—. There in the cornfield is where she and I taught each other night moves. We could see her house from where we were, three or four rows in, but her house couldn’t see us. This was good. Because if it had been able to, her father would have come rushing out, with many shotguns, and my head would have flown right off my body. He didn’t think his daughter should be learning about the heating properties of bodies. Certainly not with me.

But, you know, apparently, just like the Secret Service boys Say, there is, everywhere, Danger—even in cornfields.

This the lesson learned last Wednesday by a man who laid down to rest in a cornfield outside Billings, Montana, and woke up inside a harvesting combine.

Yellowstone County Sheriff’s Lt. Kent O’Donnell said the 57-year-old, whose name will not be released, was passing through town on the Greyhound bus from Washington, D.C. He was walking along the 4900 block of Grand Avenue when he decided to take a rest.

“He said that he stepped off the busy road and about three rows of corn into the field,” O’Donnell said. “He said he didn’t have intentions of sleeping, but fell asleep anyway.”

At about 1:15 p.m., the landowner drove a combine into the field to harvest corn. The farmer drove about 50 yards when the combine shuddered, O’Donnell said.

“The farmer thought he had driven over a fence post or an irrigation pipe, but once he turned the machine off, he could hear a man screaming,” he said.

The machine had caught the man’s clothing and sucked him into the cutter, O’Donnell said.

The man was successfully sucked back out of the combine, and treated for “non life-threatening injuries” at a nearby hospital. There are some deep lacerations, and these may require skin grafts.

“For this situation, the man is incredibly lucky to be alive,” O’Donnell said. “And that’s about all you can say about that.”

When you think about it, we’re all incredibly lucky to be alive. And that’s about all you can say about that.

One Thing

More than five million people are estimated to have died from violence, hunger and disease in wars in Congo since 1998. It is the deadliest conflict since World War Two.

Reuters, November 17. 2012

Danger Will Robinson

Life as a Secret Service agent can’t be much fun. Everywhere, you are looking for Danger. No matter what it is, you are programmed to regard it as a potential Menace. Every person, place, and thing—all must be given the stinkeye. You are like that robot in Lost in Space, forever primed to shout “Danger Will Robinson!”

There is not a lot of room for error in your occupation. If you have a bad day on the job, the president goes on a ventilator, or into a box. The stresses are such that sometimes you must consume vast quantities of intoxicants, and bark at your prostitute that you don’t feel like paying her usual fee. Then your name gets in the papers, and you are demoted, relegated to strapping Captain Underpants’ dog onto the roof of the car, or recurrently returning one of the Bush daughters to the vertical, after inebriants crash her to the floor.

Currently Secret Service agents are casing Thailand, in advance of a visit to that nation by President Obama. And everywhere they go, they are paralyzed by Fear.

As the Bangkok Post reports, they were convinced that the water lizards wandering about the grounds of Government House are actually carnivorous Komodo dragons, tasked with eating the president.

They were also totally opposed to antique cannon, relics of a Thai king who died 87 years ago, that sit peaceably on the lawn: these, the agents Knew, would blow off the president’s head, as soon as he came within range.

Of course, maybe a few Komodo dragons and active cannon might be expected, by these ever-alert SS agents, knowing, as presumably they do, that Obama, together with Secretary of State Hillary Clinton and Secretary of Defense Leon Panetta, are arriving in Thailand to attempt to further enlist that nation in America’s perverse War on Terra.

Seems the Americans want to establish “a humanitarian and disaster relief force” at U-Tapao, a Thai naval and air force complex built by the US military when it was being beaten like a gong during the Vietnam War.

After that war, US uniforms, these from Thailand got lost. Thais who are Sane prefer they stay that way.

But apparently Al Qaeda and Co. are becoming Boring, and so a new Enemy has to be found that can fill the Americans with fear and loathing. Looks like China—previously scheduled to be the Big Meanie before Atta and the boys veered the planes into the towers—is being test-driven for the role.

Read this nimrod, who pounds the desk at some Thai university.

“The return to U-Tapao would be very symbolic for the US, sending a message to China that it is returning to mainland South-East Asia,” said Panitan Wattanayagorn, a military affairs expert at Bangkok’s Chulalongkorn University.

But such a development would require the consent of parliament, where it is likely to face strong opposition. Large segments of Thai society might also think twice about having US soldiers based permanently on their soil again, he said.

“The US is returning to Southeast Asia whether you like it or not,” Mr Panitan said. “So do you want to engage in the return or stand idle and be seen as a Chinese satellite?”

The US might look beyond Thailand for new bases in Southeast Asia, including Cambodia, Indonesia, the Philippines, Singapore and even Vietnam, Mr Panitan said.

Oh noez! Danger Will Robinson! “Chinese satellite!”

Gadz. Lived so long, I’ve heard this song before. It was bad then. It’s bad now.


When I Worked

November 2012
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