Search Results for '"captain Underpants"'

March Of The Wooden Soldiers

We now know the genesis of addled actor Clint Eastwood’s “talk to the chair” routine at the 2012 Republican National Convention.

Seems the man was arest in his hotel room, preparing his speech, when some puckish alien-being forcibly piped in over the radio Neil Diamond’s 1971 his faultemu-pop hit “I Am . . . I Said.”

This is the Diamond number that contains the notorious foursome:

i am, i said
to no one there
and no one heard at all
not even the chair

This last line is one of the great clunkers in all of songwriting. People active and practiced in the craft,  to this day they cannot understand why persons and/or sound machines emitting such a travesty are not pelted with tomatoes, squash, eggplant, and other rotting substances.

I mean, yeah, the guy needed a rhyme for “there.” And, in this tune, Diamond is deeply afunk in Bummertude. Because he ain’t being listened to. About the crushing burden of having to live in Los Angeles, rather than New York. In order to earn eleventy-billion dollars in the music business.

So sure, okay, we get it, nobody’s listening to him bleat.

And, among the nobodies, can be counted a chair.

But, like, had the chair ever heard him? When he was moaning about having to earn more money than Midas, out in LA, rather than in New York? Was it normal for the chair to give ear, when he was on about such things? Was this like . . . a magic chair?

Or, since we are talking 1971 here, a drug chair? A chair that, when Mr. Diamond delved into the many fine psychoactive substances of the time, heard and talked and danced and sang and otherwise engaged in all manner of merry wonderful weirdness?

We receive no information about any of this. All we know is that the chair doesn’t hear him.

And this is not surprising. Because a chair—unless it is a drug chair, and/or a quantum physics chair—is not equipped with drug chairaural apparati. Hearing is not what a chair is supposed to be about. The thing is there but to plant your butt on.

No. Sorry to say, what we must here reluctantly conclude, is that Diamond was a lazy-ass mofo. Who just settled on some “chair,” not hearing him, because he was too slothful and/or thickheaded to come up with any other rhyme for “there.”

And it is said that the man spent four months writing that song.

And in all that time the best he could up with was “not even the chair”? The mind: it reels.

Today, while driving, it took me about four minutes to come up with about fourteen alternatives.

For instance, if Diamond had not been suffering from a city-disability, and were singing instead from or about some country place Normal, then various and sundry animals could have been mustered not to hear him. We could have had “not even the bear” or “not even the hare” or “not even the mare.” Who were not hearing the guy.

Or he could have complained “not even Aunt Clare,” which would also have allowed him to go wild with banjos in the break. Or “in all County Klare,” which would have permitted him to pour a thundering wall of bagpipes into the song.

Since Diamond at the time was riding a wave of songs in which he praised unrestrained bibulation—”Cracklin’ Rosie,” “Red, Red Wine,” etc.—he could have referenced his ongoing rednoseness by admitting “and no one heard at all/when I tripped on the stair.”

He could have been all stoic, and defiantly proclaimed: “and I did not care.” He could have gone dada, and pronounced: “so I ate a pear.” Or strayed into Isaac Hayes territory, with “so I porked the au pair.” He could have envisioned the onrushing cult of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and come out as a crossdresser, boasting “so I shaved with Nair.”

And so on.

Anywho. Clint—fast-forward to 2012—is there in his hotel room, when suddenly the extraterrestrials—who, as has previously been documented here on red, owned and controlled the GOoPer portion of the 2012 presidential campaign—bring to him over clint chairthe radio Diamond declaiming about the obdurate chair that will not hear.

And  Clint, he experiences a truly massive brainshower. He will go on stage, with a chair, and pretend it is President Obama. And, like the Diamond chair, the Obama chair, when Clint pours out upon it his complaints, it will just sit there; it will neither hear, nor respond.

This brainshower, it will be remembered, when it was spewed out across the land, was considered a laff riot by that 23% of the American population that occupies what is today the equivalent of Dogpatch.

“Way to put it to the black man, Clint!” the Dogpatchians, they squealed like a pig. “Yeehaw!”

However, those of us who have not married or otherwise had sexual congress with our sisters, and/or other blood relatives, we had quite a different reaction.

Not even the Captain Underpants people, it developed, not even they, could easily stomach the chair scene. Literally, they could not stomach it. Senior Underpants advisor Stuart Stevens, it is said, vomited. While the Neil-inspired Eastwood, he was dying there, on stage, with the chair. Stevens, he wished that, like in the Diamond song, no one would hear Clint. At all. Not even the chair.

It was the astute AvoWoman who first pointed out to me that this speech was not the first time that Eastwood had publicly addressed wood products.

Oh no. For way back in 1969, Eastwood wandered around on screen, “singing,” in the film Paint Your Wagon, “I Talk To The Trees.”

And even back then, the wood gave ol’ Clint the deaf ear.

And it was not only the trees. But every other blessed natural element, as well.

I talk to the trees
But they don’t listen to me
I talk to the stars
But they never hear me
The breeze hasn’t time
To stop and hear what I say
I talk to them all in vain

Be warned. Beyond the furthur, I shall embed Mr. Eastwood. “Singing.” Not only that, I shall also embed, from the same film, Lee Marvin, also “singing.” And this last, some say, is the aural equivalent of the Holocaust.

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Photographic Proof Of Alternative Universe

Some people persist in denying the Reality of alternative universes. This is silly. But then, there you go. Humans: silly.

Fact is, as Dr. Che Guevera of the Havana Institute for Theoretical and Applied Physics once observed, there are “one, two, many universes.” Some of not realthese universes are very far from the one occupied in this moment by those here reading red. In such a faraway universe, one might encounter strange and startling phenomena like Dick Cheney moon-walking, or Michael Jackson, heartless, calling down bomb-rain. In such a place, a tank might ride around inside Michael Dukakis, rather than vice versa.

Other universes are much closer. There, most stuff may seem just like it is “here.” But there are subtle differences.

For instance, in a nearby universe, Ron “Rugs” Paul may possess three brain cells. Rather than two.

Occasionally, little windows wink in, through which one may briefly perceive an alternative universe. Actually, sometimes the windows aren’t all that little. Sometimes you can drive a freaking semi through the things. Like, when you eat a damn great dose of LSD.

But never mind that now.

It can sometimes be nonplussing, when an alternative universe winks in. One may, say, while driving, miss a turn. Because the turn is no longer there. Or take those teabaggers who wailed that when they attempted to vote for Captain Underpants, the machine recorded instead a vote for Barack Obama. All that happened there, was that they shifted a couple universes over, into one where they were Sane.

Recently photographic evidence emerged of the sudden wink-in of an alternative universe. It was even broadcast live, on the teevee. It involved a baseball pitcher for the team known as the Boston Red Sox.

For the uninitiated, rudimentaries of the game of baseball (as well as Proof that thought is alien to the male brain) may be found here.

Briefly, a baseball pitcher is expected to hurl a ball over the “plate.” Where a hitter then endeavors to hit it. The ball. Not the plate. Or the pitcher.

As seen in the gif below, Boston pitcher Felix Doubront threw a ball some distance from the plate. A fairly significant distance.

proof

Sports people have been guffawing and heehawing about this for more than a week now. But that is because they are rude, and because they don’t Understand.

You see, Doubront did not suffer a little mini-stroke. And he was not under the influence of psychedelics, as was Dock Ellis, during his fabled no-hitter of 1970.

No, what happened is that, as Doubront prepared to deliver the pitch, a little window into an alternative universe winked in. Doubrant perceived the plate in that alternative universe, which was located some distance from the plate in this one. And thus he, correctly, heaved the ball towards that plate. Because that was the one he saw. In fact, in that alternative universe, the pitch was a strike.

We don’t see it, the alternative universe—complete with plate and batter and umpire and hot dogs and popcorn and everything—there in the gif, because it all winked in and out so quickly.

And because winking alternative universes are not always apparent to everybody. Some see ‘em; some don’t.

But they’re Real.

Underpants Unraveling Exposed

Some people still fail to understand how Captain Underpants could have lost so badly, there in November of 2012, to the Marxist Kenyan black man.

Not me. The man’s ass was screwed on backwards. That’sthe man enough to Doom anybody.

But for some, though, that is not enough.

For instance, 49% of those ur-humans who identify as Republicans believe that Underpants failed to prevail only because the election was “stolen” for the black man by ACORN, an organization that has not existed for nearly three years.

Now, even these brain-scrambled doubters may have to reassess. Now that David Corn, the same journalist who embarrassed Underpants with the release of the notorious surreptitiously-recorded “47%” video, has gone wide with another video from out of the Underpants campaign.

This video, reproduced below, depicts three top Underpants advisors plotting strategy for the late October and early November cycle of the campaign.

It must be admitted that these seem to be genial enough people. Politics, though, probably not really their line of work.

Sheep Dips

One would like to believe that the Americans are redeemable. Problem is, conflicting with such a belief, keep coming the Facts.

For instance, it was previously Known that 58% of those Americans identifying as Republicans either believed, or weren’t sure, that the black man in the republicanWhite House was born outside the US; 52% of these Americans decreed that it was either “definitely true” or “probably true” that the black man “sympathizes with the goals of Islamic fundamentalists who want to impose Islamic law around the world”; while 24% of all Americans had concluded the black man is, in fact, the Antichrist.

Now, the black man having thoroughly thrashed Captain Underpants, some 49% of Republican Americans have Decided that he did not legitimately win the election—because the contest was in fact “stolen” by ACORN, an organization that has not existed for more than two years.

Why is it, one may cry, like Lear mad upon the heath, that so many of the Americans, they persist in dragging their knuckles right down to the ground?

Some doubledome out of Harvard, writing for the New York Times, may have the answer. And that answer can be expressed in one word: sheep.

In a piece titled “Why Are States So Red And Blue,” Stephen Pinker opines that the sort of ur-humans who are convinced the black man is an Islamic Antichrist elevated to office by Acorns, are descendants of people who ran livestock across the land; meanwhile, the Sane people, who eschew such beliefs, sprang from the loins of farmers.

Writes Pinker:

The historian David Hackett Fischer traces the divide back to the British settlers of colonial America. The North was largely settled by English farmers, the inland South by Scots-Irish herders. Anthropologists have long noted that societies that herd livestock in rugged terrain tend to develop a “culture of honor.” Since their wealth has feet and can be stolen in an eye blink, they are forced to deter rustlers by cultivating a hair-trigger for violent retaliation against any trespass or insult that probes their resolve. Farmers can afford to be less belligerent because it is harder to steal their land out from under them, particularly in territories within the reach of law enforcement. As the settlers moved westward, they took their respective cultures with them. The psychologist Richard Nisbett has shown that Southerners today continue to manifest a culture of honor which yeehawlegitimizes violent retaliation. It can be seen in their laws (like capital punishment and a stand-your-ground right to self-defense), in their customs (like paddling children in schools and volunteering for military service), even in their physiological reactions to trivial insults.

Admittedly, it’s hard to believe that today’s Southerners and Westerners carry a cultural memory of sheepherding ancestors.  But it may not be the herding profession itself that nurtures a culture of honor so much as living in anarchy. All societies must deal with the dilemma famously pointed out by Hobbes: in the absence of government, people are tempted to attack one another out of greed, fear and vengeance. European societies, over the centuries, solved this problem as their kings imposed law and order on a medieval patchwork of fiefs ravaged by feuding knights. The happy result was a thirty-fivefold reduction in their homicide rate from the Middle Ages to the present. Once the monarchs pacified the people, the people then had to rein in the monarchs, who had been keeping the peace with arbitrary edicts and gruesome public torture-executions. Beginning in the Age of Reason and the Enlightenment, governments were forced to implement democratic procedures, humanitarian reforms and the protection of human rights.

There is More:

When the first American settlers fanned out from the coasts and other settled areas, they found themselves in anarchy all over again. The historian David Courtwright has shown that there is considerable truth to the cinematic clichés of the Wild West and the mountainous South of Davy Crocket, Daniel Boone and the Hatfields and McCoys. The nearest sheriff might be 90 miles away, and a man had to defend himself with firearms and a reputation for toughness. In the all-male enclaves of cattle and mining towns, young men besotted with help me spockhonor and alcohol constantly challenged one another’s mettle and responded to these challenges, pushing rates of violence through the roof . . . .

But then why, once stable government did arrive, did it not lay claim to the monopoly on violence that is the very definition of government? The historian Pieter Spierenburg has suggested that “democracy came too soon to America,” namely, before the government had disarmed its citizens. Since American governance was more or less democratic from the start, the people could choose not to cede to it the safeguarding of their personal safety but to keep it as their prerogative. The unhappy result of this vigilante justice is that American homicide rates are far higher than those of Europe, and those of the South higher than those of the North.

So, there you have it. As to Lenin’s question—what is to be done?—the answer is: a Big Saw. The land masses occupied by the Sheep People simply must be physically separated from the lands of the Sane People. They may then be allowed to drift out into the Atlantic, these Sheep People, where they can fire their guns and guzzle moonshine and electrocute Wrong’Uns, riding all day and all night with Adam and Eve on dinosaurs to church, to their little gnarled hearts’ content.

And if and when they evolve, these Sheep People, the rest of the Americans may allow them to drift back, and dock.

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.

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.

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!’”

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.

Slouching Towards Betelgeuse To Be Born

So I was over on google images, searching for rude and abusive representations of noted slave-holder and Hebrew-fearer Ron “Rugs” Paul, when I was presented with a truly horrifying exposure of Captain Underpants.

By the evidence of this photograph, it seems that the man, maddened by his Loserness in the race for the presidency, has gone in for Frankenstonian Moreau-modification technology. And has thereby transformed his endowed penis into a multi-colored glow-in-the-dark thingie approaching the size of a small train.

What he intends to do with it, I shudder to think.

I reprint. You decide.

Drop, Kicked

The weirdity of humans: to this there is no end.

Take New Year’s Eve. For reasons Unknown, the American variant of human has developed a tradition involving ushering in the new year by dropping things.

This may have begun in New York City. Where, as the clock ticks into New Year’s Day, a large and colorful ball is, from a great height, dropped, while many humans, gathered below, shout and cheer and screech and weep.

Elsewhere across the nation, other objects are for the new year dropped. In North Carolina, a large pickle plunges into a barrel. In Wisconsin, humans heave to the ground a frozen carp, monikered “Lucky.” Pennsylvanians splat to the earth a 200-pound hunk of bologna. In Key West, Florida flutters earthward a giant shoe bearing a beaming drag queen.

And down in the tiny Appalachian hamlet of Brasstown, for many years the yeehaws assembled marked the coming of the new year by lowering from the roof of a gas station, in a plexiglass cage, a live possum, while braying “five, four, three, two, one! The possum has landed!”

These people were profiled here on red, and at some length, back in January of 2011.

Today, these people’s lives are utterly changed.

For, in a stunning victory for Godless Communism, an administrative law judge has ruled that the state of North Carolina cannot lawfully issue a permit permitting a bunch of yeehaws to cram a possum into plexiglass confinement, and then slowly lower the fear-paralyzed creature to the ground, while they shriek maniacally and loudly abuse tubas.

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Song Of Solomon

Draw me, we will run after thee.

—Song of Solomon, 1:4

So far as is known, all was well in the marriage of Holly and Daniel Solomon, denizens of Mesa, Arizona. Indeed, these humans had engaged in reproductive rituals, which, as of last week, had rendered Holly six months pregnant.

Things went sour Saturday morning, though, when Daniel Solomon’s failure to cast a ballot in Tuesday’s presidential sweepstakes caused his wife to run amok. After a bout of full-throated screaming, Holly Solomon boarded the family SUV, and then proceeded to grimly chase her husband around a parking lot, finally running him down and pinning him to a curb.

According to a Gilbert police report, the argument started over her husband’s lack of voter participation in the recent election.

Holly Solomon, 28, apparently believed her family was going to face hardship as a result of President Barack Obama’s re-election.

Solomon’s husband, Daniel Solomon, told police his wife “just hated Obama” and was very angry he was re-elected and blamed the President for problems her family is going through.

Holly Solomon had succumbed to the national pastime: whatever it is, it is Obama’s fault. (As recently noted here, the fact that the hot water ran out before I finished my shower Tuesday: this, clearly, the fault of the black man in the White House.)
Witnesses reported a lot of yelling just before Holly got into a Jeep SUV and began chasing her husband through the parking lot near Gilbert and Elliot roads.
“He got out of the car and she was screaming at him. And he started walking away and she started driving in circles around him and she wouldn’t let him go so finally he took off to try to get away and she ran into him,” a caller told a 911 dispatcher.
Daniel reportedly took refuge behind a light pole while Holly drove around the pole several times while continuing to yell at him.
Police said Daniel tried to run away toward Gilbert Road as Holly pursued him in the vehicle.
She eventually struck her husband and he was pinned underneath, between the vehicle and a curb.

There are no indications that Holly Solomon was controlled by drugs or alcohol. Instead, she was motivated by Hate, Fear, and Weirdness.

As this fellow notes, voters in the state of Arizona Tuesday went for Captain Underpants, awarding the state’s 11 electoral votes to The Loser. Daniel Solomon’s ballot was not required, to accomplish this mission. Arizona was not, this cycle, a swing state (though soon it will be), and Daniel Solomon’s vote could have swung nothing.

Or so it would seem. But perhaps Holly Solomon is an adept, wizened in the ways of the butterfly effect. This is where we learn that all is so connected, that the flap of a butterfly’s wings in the Amazon, can be said to result in a hurricane, thousands of miles away. Perhaps Holly Solomon, she somehow Knows, that if only her husband had voted for Captain Underpants, then All Would Have Been Utterly Changed. In January of 2013, Underpants would have dispatched his people to cart everything out of the White House, onto the lawn, there to be burnt, in preparation for White People once again moving into the White House.

If only . . . Daniel Solomon. Had managed to cast his ballot.

But no. He didn’t. And so: four more years.

What Cthulhu Is This

What Cthulhu is this, who, laid to rest
In R’leyh deep, is sleeping?
Whom demons greet, their voices shriek,
While nimrods watch are keeping?

—well-known Christmas song

The black man will no doubt be relieved to hear that he has been demoted, no longer considered the Antichrist, but instead reviled as but a harbinger of the Antichrist.

Yes, while some 24% of the American people believed as recently as 2010 that Barack Obama was for sure the minusJesus, we have now all been informed by one Robert Jeffress, a mentally divergent babbler infesting churches down in Texas, that Obama is here merely to prepare the way for that Much Badder Dude.

In flogging his parishioners to get out to vote, Jeffress said:

I want you to hear me tonight: I am not saying that President Obama is the Antichrist. I am not saying that at all. One reason I know he’s not the Antichrist is the Antichrist is going to have much higher poll numbers when he comes. President Obama is not the Antichrist. But what I am saying is this: the course he is choosing to lead our nation is paving the way for the future reign of the Antichrist.

That’s why, ladies and gentlemen, I believe it is time for Christians to stand up and to push back against this evil that is overtaking our nation, to stand up and push back against these actions that are paving the way for the final world dictator. The best way to push back against unrighteousness is at the ballot box.

Well, that didn’t work out so good. The arresting the attendant of the Antichrist at the ballot box part.

Meanwhile, and just to make absolutely sure that wingnut heads explode, godless hellbenders over in Naples, Italy have taken to festooning their Christmas nativity scenes with Barack Obama figurines. Obama, he gets a crown, and is positioned next to the baby Jesus. While a Captain Underpants figurine is also available, he is depicted with tears streaming down his face. And his ass on backwards.

Repo Man

“Ever feel as if your mind had started to erode?”

“No.”

“Ever been to Utah?”

—Repo Man

Life is rough, even when you’re worth in excess of $250 million. Look at Captain Underpants. He owns and controls more dollars than any human in a natural lifetime could even count. But when Tuesday the American electorate dropped its collective drawers and very publicly mooned him, he felt such Pain that he was compelled to immediately Fire the Help.

The next time you have the misfortune of hearing a Wall Street titan or other one-percenter whine about how their trickle-down contributions are not appreciated by the masses remember this tidbit, courtesy of Garrett Haake at NBC.

“From the moment Mitt Romney stepped off stage Tuesday night, having just delivered a brief concession speech he wrote only that evening, the massive infrastructure surrounding his campaign quickly began to disassemble itself.

“Aides taking cabs home late that night got rude awakenings when they found the credit cards linked to the campaign no longer worked.”

No doubt a whole host of Boston taxi drivers found themselves stiffed when it came to tips early Wednesday morning. That’s what happens when the money trickles up, not down and it’s why healthy economies don’t depend on the trickle down whims of overlords. The minute Richie Rich decides he doesn’t need all that stuff staff … well, that’s that.

What did it matter, if these people had no direction home? Neither did he.

Dreaming Of A White Christmas

(Now that he has officially been declared The Loser, the standard-bearer of the National White Male People’s Party, he has angrily strapped his family to the roof of the car, setting out to drive across many states, to the great temple in Utah, there to resume his career of baptizing dead Hebrews and furiously endowing his penis. And in his glum wake I thought I would reprint here that speech of Captain Underpants—a.k.a. Mitt Romney—delivered before the National White Male People’s Party Convention in late August. This version originally appeared in an iPad app that briefly lived and died—sorta like a fruit fly, or Underpants’ hopes for victory—this summer.)

(The following is a full and complete transcript of Willard “Mitt” Romney’s address before the Republican National Convention. This has been verified as the voice of Captain Underpants. Transmission 11; August 30; Sector Zulu King Zulu.)

Mr. Chairman; delegates. I accept your nomination for President of the United States of America.

I do so with humility, deeply moved by the trust you have placed in me. It is a great honor. It is an even greater responsibility.

Tonight I am asking you to join me to walk together to a better future.

True: some of you may decide instead to run, rather than walk, into that future.

And that’s okay.

Or you may choose to fly in personal jets. Or drive fast and expensive cars. Perhaps you’ll hire a private train.

All of that is alright, as well.

Others of you, however, may seek to hobble along on crutches. Or roll sadly along in wheelchairs.

You: you will be left behind. For you are Failures, and Mutants. And I have no time for you.

furthur=>

It Is Accomplished III

(continued from here)

6:22 p.m. The farcical kabuki that the rag doll could prevail in Pennsylvania is over. With about two votes counted, Fox Radio News has called the state for Obama. The announcer relayed this news in the same tones as he would adopt if he just heard that his son had perished in an automobile accident. Similarly, the pathetic delusion that the people of Michigan might hug Ass Backwards to their bosoms, that too is over. And Wisconsin, home of defeated vice-presidential nominee Paul Ryan, has likewise been Obamaed, despite stubborn hallucinations in recent days that it might go GOoPer. The Fox Radio News people have pronounced the situation for Captain Underpants “dire.” With Obama maintaining a lead in Florida with 68% of the votes counted, this thing may officially go “the party’s over” before the polls close out on the west coast.

6:51 p.m. In the coming days and weeks will come many Realities seeking to explain why the rag doll stayed limp. Few may be as puckish as that offered by a New York Times writer, who asserts that the deciding factor was: Bruce Springsteen.

The kingmaker in the 2012 presidential election? Why, The Boss, of course. In the way that the first flutters of a butterfly’s wing in Africa can set loose a chain of events that leads to a hurricane, Gov. Chris Christie’s long odyssey to meet his idol Bruce Springsteen may turn out to be the thing that decided the race.

Stay with me here: Christie worships Springsteen, and has been to 130 concerts, but his fan love has never been returned. As a lifelong pilgrim in the Church of Bruuuuuce, he cites lyrics at the oddest of public occasions, does air guitar riffs in his down time, and swaps fetishist stories of bootleg tapes.

When he was elected governor in 2009, he so wanted the Springsteen soundtrack to be a part of his triumph—but he was spurned.

When Christie, to the surprise of right-wing absolutists, embraced and praised President Obama for his quick response to the devastation of Hurricane Sandy, many conspiracy theorists thought he was playing for 2016. The idea was, it would be better to have an open race for president than to wait out the second term of the man for whom he has been a chief surrogate, Mitt Romney.

And yet, there seems to have been another more complex (and more obvious) motive in play.

I told my friends, only half in jest, that Christie was really after a chance to meet Springsteen. That he would do anything, even kill the momentum of his party’s nominee, for a bromance with Jersey’s favorite son. This would explain why he was playing nice. Sure enough, on Monday, during his now-daily call to Christie, the president handed the phone off to Springsteen. The governor may never clean that ear again.

A few days earlier, he had met Springsteen at the benefit concert in New York. Afterward, Christie went home and wept.

“We hugged,” Christie said at a news conference on Monday. “He told me it’s official: we’re friends.”

So the Boss loves the new Big Man. “I’ll treasure it forever,” Christie added.

Now: the exit polls show the hurricane had only a minor effect on voter attitudes. But if, as many believe, the chance for Obama to appear bipartisan and presidential in the last week of the campaign with one of his most strident critics was just enough to tip independent voters in swing states — well, I rest my case.

In that case, it wasn’t Sandy that determined the election. It was the man who wrote “Sandy.”

Of course, this embrace may doom Christie among the party base; those elephants never forget. Rush Limbaugh, the most mean-spirited among the knuckle-draggers, called Christie “fat” and “a fool” last week. I have a feeling Christie would say that’s a small price to pay for the chance to meet Springsteen.

Rush Limbaugh called somebody else “fat” and “a fool”? Oh projection. Thee is unerring.

6:57 p.m. With the news that New Hampshire—another state the Underpants loyalists had hallucinated would go for their man—has cleaved to the black man, the Fox Radio News people have announced that although “the fat lady has not sung, she is warming up.”

7:20 p.m. A Fox Radio News woman is veritably weeping that New Mexico has gone for the black man, bemoaning that “it used to be a state that was a little more conservative.” Yes, but voting there now are brown people, and oo-ee-oo white people. It is the future, for the Americans.

7:35 p.m. Texas has voted for Captain Underpants. But I am confused. Is Texas still in the United States?

7:51 p.m. BULLETIN I have just received an advance copy of Captain Underpants’ concession speech. He will begin by saying: “I saw something nasty in the woodshed.” Then he will expose his endowed penis.

7:55 p.m. The Fox Radio News people are saying that Allen’s abrupt concession in the Virginia senate race means that he and all of Reality know that when all the votes are counted there Obama will take the state. They are also saying that Underpants has as much chance of taking Ohio as becoming Saturn.

8:12 p.m. The Normal people of Iowa, as expected, refused to go for the man with his legs screwed on backwards. And Fox Radio News has called Ohio for Obama. The only “path to victory” for Captain Underpants now lies in another Universe.

8:13 p.m. At Romney headquarters, say the Fox people, all is silent “except for the monitors.” None of the humans are speaking, or even moving. It is like some Russian SWAT team pumped that poison gas in there that they use to “rescue” hostages by killing them.

8:16 p.m. Fox Radio News wakes up and notices that Oregon has voted for Obama. By their electoral count, that makes the black man a re-elected president. It is accomplished.

It Is Accomplished II

(continued from here)

12:53 p.m. The older he gets, the less concerned is “Bob Dylan” with concealing the fact that he is a space alien. Consider the accompanying photograph. Probably soon he will just let his antennae sprout. No one who writes something so precise and exact as “the ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face” could be wholly of this world. Anyway, Dylan has pronounced the black man victorious. Since he is no doubt in tune with the extraterrestrials who assembled this year’s clown car of Republican presidential candidates, we can trust that he knows what he is talking about.

1:03 p.m. Fox Radio News just cannot stop reporting, every hour on the hour, that while Captain Underpants is flapping through Pittsburgh, vainly flailing to assemble his mutant coalition of Three Mile Meltdown survivors and albino Appalachian banjo-pickers, the black man is playing basketball. The glow-in-the-dark racists of Fox need to emphasize this, in an attempt to emphasize his blackness, his otherness, his utter unsuitability to serve as president of this nation founded by and for slave-holders. Founded by and for the people of Fox.

But of course Obama is playing basketball. Anything you want to know about him, can be found in the clip below.

2:02 p.m. Galicia Malone voted this morning at New Life Church precinct in Thornton, Illinois. She was in labor at the time, contractions coming five minutes apart. For most of the lifetime of the United States, Malone would not have been permitted to vote, as she is a woman. She is also black. Which means that for much of the lifetime of America, odds are good that not only would she not have been considered a human being, but she would have been owned by someone like Mitt Romney. Malone voted for Obama.

2:13 p.m. Paul Ryan is on the Sean Klannity radio show. Ryan is what the real live boy version of Pinocchio would look like, if we were a child molester. Ryan is best known for proposing a “fiscal” redesign of America that would result in great gobs of dead people. This doesn’t seem to concern him. For Christmas, he should be visited first by Jacob Marley, and then by the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future. Klannity is dumb as two rocks, and so has been happily blathering all afternoon as if the GOoPers are victoriously marching on a road of bones. Ryan perceives Reality, and so his voice says it all: I am the Loser.

2:37 p.m. The loser cavalcade continues on the Klannity radio show. Now there is George Allen. He was once intended as the GOoPer 2008 presidential nominee, until in his 2006 Virginia US Senate re-election effort he let his racist freak flag fly, and referred to an Indian-American attending one of his rallies as “macaca.” Virginia voters decided they did not wish to be represented by someone with a burning cross tattooed on his forehead, and so threw him out. Today he is trying to retake that Virginia senate seat, but he is a Loser. Allen is dumb as dirt, and a stone racist; he kept a Confederate flag and a noose in his office. He and Klannity are made for each other. They should enter into a same-sex marriage.

5:02 p.m. Both Kentucky and West Virginia have gone for Captain Underpants. No surprise there. The only possible way in this particular universe that either state would have gone for the black man is if all the white people therein had been raptured up to hebbin some time on November 5.

5:13 p.m. The Los Angeles Times surmises that the money people are having a Cry. Four years ago, the financial-services industry supported Destry over Old Man Shouts At Cloud. This year, however, the wheelbarrows rolled instead to the rag doll. Seems some 77% of the monies shoveled forth from Wall Street have gone into the Underpants. This includes funds from Ass Backwards’ number one contributor, Goldman Sachs, which four years ago favored the black man. No longer. Bank of America, Morgan Stanley, JP Morgan, and Credit Suisse also luvs them some Underpants.

Money people are so sad. As Anthony Peyton Porter this week wrote:

The political news that seeps into my awareness makes it clear that money determines the winner, which means that the capitalists will always win because only capitalists are allowed to run. If money isn’t the most important thing in the universe to you, then it’s too bad for you and your delusions. You’re out of touch with reality.

Of course, quite the opposite seems to be the case, that our happiness and satisfaction have nothing to do with money, ours or anybody’s.

Anthony should know. He recently lost his wife.

5:23 p.m. I suppose the Americans could reflect that it could be worse. Shortly after the Roman Empire went in for the emperor thing, whenever the nation needed a new Daddy—the previous one usually having been assassinated—mobs of drunken soldiers would get together to yell and shout and shake their shields, and settle thereby on a successor.

Semper fi.

5:34 p.m. Very soon now, the lights will go out for Captain Underpants. He will be alone in the dark, and he will have a Sad. He will must needs return to a life of baptizing dead Hebrews, strapping the dog to the roof of the car and driving glumly across the land, and tripping his pregnant daughter-in-law in order to win a footrace. Meanwhile, his spawn will have to make their way into the world, where they do not do at all well.

During his approximately one-year tenure with the Dodgers, insiders described [Tagg Romney] as everything from a “very nice guy who was just in way over his head” to a “vacuous-eyed, transparent political appointment.”

His one claim to previous sports marketing was at Reebok, where he was something called vice president for on-field marketing. One Dodgers official said they later learned his primary responsibility was to watch NFL and NBA games, counting how many times Reebok was mentioned or its logo caught on camera.

5:40 p.m. The polls have been closed for about five seconds, but already it is clear that the endowed penis has plowed to victory in Alabama, Arkansas, Georgia, Indiana, Kentucky, Mississippi, Oklahoma, South Carolina, Tennessee, and West Virginia. This is so because the Mormon Member is opposed by a black man, who would be eschewed by the peoples of these states even if his opponent were some sort of fearsome combo of John Wayne Gacy, Wile E. Coyote, and Vlad the Impaler.

Meanwhile, the Normal American takes a look at that list of states, and wonders: what do they have there that is even worthwhile?

Raccoons.

It Is Accomplished

8:43 a.m. Election day. So we shall play the national anthem of the Americans. Because there are no coincidences, when I entered the truck yesterday morning, and turned the key, said anthem immediately sounded from the radio, from first note to last.

8:45 a.m. We are cleaning up around the Manor. The deer droppings on the walk, these we call “Ryans.” The nastier, smellier stuff, there in the catbox, these are known as “Romneys.”

9:07 a.m. Runt Limprod is on the air. He has Oxycontin drips inserted in both arms. He is screeching like a man undergoing testicular surgery without anesthesia. All his howling delusions, he shares with us. The white people, say he, will today vote more for Captain Underpants than they did four years ago for Old Man Shouts At Cloud. While the black people and all the other inferiors will not vote as heavily for Barack Obama as they did four years ago. Captain Underpants will therefore walk his backwards ass into the White House, where he will immediately toss out onto the lawn everything the black people for four years touched, and there set fire to it. This is his Vision.

9:18 a.m. One of the peculiar traditions of the Americans is that the first votes announced in each presidential election come from a small village in New Hampshire, 20 miles from the Canadian border, monikered Dixville Notch. I do not like that name: it sounds like a place where people furtively creep through the night to cornhole one another: I do not want to go there. Today 10 cornholers voted, and they split their votes 5-5 between the black man and the underwear alien. The Drudges are so desperate they are beating this nonsense like a gong of certain doom for the black man.

9:35 a.m. Copts are a form of human who have been around since the First Century CE. They are into that Jesus guy. In the Fifth Century they broke with the Eastern Orthodox Church over theological matters so opaque and obscure that no one today can really describe or even recall them. Copts were the dominant religious outfit in Egypt until the Muslims rode in amid the Seventh Century, at which time they became red-headed stepchildren. They’ve pretty much been pouting about that for the past 1,300 years. Still, they persist in pretending they’re Important. Last week the Copts selected their 118th “pope.” They did this by placing the names of three candidates in a box, and then herding a blindfolded child to the box, who grubbed a hand inside, and pulled forth a name. That Copt became the new pope. Maybe the Americans could try something like that, for their elections.

9:50 a.m. Recently a Florida woman was arrested for masturbating in Starbucks. Why, passeth understanding, for masturbating in Starbucks certainly beats drinking their coffee. In any event, when the police arrived, she told them she was waiting for a friend to take her to the hospital, where she would confront the medical people with the tiny spiders crawling on her skin. This woman is a crack person, and spiders on the skin are a common side effect of huffing the stuff. Back in the day, I would periodically encounter people who wished me to scrutinize empty glass jars, which they claimed were roiling with crack and/or meth spiders. The point of all this, is that the Captain Underpants aficionados who will soon be screeching that the black man “stole” the election, will be the political equivalent of these people with phantom arachnids popping in and out of their pores.

10:19 a.m. People who are not Americans are not caring much about this election. It is probable that this disinterest began during the interminable Republican primaries, when non-Americans quickly sussed out what we also determined here on red: the Republican candidates were not actually Real, but instead pseudo-humans bred and/or assembled by extraterrestrial beings, out there somewhere having a laugh, fucking with the Americans. These other-worlders offered as “candidates” such preposterousness as a Dr. Moreau-like farm animal bred from a man and a steer, a grub in a skin-suit, a Wizard of Oz knock-off with eyebrows that moved and melted and slid down his face like something out of the climax of The Devil’s Rain, a bedbug in a skin-suit, a demented goose, and a raccoon. Eventually selected as the sacrificial goofball was the underwear alien, a sadsack who appears to have had the bones sucked out of his arms, and whose ass was placed where his crotch is supposed to be. He is like a rag doll sewn by inebriates. When tonight he walks off into the sunset, he will do so with his endowed penis dangling neath his back, rather than below his stomach, like in a Normal human.

10:43 a.m. A man with a brain parasite has posted a piece to Redstate in which he vows that Captain Underpants will attain 337 electoral votes. He awards to the rag doll states that in no known Reality in this particular Universe could flow the Ass Backwards way. These states include Nevada. No. For in Nevada they like their sex and gambling. And Nevadans know the Captain Underpants cult eschews both— except when a properly endowed penis is deployed in order to transmit a soul to a woman. There is much sexual weirdness in Nevada, but at least they appreciate there that intercourse is not necessary in order to award a woman a soul. Also, there are brown people in Nevada, and they know that the underwear alien has no use for them, except to mow his lawns. Too, Iowa. No. Iowans are Normal People, and they cannot go for a man who, when he walks, it is clear that his legs are screwed on backwards. Plus, Ohio. No. The people there understand that Captain Underpants would kill all their car companies and then rob their pockets when they lay dying in the gutter. Then, Michigan. No. See Ohio. Next, Wisconsin. No. Those people are of cheese, and cows. They can intuit that if the underwear alien ate cheese, he would break out into a rash, and, as for cows, he would strap one onto the roof of his car and then drive it across many states. Finally, Pennsylvania. No. Here, Ass Backwards hopes to cobble together a strange and unnatural coalition of radioactive mutants scarred by Three Mile Meltdown, and wild-eyed cohorts of albino banjo-pickers swarming from out the Appalachians. But this is not to be. During the recent hurricane, a Pennsylvania woman plunged into a raging torrent in order to save some baby ducks. No state where a woman on election eve has risked life and limb to save baby ducks has gone Republican. This is historical Fact.

10:58 a.m. Speaking of the Appalachians: West Virginia. There, they so hate the black man, that in the 2012 Democratic presidential primary more than 40% of Democratic voters cast their ballots for a Texas prison inmate, rather than Obama.

It has just been confirmed that white people who vote for Obama in West Virginia may enter the federal witness-protection program.

11:31 a.m. Brain parasites are increasingly a problem among Underpants devotees. For instance: Dick Morris. For the past week he has been flapping around the nation predicting the rag doll will prevail by six percentage points. This is the man who lost his consulting gig with the Clinton White House when a hooker he hired ran to the tabloids to reveal that Morris had sucked her toes while Clinton ranted on the speaker-phone about Monica Lewinsky. I am thinking that he sucked some dirty toes, and contracted a brain parasite, and that is why he is spouting this nonsense.

11:38 a.m. The hot water ran out before I had finished my shower. In keeping with the national pastime, I blame Obama.

11:59 a.m. Not even the oxy drip could keep Reality three hours at bay. Limprod just concluded his show with an Underpants obituary, praising the rag doll, and his wife—who may receive a soul so long as she receives Ass Backwards’ endowed penis—as “just the nicest-looking, most normal people.” Translation: white.

Underpants Nation

I have decided that what claims to be “news” is in fact a figment— not Real at all.

My suspicions in this area have been growing for some time. But the events of the past few days, culminating in the utter nonsense that was yesterday—well, now there can be no doubt.

Several days ago I was confronted with the following headlines: (1) “Docs Reveal Hitler Farted, Received Sex Injections, Craved Cocaine”; (2) “Man Exposes Himself At Association For The Blind”; and (3) “Missing Parakeet Returned Home After Telling Police His Address.”

These weirdsmobiles were several hours later crowned by this wonderment: “Why It Matters That Obama Dated A Composite And Ate A Dog.”

If you click the above links, you will find four different “news” outfits purporting that the information contained therein is Real. Not something from the Onion. Not something from Mad magazine. Not something from the Weekly World News. No. “Real.”

Sorry. I’m not buying it.

Monday they screwed up—whoever “they” are—and saturated the “news” with something so preposterous that it became clear beyond doubt that we are simply being mucked with.

For every time I turned on the radio, or looked into a tube, I beheld an alleged high government official soberly intoning that the United States is menaced by underpants.

They are massing out there, these underpants, nefariously bent on exploding airplanes, pouring innocent Americans out into the way up in the middle of the air.

But fortunately, these supposed officials further droned, America is prepared to meet and defeat the underpants.

Where once America fought to “make the world safe for democracy,” today, we are told, America fights like twelve three-fisted bastards to cleanse the globe of the scourge of terrorist underpants.

No. That America is under assault by underpants—this is not something that is Real. This is something out of one of Kurt Vonnegut’s sillier Kilgore Trout fantasies.

Who is doing this? I have no idea. It is possible that some clever geek boots, down in some Cheetos-stained basement, has, through the power of the tubes, seized control of the “news,” and is busily churning out, as Real, whatever complete and utter balderdash gives him, or her, the giggles.

I suspect a juvenile. Because it is not enough, that this person concocts a nonsense involving demonic volatile underpants flying in waves through the once-friendly skies, to rain Terror and Horror down upon All Decent Americans. No. For previously, this same entity, chortling childishly, concocted a Reality in which the Republican Party selected as its 2012 nominee for president a person known as Captain Underpants.

Coincidence? I think not.

About 20 years ago I obsessively collected all of the 50-some science-fiction novels written by the late Philip K. Dick.

Dick was a quantum person. Both a uniquely creative writer, and a drug-gobbling wackadoodle clean out of his gourd.

Dick’s works featured such beings as a man who unknowingly created large swaths of Reality by completing a crossword puzzle in the daily newspaper. People, at the same time both alive and dead, who discovered their money no longer bore pictures of old dead white men, but instead images of living family and friends. A sadsack loping through an increasingly disintegrating world, in which those charged with maintaining Reality had become too enervated to manifest actual objects, reduced to producing, say, pieces of paper reading “soda pop stand” or “dog,” in place of the Real things.

I read all of these works, back in those years. And tomorrow I am going to go down to the basement, and unearth these tomes, so that I might read them all again.

Because it is clear to me now that these books are not “science fiction” at all. They are instead startlingly accurate and precise works of prophecy. They are Real. They are Today. Today, we live in a Dick world. Underpants and all.

Quantum Voting

Occasionally on the Great Pumpkin I encounter people of the glum, who have determined that the Obama presidency is of the bungled and the botched, and so they can no longer support it.

Instead, they have conceived a need, in 2012, to cast a ballot for Rugs, or for some third-party candidate, or have elected to remain at home, staring forlornly into the tubes, casting a ballot for no one at all.

These people are routinely countered by keepers of the flame, who arrive to sternly inform the people of the glum that a vote for Rugs, or for some third-party candidate, or for no one at all, is effectively a vote for the Republican presidential candidate . . . who it is now presumed will be—saints preserve all humans—Captain Underpants, a.k.a. Mitt Romney.

Yesterday, while en route to the acrosonic, I turned on winger AM radio; for, living in occupied territory, I consider it prudent to now and again monitor the occupiers, to learn of their hopes and fears, delusions and dreams.

Those people were mostly in various stages of orgasm, having concluded that this year’s strange and unnatural GOoPer primary season had at last achieved climax, and now the blindingly white chosen one, Captain Underpants, would proceed to rid the White House of the Bad Black Man who had somehow taken occupancy of it.

However, among those folks too were people of the glum, who called in to mournfully low that they just could not support this most recent GOoPer latter-day saint, that he did not resemble enough the One True God, Ronald Reagan, and that therefore they would stick with Rugs, or select a third-party candidate, or stay home, by the fire, cleaning their guns.

At which time the host sternly informed them that casting a vote for Rugs, a third-party candidate, or no body at all, was effectively a vote for Barack Obama.

Now wait just a dern minute, thought I. How the hey could a vote for Rugs, a third-party candidate, or for a pox on both your houses, be a vote for both Mitt Romney and Barack Obama?

And then it hit me.

Just as in physics, the planet has moved out of the Newtonian, and into the quantum age, so too, apparently, in their electoral maunderings, have humans entered the realm of quantum voting.

In which a vote for a particular candidate, or for no candidate at all, can at one and the same time be a vote for this, that, or some other candidate; for all and every candidate; for no candidate at all; or for something somewhere in between.

Or for all that, all at the same time. Or for none of it.

Brave new world.

furthur=>

Like Babies At Birth

I have no name
I am but two days old—
What shall I call thee?
I happy am
Joy is my name—
Sweet joy befall thee!

—William Blake

Space is changing humans. And that is a good thing.

A while back I wrote about Ron Garen, spacehuman who takes marvelous photographs, and compiles wondrous videos, while up and out, in the great wide open.

Garen is responsible for, among other things, the video below, which always makes me happy, in the best, because the most vulnerable, of ways. It documents the final hours of Garen and two Russian cosmonauts aboard the International Space Station; then, their return to the planet.

I realize there still exist supremely silly larvals, like Captain Underpants, who, in presuming to speak for the transitory artificial construct known as the United States, recently bellowed that Russia is “our number one geopolitical foe.”

But all that is so over. Russians and Americans: they are the same human. Space helps people to understand that. For: as above; so below. Garen and his fellows, Alexander Samokutyaev and Andrey Borisenko, they get that. So should we. Space, it has shaped these humans’ sense and sensibility. Having gone up, they more clearly apprehend and appreciate what is down to the ground. So should we.

Now comes this spaced-human. Who has fallen in love, up there on the International Space Station. In love with space itself. And so, as all true lovers will, he has written his beloved a poem. Titled “Space Is My Mistress.”

This would never have happened, if he’d never gone out there.

But space has made him more, of who he really is.

we stroll outside together 
enveloped by naked cosmos 
filled with desire to be one 

Yes indeedy.

This sort of thing has been happening to humans ever since they began venturing into space. Most recently, in machines. As we not long ago passed the 50th anniversary of John Glenn’s first trip into the great wide open, let us recall, beyond the “furthur,” what happened to Mr. Glenn, in his up and out.

furthur=>

Oink

Of the pseudo-humans bred or assembled by extraterrestrials to serve as the 2012 GOoPer candidates for president, one has already been driven from the race because of the wanderings of his wee-wee. That would be Herman Cain, the pizza topping.

That the wee-wee of The Bedbug, also known as Newt Gingrich, long ran wild across the land: this has been known to many, and for many years. So long as The Bedbug languished in irrelevance, nobody thought much of making much of this.

But once The Bedbug began gnawing his way to the top of the plops—enabled by those GOoPer voters simply unable to stomach as their nominee Captain Underpants, the rag doll sewn by inebriates—then The Bedbug’s meandering member received renewed attention. This culminated in a televised appearance last Thursday by one of his innumerable ex-wives, who basically denounced her former spouse as a cretin and a cad, cravenly compelled to flee wives when once they evince intimations of mortality.

This, as it developed, made no difference to the GOoPer voters of the state of South Carolina. Who, as detailed here, are most focused, when they go to the polls, on whomsoever on the ballot most hates black people. That is whom they will most wuv. And so it was Saturday night. The Bedbug, that being on the ballot with the record of most hating black people for the longest period of time, chewing his way to victory. Though it is true that Captain Underpants remains “the whitest white man to run for president in recent memory,” voters just didn’t perceive his heart to be filled with the requisite hate. Meanwhile, The Grub, also known as Rick Santorum, was regarded, correctly, as a man who hates pleasure, more than anything else. While the fourth candidate remaining in the race, Rugs, a.k.a. The Wizard Of Paul, hates hardest, paper currency.

Prior to the arrival of the South Carolina primary results, appeared in the New Yorker an interesting piece on The Bedbug’s present partner in matrimony. It contains an observation from once and future GOoPer presidential candidate Mike Huckabee, which is reprinted here for the consideration of red readers:

“I hear from friends who are conservative women who say, ‘I will not vote for Newt Gingrich.’ I say, ‘Why?’ ‘He’s walked out on two wives.’ And these are hard-core Republican women—conservative activists, women who put signs up in their yards, make phone calls. And they have bluntly said, ‘I will not vote for him.’ Not ‘I have questions about voting for him’ but ‘I will not vote for him.’ That sort of rocked me back on my heels.” Huckabee added, “I don’t hear that ever from male voters, by the way. What does that tell you? Men are pigs.”

What think ye?

Grub Stake

It is Known that the 2012 Republican candidates for the presidency are pseudo-humans, bred and/or assembled by extraterrestrial beings, who have decided that it is fun, for them, to mess with the American electoral process.

Yesterday GOoPer voters in New Hampshire trudged to the polls to cast ballots for one or more of these pseudo-humans. It was expected that Captain Underpants, also known as Mitt Romney, would finish first in the contest. And he did. Of primary interest to those afflicted with a perverse need to follow this extraterrestrially-controlled road show, was the question of whether, when the results were in, The Grub, a.k.a Rick Santorum, would in New Hampshire maintain his position as latest favorite among those GOoPers who cannot bring themselves to vote for Romney.

Probably not.

The nation’s Republicans do not really want to select Romney as their nominee. At last week’s Iowa caucuses, Romney received the same percentage of the vote as he had in 2008. In that year, it was declared that he had been beaten like a gong, as Mike Huckabee finished first, with 34% of the vote; Romney trailed with 25%. This year, also with 25% of the vote, Romney finished first, and was therefore deemed the “winner.” But the sad fact is that Romney actually received fewer votes in 2012 than he did in 2008—30,021 in 2008, to 30,015 in 2012. What this means is that after devoting four years and tens of millions of dollars to wooing Iowa voters, Romney failed utterly to convince any new people to be for him. Several of his former supporters, in fact, drifted away. He is like a boy who spent the entire four years of high school doggedly working to secure a date for the senior prom, and in the end came up empty. He is the very definition of “loser.”

Mitt Romney will never be president. The American people are capable of many things, but not of elevating to the highest office in the land a man whose feet have been screwed on backwards, whose ass is where his crotch should be, and who has had all the bones sucked out of his arms. He is like a rag doll sewn by inebriates. Further, he is petulant, and whiny, and has for decades retained on the payroll an Italian who does nothing but fuss over his hair. He made his fortune robbing people, and, in a nation where vast quantities of humans cannot obtain or maintain a job, he recently pronounced that he feels great joy when firing people. “I like to be able to fire people,” he said, in perhaps the most deranged public utterance from a political figure since Chauncey Gardiner’s immortal “I like to watch.”

There is also the matter of the underwear. Romney refuses absolutely to shed, under any circumstances, special undergarments that he believes his deity decrees that he wear at all times. Many bizarre charges have been leveled against Barack Obama, but never has it been alleged that he is a devotee of Abakua, an all-male Afro-Cuban religious outfit which commands the faithful never to expose their bare behinds to anyone, even when making love. Captain Underpants is basically a milquetoast whitebread variant on these people.

furthur=>

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