Capital Crime

Archive for the 'Capital Crime' Category

Somebody Has To Do It

Tonight I watched again Some Mother’s Son. The middle film of the Jim Sheridan/Terry George trilogy. Focusing on individuals caught up in the modern IRA struggle to free the six northern counties of Ireland from the occupation of the British.

George, in this film co-screenwriter and director, served three years in Maze Prison. Interned on charges of being an Irishman present in an automobile where weapons were found.

This the same charge that sent Bobby Sands to The Maze.

As Some Mother’s Son sets forth, Sands was the driving force behind the 1981 Maze hunger strike. That resulted in Ten Men Dead. In which Sands was the first to die.

The hunger strike arrived because the British, under newly-interred Prime Minister Maggot Thatcher, had determined the Irish were common criminals, rather than prisoners of war. And so, Maggot meted, they would be treated that way. As criminals. As garbage.

Sands & Co., in turn, determined to cooperate, in no way, in any way, with any regime that regarded him and his as garbage, that might delimit or diminish he and his, who considered themselves soldiers, in a war, to free the six northern counties of Ireland, from the thieving lying unutterable inexcusable unsupportable occupiers, from perfidious Albion.

Maggot, a freaking freezing cold-heart, probably the only woman to whom I have ever applied the word “bitch,” was happy, to sit back, and smile, and sip sherry, as the Irishmen, there in the Maze, starving themselves, died.

Happy, smiling, sipping sherry, that is, until it became clear that world opinion was coming to regard her, and her government, and her whole stinking country, as a blight upon the planet.

At which time she, her government, her country, caved.

Ten Men Dead, at the cost of ten men dead: won.

The strikers gained every bit, they had set out to gain, when first they began starving themselves.

While Maggot, when the histories come to be written, will be written off as but . . . a maggot.

And the stench of her dung-eating maggotness: this shall be redolent, in the histories, for a thousand years.

In the film Some Mother’s Son, it surface-seems that events are being run by males.

You know: the usual Yang wanking bullshit. Blocking the roads. Firing off the grenades. Bruting the arrests. Making a spectacle of the trial. Monkeyminding the prison. From inside the cells and out. Mutual chest-beating. Because, each and every, is only and totally right. Hoot-hoot-a-hoot. Tarzan the Ape Man.

But, filmmaker George, himself a once and future Maze denizen, he be evolved a human. So, that, in the final frames of Some Mother’s Son, he presents The Message, in two women. Who, through the journey of the film, we have come to know. And who are the center of his film. As women are the center of life on this planet. One woman so caged and confined and frozen, she cannot intervene to save her son. And so this son dies. But, presents George, a second woman, who, a free human being, alive on this earth, as she hears various male foghorns bleat, till their lips bleed, about this and that sliver of political consequence, that must be Decided Upon, before the hunger strike may end, or again commence, and all of this blithering utter male bollockness presuming to decide, the life of her son, she, finally, silently, decides: bugger them all, and signs the medical release, that will return her son to life.

At which time, she says, looking into the eyes of her companera, who had allowed her own son to die: “I took Gerard off. I had to do it.”

To which her companera, who had not been strong enough to save her own son, acknowledges: “Somebody had to do it.”

Absolutely goddam right.

furthur=>

Money Honey

Published May 22, 2013 Capital Crime , Cineman , Eros , Outer Limits , War On Terra Leave a Comment

This is one of those stories that is hilarious, in a projectile-vomit sort of way.

Apparently the nation’s banks have decided they are “too moral” to handle money earned by people involved in the adult entertainment business.

Chanel Preston knows not everyone approves of her chosen profession. That’s one of the risks that go with being one of the biggest stars in porn. But she never thought it would affect her ability to open a bank account.

Preston recently opened a business account with City National Bank in Los Angeles. When she went to deposit checks into the account days later, however, she was told it had been shut down, due to “compliance issues.”

She found the manager she had originally worked with and asked what had happened. The bank, she was told, was worried about the Webcam shows she had on her site and had revoked the account . . . .

Preston noted she [also] has been denied a loan because of her profession[.]

“[The loan officer] asked me ‘are you affiliated with the adult entertainment industry?’ When I said yes, she said ‘We will not give you a loan,’” she said.

At least one adult-entertainment figure has had enough of this bollocks, and is taking to the courts.

Earlier this week, Marc Greenberg, founder of the soft porn studio MRG Entertainment, filed suit against JPMorgan Chase in Los Angeles Superior Court, alleging the bank violated fair lending laws and its own policy for refusing to underwrite a loan for “moral reasons”.

Greenberg says he was approached by a representative of the bank about refinancing an existing loan. But once he started the process, he says he saw repeated delays for four months. That’s when he said he reached out to a JPMorgan vice president for an explanation.

The vice president “was evasive in his response to plaintiff’s application status requests and finally informed plaintiff during a telephone conversation that plaintiff’s loan application was refused due to ‘moral reasons,’ because of JPMorgan’s disapproval of plaintiff’s former source of income and occupation as an owner of a television production company that produced television programs that dealt with the subject of human sexuality,” the complaint reads.

Greenberg’s attorneys claim they were told by the vice president that the application was denied because of the potential “reputational risk” to the firm.

Curiously, JPMorgan Chase, back when it was known simply as Chase, perceived no “moral reasons” or “reputational risk” that might prevent it from fondling money employed in Nazi Germany to kill and rob Jews.

Between 1936 and 1941, Chase and other US banks helped the Germans raise over $20 million in dollar exchange, netting over $1.2 million in commission—of which Chase pocketed a cool $500,000. That was a lot of money at the time. The fact that the German marks used to fund the operation came from Jews who had fled Nazi Germany didn’t seem to bother Chase—in fact they upped their business after Kristallnacht (the night Jews throughout Nazi Germany and Austria were systematically attacked by mobs in 1938). Chase also froze the accounts of French Jews in occupied France before the Nazis had even gotten around to asking them to.

furthur=>

Fore

Published May 19, 2013 Africa , Animal Matters , Capital Crime , Caribbean , Destry , Eros , Eternal Recurrence 2 Comments

Golf is so Wrong, it’s hard for me to be coherent about it.

Once upon a time, I did pen a lengthy and somewhat lucid three-part jihad on the Outrage Of Golf. For one of the many newspapers that lived and died around here. Probably the papered remains, they are down in the Manor basement. Somewhere. Maybe, someday, I’ll run across them. And, maybe, then, I’ll re-screed the jihad, here.

For the nonce, though: golf, briefly, was devised by bored Scottish sheepherders, casting around for something to do while waiting for their erections to return. At which time they could again commence buggering the sheep.

As Mark Twain observed in this space, a wee while back, penile erectile recovery, it can take some time. And so there were many idle hours, for these sad-sack shriveled-scrotum Scottish men. Out there on the moors. Glumly waiting for peter, to arise again. Buffeted by the wind, encloaked in the mist. Desultorily banging with sticks a small ball. Through the sheepshorn grass. Around sand-sweeps and puddled-places. Into various and sundry gophered holes. Waiting. Waiting. For the rise.

It is a Known Science Fact that Scottish sheepherders inserting their man-sticks into the nether holes of sheep is how incubated syphilis. Pace those the-horror/the-horror people of West Virginia, syphilis marks the nadir of the Scottish contribution to Mankind.

Well. Except for golf.

After all: today there is a cure for syphilis. But there does not seem to be any cure at all for golf.

I once knew a man who worked many years as a groundskeeper on a golf course situated in California’s Central Valley.

This man: he was a good man, a wise man, a feeling man.

And so, the obscenity of his occupation, it hurt—hard—his brain.

To assuage the pain, he first, and for well over a decade, consumed, pretty much every hour, on the hour, mass quantities of the strongest mind-ripping marijuana. The paralyzing effects of this uber-gage transported him to places where few humans go. For instance, once, when, for reasons I can no longer remember, we were all sitting around watching Dumbo, he blurted out: “I am not a human being! I am an elephant!” The man also became obsessed with the notion that things here on Terra are so of the bungled and the botched because this world was designed and implemented by a “rookie god.” The creature had had no practice—this was the being’s first try—and so s/he bumbled out a planet utterly festooned with mammoth and grievous boners.

Eventually the marijuana could no longer do the job. And so he nestled next into methamphetamine. Which inevitably resulted in the day when he entered that congenital meth Reality in which it is absolutely Necessary to hurl the couch through the vast expanse of the full-length plate-glass window in the living room.

His wife, who did not join him in this Reality, in turn hurled him out of the house. He packed everything he owned into a small station wagon, and went into exile in Los Molinos. This is a small northstate community best known, to Those Who Know, for the Ewell-like family who dwelled for many years out by the town dump. The mother had died eons back, but there remained a father, and also many daughters. And so, each year, at least one of the daughters would come shuffling, somewhat shamefaced, out of the woods, charged with some errand like the family shopping, and bearing a newborn.

Yeehaw.

The reason why his occupation as golf-course greenskeeper so grievously affected this feeling man, so much so that he was eventually compelled to hurl his couch through his living-room window, is because, as he knew, siting a golf course, pretty much anywhere outside of Scotland, is an act of Insanity.

Golf sprang, naturally, from the place of its birth. Flat and/or gently undulating earth, covered with thick grass, watered by the clouds, close-cropped by sheep. Here and there, scattered about, smallish pools of water; bowls of sand. Maybe a spindly stand or two of trees. Some holes.

Golf, therefore, is fine—in its place. A place where sheep steadily crop the grass—as they do to this day on many golf courses in Scotland—and where the elements quite naturally dump down the literal rivers of water required to keep living and thriving the course and the greens.

It’s a normal thing, golf, for that sort of misty moist place.

But, as the photo there to the left demonstrates, golf, even in its native place, has, today, been brutally buggered into a place beyond absurdity, or even the Sane. Unto a shrieking maddened Court of Chaos, requiring that we must needs close our eyes, and then inject, into every available artery and vein, only the most potent of narcotics, so as to rid ourselves of the Pain.

furthur=>

A Good Price

Published May 17, 2013 Capital Crime , Wyrds 2 Comments

“This used to be Banker’s Row. Every morning they would all go to Berlin, every evening return. These were cultured, intelligent people. They had a modest portrait of the Führer. They closed their eyes when the Meyers disappeared from this mansion over here or the Weinstein family vanished from that house over there. Later, they could get those houses for a good price. Well, you can’t tell where the Jews lived today, can you?”

—Martin Cruz Smith, Red Square

Reality Theatre

Published May 9, 2013 Africa , Capital Crime , Destry , Eternal Recurrence , Israel/Palestine , Rutting For Office , War On Terra 5 Comments

This week we were asked to endure the dog and pony show in a clown car known as “Benghazi.”

“Benghazi” is single-word shorthand for the most recent of innumerable attempts by members of the Confederate States of America to once and for all Get the black man, the black man who has committed the unpardonable sin of occupying the White House.

Though this week’s was hardly the first “Benghazi” “hearing.”

Oh no. These things recur cyclically. Like locusts. Or lice. Or scabies.

My favorite so far was the “Benghazi hearing” where Congressional members of the Confederate States of America, so avid to Get the black man, unthinkingly babbled and blurted, publicly, the classified information that the so-called Benghazi “US consulate” was in fact a CIA spy-nest.

During a recess, some Sane person advised them of their boneheadedness. They then came back to announce the hearing was adjourned, and that everyone should just forget all about it.

“Benghazi” refers to a September 11, 2012 assault on a CIA spy-nest in the Libyan city of Benghazi, wherein Bad Brown People succeeded in killing the US Ambassador to Libya, Christopher Stevens, an information officer, and two mercenaries contracted to the CIA.

From the get-go, members of the Confederate States of America wedded themselves, till death do they part, to a Reality in which the black man bubbled up some popcorn, and then sat there in the White House Situation Room, and laughed and laughed, as he watched, in real-time, four Americans die in Libya.

More recently, members of the Confederate States of America have hitched themselves to a second Reality. In this one, the lazy, shiftless, shuffling, bumbling black man went off to bed without knowing or caring one whit what was going on in Benghazi—downing a couple 40-ouncers, and then hitting the sack, so he could get up early to go waste the (white) taxpayers’ money by playing golf or basketball.

On Wednesday of this week I heard the towering ignoramus Sean Klannity advance both these Realities as if they were both equally and at the same time true.

For, in their hatred of the black man, members of the Confederate States of America have gone quantum.

You see, in quantum physics, it is possible, say, for something to be both a wave and a particle, simultaneously; for an object to remain whole, but also, simultaneously, split to pass through two separate doors; for a cat in a box to be both, and at the same time, dead and alive.

So too, in the quantum Realities occupied by the people of the Confederate States of America, it is possible for the black man to both eat popcorn and laugh as he watches Americans die, and also, simultaneously, sleep through the whole thing.

Clearly, people who think in this way, are not really using their brains. Their brains are instead locked away in some deep shelter. To which they have no access.

It would be nice to conclude that it is only rightwhacks who suffer in this way.

But no.

For shortly before I tuned into Klannity, to monitor his latest arrow-through-the-head take on this and that, I had spent some time with a brain-in-deep-shelter nimrod who spins a propellor upon his beanie over there on the left.

Yes. I had paid one of my periodic visits to the twilight zone of Tony Cartalucci.

Cartalucci is an alleged “lefty” freelance froot loop who places pieces in the various turds that Alex Jones floats in the punch bowl of the intertubes, on the flaccid Iranian government organ Press TV, and with something called Liberty Roundtable, which foams at every orifice that “Masonic Jewish financiers” are “advancing a totalitarian ‘New World Order’,” with Jews as “foot soldiers and cannon fodder in a diabolical multi-generational plot to destroy Christian Civilization.”

Yeehaw.

When not sticking a hatpin through his frontal lobe at these other sites, Cartalucci also dribbles and drabbles in his own digs, a place known to me as minddestroyer.

During the 20 minutes or so I most recently spent surfing the Cartalucci minddestroying sewage, I learned that:

—The Russian puck band Pussy Riot—with several members currently in jail for offending Vladimir Putin and the Russian Orthodox Church—consists of nothing but “bigots and hooligans,” in willing service to “Wall Street and London.”

—Aung San Suu Kyi is a slavering murderer, jefe of a crazed cabal of “genocidal bigots” in monks’ clothing, a willing cat’s-paw of “Wall Street & London,” and guilty of “sedition.”

—Global climate change is a total hoax, perpetrated by “banksters and oilmen.”

—The Boston Marathon bombing was a “US/Saudi/Israeli” false-flag operation. At the same time, the two Tsarnev brothers—including 19-year-old Zhokhar Tsarnev—are “longtime CIA double agents,” who somehow suddenly and unaccountably ran amok. (Note that it is possible for the minddestroyers to believe that the bombing was both a US/Saudi/Israeli false-flag operation, and the work of deep-cover Western spooks who went rogue . . . in the same way that the rightwhacks believe the black man both ate popcorn and laughed while Americans died in Benghazi, and also was asleep and knew nothing about it. Quantum.)

—The Muslim Brotherhood is owned and controlled by Israel.

—The Chechen national resistance movement, which has been around for 600 years or so, was created by the CIA.

In this last nuttery, there is at least some Hope. For if the CIA did indeed found a movement that came into being some 550 years before the CIA itself was created, this means the agency must have secured the secret of time travel.

And since the CIA can never really keep anything secret for long, this means the rest of us will soon be able to be out and about time-traveling too.

And so we can then go into the future. To a time when people, left and right, do not keep their brains locked away in deep shelters. But instead actually use them.

Soon be the day.

Heave Ho

Published May 5, 2013 Capital Crime , War On Terra 8 Comments

I have not watched what they put on the television for more than 25 years.

As I’ve said here before, when they started using Beethoven’s “Ode To Joy” to push dishwashing detergent, that was it for me.

Cable TV, that I abandoned some years before. Of the broadcast variety, it is true that, from time to time, tee vee over that quarter-century or so, I might now and again tune in the news, national or local. But even that ended, for good, in 2009, when they switched nationwide to digital. My television set—so old it was actually made in the United States—didn’t know from digital. And I didn’t feel like going to Radio Shack for one of those little converter boxes . . . that are anyway no doubt malevolent spy devices.

I do, these days, have a television set that is digital-compatible. But no television comes over it. It is for movies and such, that flow from the intertubes.

I spend enough time chained to the tubes. I don’t need to double my servitude by hooking up with the television programmers.

However, the other day, I did look at a television.

I was in a pizza parlor.

Apparently there has been enacted some Law that requires that pizza parlors be festooned with multiple wall-mounted televisions, all tuned to sports channels.

The sound on these televisions is muted. Presumably because the blaring babeling din from the multiple programming on the multiple sets might induce nervousness and disorientation among the humans. And this would not be wise.

Because too many of them carry guns.

furthur=>

Serial Killers Continue To Cry

Published April 27, 2013 Afghanistan/Pakistan , Africa , Asia , Capital Crime , Destry , Eternal Recurrence , Rutting For Office , War On Terra 2 Comments

The nation’s serial killers continue to weep openly because they are no longer permitted access to the entirety of the federal treasury.

The latest disgusting display occurred Tuesday, when John McHugh, Secretary of the Army division of the American death industry, kicked his high chair and threw his rattle during testimony before the Senate Armed Services Committee, outraged that some 100,000 serial killers may have to be discharged from the army over the next decade.

Good.

Although 100,000 is but a start, it is at least that.

The goal, of course, is to reduce the number of the nation’s serial killers to zero.

McHugh blubbered that the Army already planned to reduce its ranks from a current 570,000 serial killers to 490,000 serial killers, due to legislation approved by Congress in 2011.

Now, he wept, the sequester will require kicking loose an additional 100,000 serial killers.

The sequester is an automatic spending-reduction program that the Republicans in Congress refuse to reconsider because the president is black.

As has been observed here before, true anti-war people would embrace the death-industry portion of the sequester as a wondrous and unexpected gift. And, from there, work so that the sequestered funds will never, ever, under any circumstances, be returned to the serial killers. Work until the Already Happened has been achieved: the nation’s serial-killer budget reduced to $0.

However, as has also been observed here before, there do not seem to be any real true anti-war people in the United States.

Certainly I have heard no hosannas sent forth in appreciation of the truly wonderful news that emerged on Friday: that in the first quarter of 2013, “[d]efense spending fell rapidly again, contracting by 11.5 percent as compared with the previous quarter’s 22.1 percent contraction.”

This is nothing but Good. Death-industry spending must decline until it contributes not a cent to the nation’s GDP. For no decent, civilized people would wish to make a single penny off of serial killers and all their worldkilling works.

The McHugh serial killer, though, that ain’t the way he sees it. He wept before Congress that “the budget cuts could threaten readiness levels on the Korean peninsula, where military forces remain on high alert after North Korea threatened to attack the United States and South Korea. Sequestration has forced the cancellation of a series of training exercises intended to help prepare soldiers for possible combat there, he said.”

Good. No sane human being wants American serial killers to be “prepare[d] for possible combat there.” Prepared for possible combat anywhere, but especially not in Korea. For United States serial killers have no business in that nation. They all need to come back to the US. To be discharged. So that they may pursue some truly useful employment. Like, say, manufacturing tinkertoys.

As has been observed here, many times, before, the Founders did not intend this country to maintain even a standing army. Which is why the Constitution specifically prohibits army appropriations of more than two years. And since the US is at peace with its neighbors, Canada and Mexico, it does not need an army. So the army should be eliminated. As the only legitimate use for an air force is in support of ground troops, it should be eliminated as well. The Marines need to be folded back into the Navy, from whence they sprang; they are support troops for ships, that’s all they are; that they are sent to fight in landlocked countries, like Afghanistan, is madness. So: down the loo, they go. Since the US already possesses a Coast Guard, perfectly capable of patrolling the waters of the continental United States (Alaska and Hawaii are imperial possessions, and should be permitted to break free, as should all overseas territories, possessions, protectorates, and the like), Americans can go ahead and get rid of the Navy, too—Marines and all. Make a clean sweep.

No more serial killers. No more death industry.

Unless, devotee of Thanatos, this—hoorah, anchors aweigh, wild blue yonder, semper fi—is what you do like:

Bushed

Published April 26, 2013 Capital Crime , Eternal Recurrence , Rutting For Office , War On Terra 3 Comments

They have built a library for George II.

Apparently the thought is that if they build a library for the guy, and name it after him, maybe he’ll go inside, pick up a book, and actually read it.

The last known book read by George II was The Pet Goat. A child helped him with it. This occurred as hijacked jetliners were ploughing into the World Trade Center.

The human brain is a strange and even terrifying thing. Almost any thought can get lodged in there.

Consider the brain of John Hinderaker. This is a person whose brain compelled him to write the following lines:

It must be very strange to be President Bush. A man of extraordinary vision and brilliance approaching to genius, he can’t get anyone to notice. He is like a great painter or musician who is ahead of his time, and who unveils one masterpiece after another to a reception that, when not bored, is hostile.

Yes. Surely. When the histories come to be written, George II will be regarded as something like the Gesualdo of geopolitics—”nobleman, lutenist, composer, and murderer.”

Errand Boy, Sent By Grocery Clerks, To Collect A Bill

Published April 25, 2013 Capital Crime , Eternal Recurrence , War On Terra Leave a Comment

Here on this blog, we have previously considered the question of Texas.

And determined that that state’s sole reason to be is to provide a place to contain the full allotment of sand allocated—back in the planet-creating days of Slartibartfast—to the North American continent.

Pace the sand, there is simply no reason for Texas to be.

And so, because there is No Reason, for Texas, other than sand, it is natural, these days, that when one considers an event out of Texas, the immediate reaction of any sentient homo sapien may quite probably be to reach out to grasp, as quickly as possible, the greatest possible gobs of opiates.

So as to Endure.

Because, without a mind soaked in opiates, there is simply no way to Understand, much less Accept, why Texas continues to Be.

Let us, for instance, regard the incredibly inbred yeehawed—and therefore quintessentially Texan—saga of the Marlow Brothers, back there in the Texas of 1888.

The full story is one that could only be properly presented by Sam Peckinpah . . . who is, alas, long dead.

And so here we must cut to the immediate for-these-purposes chase. Where Boone Marlow was poisoned by his sweetheart’s brother; his sweetie, unknown to her or to him, bringing to Boone the food that would kill him.

After Boone had expired, two bounty hunters—not among them his poisoner—pumped multiple gunshot rounds into his body.

So that they could collect the $1700 reward for his corpus.

Which they subsequently did.

However, when once federal authorities began belatedly beguining this typical Texas mischief, and tried to pin—quite rightly—the murderin’ deed on the original poisoner . . . well, said dude, who’d deliberately poisoned and killed Boone Marlow, claimed it weren’t him at all, that done killed Boone: the true dastardly murderin’ desperadoes were those who’d pumped the bullets into the corpse. And collected the re-ward.

Uh-huh.

I tell you this story, now, because the little slimy snotnose David Stockman, indisputably the chief rash run-amok economic asshole of the Reagan administration, is now, here, some 30-more years down the road, trying to claim, just like that Marlow-poisoner of 1888, that, he fer sure din’t do it, in this case din’t kilt the American economy—which he did—but it were instead them, who came after (Greenspan, Volker, Bush, Obama, etc.), who pumped the bullets into the already quiescent corpse, that really done kilt the guy.

Uh-huh.

furthur=>

Drone Who Thou Wilt Is The Whole Of The Law

Published April 24, 2013 Afghanistan/Pakistan , Africa , Asia , Capital Crime , Destry , Eternal Recurrence , Johnny Law , Liberte Egalite Fraternite , War On Terra 9 Comments

And so now the United States has determined that it is Vital and Necessary to establish and enforce tight and binding international Rules for the use of drones.

President Barack Obama, who vastly expanded U.S. drone strikes against terrorism suspects overseas under the cloak of secrecy, is now openly seeking to influence global guidelines for their use as China and other countries pursue their own drone programs.

The United States was the first to use unmanned air-craft fitted with missiles to kill militant suspects in the years after the September 11, 2001, attacks on New York and Washington.

But other countries are catching up. China’s interest in unmanned aerial vehicles was displayed in November at an air show. According to state-run newspaper Global Times, China had considered conducting its first drone strike to kill a suspect in the 2011 murder of 13 Chinese sailors, but authorities decided they wanted the man alive so they could put him on trial.

“People say what’s going to happen when the Chinese and the Russians get this technology? The president is well aware of those concerns and wants to set the standard for the international community on these tools,” said Tommy Vietor, until earlier this month a White House spokesman.

As U.S. ground wars end—over in Iraq, drawing to a close in Afghanistan—surgical counterterrorism targeting has become “the new normal,” Vietor said.

Amid a debate within the U.S. government, it is not yet clear what new standards governing targeted killings and drone strikes the White House will develop for U.S. operations or propose for global rules of the road.

Obama’s new position is not without irony. The White House kept details of drone operations—which remain largely classified—out of public view for years when the U.S. monopoly was airtight.

This is typical. One need only consider very recent history. Such as when the United States enjoyed a monopoly, or near-monopoly, in nuclear weapons, at which time it felt no need to establish any nuke rules at all.

And, indeed, that nation’s premier serial killers—a.k.a. “generals”—wished, and fervently urged, at various times, that there be nuke-rain-down-on-thee in Japan, the Soviet Union, Korea, China, Vietnam . . . even the freaking Moon.

They got their way, did the serial killers, in Japan. But never after. Nor, in their thereafter everafter lust to later nuke-rain the Soviet Union (multiple times), Cuba, Afghanistan, etc., and on to the present day: Iran. Always, one of more civilians, tethered to the ball of sanity, have blocked them in their way.

Useful news, for those who perceive Reality through that glass-darkly straw in which the boys in the serial-killer blues forever get their way.

Anyway. Once humans not interned in the dirt-patch known as “the United States” began possessing nuclear weapons, suddenly a Great Flap swept across the American land, and it became at once Right and Meet that many and myriad Rules be established, to prevent non-’Mericans from getting themselfs a nuke, or, worse, Wrongly using one.

This is why, these days, every time you look at the news, there is something about Iran or North Korea. Something where some American is leaping and shrieking and running around with his or her hair on fire. Because some humans in these countries—Iran or North Korea—may be thinking about getting theyselves a nuke. And the US, sitting on more nukes than Midas has gold, and still the only country ever to use one to wantonly and needlessly and insanely incinerate hundreds of thousands of people, says This Cannot Be.

Decree of the US being: “I got mine. None, is yours.”

Now, I guess, we must gird our loins to eternally recur through this same sort of nonsense with drones.

furthur=>

US/North Korea Nonsense Explained

Published April 18, 2013 Asia , Capital Crime , Eternal Recurrence , War On Terra 3 Comments

American Warriors

Published April 18, 2013 Capital Crime , Eternal Recurrence , War On Terra Leave a Comment

In many regions of the earth there exists an iconic representation that is said to embody the essential nature and characteristics of a nation’s people.

In Britain, for example, there is John Bull, a stout, middle-aged, stuffy, twit, with a Union Jack emblazoned across his ample and protruding midsection. In France, meanwhile, there is Marianne, a comely, topless, determined lass, most often depicted leading the people against some Outrage or another.

In the United States there has been Uncle Sam, a tall, lanky, bewhiskered gent, with a penchant for pointing his finger at people, commonly as part of a demand that they go enlist in some wing of the death industry so they can sail off to kill non-Americans somewhere.

But Uncle Sam is over. The new real and true iconic representation that nails precisely the essential nature and characteristics of the American people is American Warrior. That is the fellow shown in the photo above and to the left.

He is America.

This morning the 60 Cro-Magnons of the United States Senate introduced legislation that will emblazon American Warrior on both the nation’s money and its flag. The design for the new American flag may be seen below.

American Warrior patches will also, by law, be sewn on to the uniforms of all the nation’s serial killers, and American Warrior decals will be placed upon all the vehicles employed in the American death industry.

Programs shall be introduced into the nation’s schools to encourage American children to model themselves, physically, mentally, and spiritually, after American Warrior.

Hundreds of thousands of Americans costumed like American Warrior shall be dispatched across the land—like a sort of escape of characters from Disneyland—and those who do not salute American Warrior, as he passes by, shall be guilty of a felony, and will serve five years in the state prison, after which they shall be deported.

It’s a new dawn.

Senate Cro-Magnon Count Completed

Published April 17, 2013 Capital Crime , Eternal Recurrence , Rutting For Office , War On Terra 8 Comments

Anthropologists have completed their count of the Cro-Magnons in the United States Senate.

There are 60.

“Last week the vote on whether to even proceed with S.649 revealed that there are a confirmed 31 Cro-Magnons in the United States Senate,” Dr. E. Pluribus Unum of the American Anthropological Association announced late Wednesday.

“It was expected that votes this week on certain amendments to the bill would smoke out additional Cro-Magnons,” Unum explained. “And indeed, this has now occurred.”

The 60 Senate Cro-Magnons have been definitively identified as Lamar Alexander, Kelly Ayotte, John Barasso, Max Baucus, Mark Begich, Micahel Bennet, Roy Blunt, John Boozman, Richard Burr, Saxby Chambliss, Dan Coats, Tom Coburn, Thad Cochran, Susan Collins, Bob Corker, John Cornyn, Mike Crapo, Ted Cruz, Joe Donnelly, Mike Enzi, Debra Fischer, Jeff Flake, Lindsey Graham, Chuck Grassley, Kay Hagan, Orin Hatch, Martin Heinrich, Heidi Heitkamp, Dean Heller, John Hoeven, James Inhofe, Johnny Isakson, Mike Johanns, Tim Johnson, Roy Johnson, Angus King, Mary Landrieu, Mike Lee, Joe Manchin, John McCain, Mitch McConnell, Jerry Moran, Lisa Murkowski, Rand Paul, Rob Portman, Mark Pryor, James Risch, Pat Roberts, Marco Rubio, Tim Scott, Jeff Sessions, Richard Shelby, Jon Tester, John Thune, Pat Toomey, Mark Udall, Tom Udall, David Vitter, Mark Warner, and Roger Wicker.

These beings were positively confirmed as Cro-Magnons because they voted not to limit the magazine capacity in killing machines; not to outlaw certain military-style killing machines; to permit living-in-fear de-evolvies to conceal-carry their killing machines nationwide, according to the law of whatever Cro-Magnon state they commonly snuffle and knuckle-drag about in, even when they go hooting and stumbling into states where the people have evolved beyond such fear-encrusted nonsense; or not to expand background checks for purchasers of killing machines at (1) gun shows, where a certain form of being goes to buy death weapons, and meanwhile fondle collections of swastika belt-buckles, and (2) on the intertubes, where folks can, in the privacy of their own hovels, order themselves a passel of pistols while frantically masturbating like a monkey.

Most of the Cro-Magnons took the Cro-Magnon position on most or all of these measures.

According to Unum, these votes establish, “with 100 percent scientific certainty,” that “these senators are Cro-Magnons.”

“Only an ur-human could cast such votes,” he explained.

Unum pointed out that the United States Senate has traditionally been dominated by Cro-Magnons.

“These people of the senate, you’ll recall, are the nimrods who couldn’t even vote to abolish human slavery without a massive war,” he said. “Later, it took them decades to recognize the right of women to vote, to approve civil rights legislation, to end the Vietnam War. Etc. Etc.

“They never did get around to approving federal legislation prohibiting the mutilation and killing of black people,” Unum went on. “In fact, the Cro-Magnon president Franklin Roosevelt deliberately refused to pressure the senate to do so, because he wanted approval of his New Deal For White Men.

“As he whined, in his patrician Cro-Magnon way: ’The southerners by reason of the seniority rule in Congress are chairmen or occupy strategic places on most of the senate and House committees. If I come out for the antilynching bill now, they will block every bill I ask Congress to pass.’

“The Cro-Magnon Roosevelt also heaved Japanese-Americans into concentration camps, and stuck his thumb up his buttcrack, massaging his prostate, while the Jews of Europe died one by one.

“Yet this Cro-Magnon receives fevered hosannas from white folk to this day. Because he threw some crumbs to some white men.

“So it goes.”

Unum noted that, in their time, Cro-Magnons have generally been regarded by the citizenry as just regular fellows.

“Traditionally,” he observed, “it has only been with the passage of time that it became clear that those who, say, could not oppose slavery or lynching, or support women’s right to vote or civil rights, were Cro-Magnons.

“But,” he added, “with advancements in science, we can now pinpoint Cro-Magnons contemporaneously. Thus, the positive identification of these 60 ur-humans currently bumbling about, in their dim-bulb way, in the halls of the senate.”

Slartibartfast, whose simple seven-word amendment—“all the guns are going to go”—failed to reach the Senate floor even as an amendment, remains undeterred.

“All the guns are gone,” he said. “Already happened. It’s simply a matter of waiting for time to catch up.”

Grounded

Published April 12, 2013 Capital Crime , War On Terra 1 Comment

So Tuesday I awoke to the obnoxious sound of a passel of whiny-ass serial killers blubbering all over my radio.

First the serial killers of the United States Air Force screamed like a two-year-old that the sequester will result in the grounding of one-third of its death planes—or, in sky-pilot death-speak, “seventeen combat-coded squadrons.”

“Historically, the Air Force has not operated under a tiered readiness construct,” droned serial killer General Mike Hostage, employing the sort of Orwellian language not used by any actual human being.

That one-third of the death-planes will sit idle is nothing but good news. What is required next is to ground the remaining two-thirds.

For the United States does not need an Air Force. This is because the only legitimate use for an air force is in support of ground troops—that is, an army. And the United States does not need an army. Because it is at peace with its neighbors, Canada and Mexico. Therefore, the United States Army shall be eliminated. And so shall the United States Air Force.

All of the planes shall be melted down and recast as steampunk jewlery. The pilots shall be extensively deprogrammed, and then turned over to the Shriners, to be retrained to pilot those funny little cars that drive figure-eights in parades.

It should be noted that the comments to the Air Force Times piece squealing about the sequester-grounding, they provide a fine illustration of the sort of suppurating racist ignoramuses who support those death-sheets devoted to the nation’s serial killers.

Then it was the turn of the two-year-olds in the serial killing United States Navy to scream till they blew stinking loads into their watery diapers that the sequester will ground the Blue Angels—without doubt the most repulsive collection of domestic aerial death-craft extant.

For decades these de-evolved dunderheads have shattered the peace of the skies over nearly every city, town, and dirt-patch in the land, in deeply dumb ear-splitting displays that are supposed to prove . . . something.

Now, they shall shriek no more.

This is nothing but good news. As is the related fact that the weeping and moaning serial killers of the Navy claim that without these sky idjits, Navy knuckleheads shall also have to cancel such useless extravaganzas as “Fleet Week.”

Good. No one in the United States needs any “Fleet Week.” As no one needs the Blue Angels.

As the United States does not need a Navy. Since the US possesses a Coast Guard, perfectly capable of patrolling the waters of the continental United States (Alaska and Hawaii are imperial possessions, and should be permitted to break free, as should all overseas territories, possessions, protectorates, and the like), a Navy is not necessary. Too, the United States Marines needs to be folded back into the Navy, from whence they sprang; they are support troops for ships, that’s all they are. So: down the loo, they go, too.

Thus, no more Navy. No more Marines.

The ships and planes of the Navy shall be pulverized and then reformed into little trinkets to be placed in Cracker Jack boxes. Navy personnel shall be extensively deprogrammed, and then assigned to helm those cute little boats in the Disneyland Jungle Cruise. Those that can’t handle that task—and there will be many—can be put to work scrubbing floors.

The ex-Marines, they can shovel shit in zoos.

As has been observed here before, that portion of the sequester that effects the serial killers of the United States Armed Forces is an unexpected glorious godsend, one that should be daily, duly embraced by any actual real true anti-war person. The goal next is to secure the permanence of any and all cuts, and to pursue further cuts, until the Already Happened is reached: an annual US military budget of $0.

However, as has also previously been here observed, there do not seem at present to be any actual real true anti-war people in the United States.

Senate Cro-Magnons Identified

Published April 12, 2013 Capital Crime , War On Terra Leave a Comment

Thirty-one members of the United States Senate have been definitively identified as Cro-Magnons.

These would be John Barasso, Mark Begich, Roy Blunt, John Boozman, Dan Coats, Thad Cochran, John Cornyn, Mike Crapo, Ted Cruz, Mike Enzi, Debra Fischer, Chuck Grassley, Orin Hatch, James Inhofe, Mike Johanns, Roy Johnson, Mike Lee, Mitch McConnell, Jerry Moran, Lisa Murkowski, Rand Paul, Rob Portman, Mark Pryor, James Risch, Pat Roberts, Marco Rubio, Tim Scott, Jeff Sessions, Richard Shelby, John Thune, and David Vitter.

“It has long been suspected that the Senate contains a high concentration of Cro-Magnons,” announced Dr. E. Pluribus Unum of the American Anthropological Association late Thursday. “But today’s vote on whether to proceed with S.649 at last provides clear evidence that nearly a third of all United States senators are indeed full-blooded Cro-Magnons.

“This,” Unum explained, “is because only an ur-human could vote to prevent even debating very modest proposals to control the nation’s killing machines.”

Dr. Unum expects that in the coming days, further votes on S.649 will smoke out additional Cro-Magnons.

“Those who cast votes against background checks, clip-capacity restrictions, and assault killing machines will demonstrate that they too are Cro-Magnons,” Dr. Unum explained.

Dr. Unum noted that if Slartibartfast’s simple seven-word amendment—“all the guns are going to go”—reaches the Senate floor, it is possible that “the entire Senate shall be revealed as a nest of Cro-Magnons.”

Mother And Child Reunion

Published April 10, 2013 Capital Crime , War On Terra Leave a Comment

Manfully they are struggling, there in the United States Senate, to craft some sort of gun control bill. One that will be something more than a bad joke, but that also will not compel the Cro-Magnon contingent to set fire to the place.

This morning came news that two senators with serious ties to Cro-Magnonism had emerged with a background-check bill that is said to have a prayer of passing.

That would be Joe Manchin III, Democrat of West Virginia, representing a state so riven with racist retroverts that 40% of the Democratic voters in the 2012 presidential primaries cast ballots for a Texas prison inmate, rather than that monstrous black man in the White House. And where apparently The Thing To Do is to prance around on a television show nakedly celebrating your essential yeehawness, until you “go to heaven” upon reeling out of a bar at 3 a.m. to carbon monoxide yourself getting your SUV stuck in the mud.

Then there is Patrick Toomey of Pennsylvania, home of the glow-tombs of Three Mile Meltdown, and doctors so disabled by a demented variant of Jeohvahism they would prefer that young women be corpsed on a slab, rather than use birth control. The best that can be said about Toomey is that he is not Rick Santorum, the batshit insane grub-in-a-skinsuit whom Pennsylvania voters previously heaved into the Senate.

In any event, the Manchin/Toomey Cro-Magnon-friendly ”compromise” would expand background checks for purchasers of killing machines to gun shows—where a certain form of human goes to get theyself a new gun, while also pausing to fondle collections of swastika belt-buckles—and the intertubes, where currently humans can order theyselves a passel of pistols, while meanwhile masturbating like a monkey.

These provisions are Sane. Also Sane is a requirement that these sales be subject to record-keeping.

But, alas, in order to secure votes from a sufficient number of Cro-Magnons, there are some Manchin/Toomey items that are Not Sane: such as exempting from any checks or record-keeping the transfer of killing machines between family members.

Because, lord knows, nobody would want to Know if doomsday prepper Nancy Lanza decided to shower some more guns on son Adam, blazing away at targets down there in the basement, obsessively killing people on his Call to Duty video screen, dreaming of the day he too can become a fully authorized Semper Fi serial killer in the United States Marines.

Which is exactly what happened.

Scrambled

Published April 7, 2013 Capital Crime , Eternal Recurrence , War On Terra , Wyrds Leave a Comment

“She was living with a pilot,” said Mrs. Pelling. “Tiny, she called him. If it hadn’t been for Tiny, she’d have starved. He was gorgeous but the war had turned him inside out. Well of course it would! Same with our boys, wasn’t it? Missions night after night, day after day.” Putting back her head, she screamed very loudly, “‘Scramble!’“

“She’s mad,” Mr. Pelling explained.

“Nervous wrecks at eighteen, half of them. But they stuck it. They loved Churchill, you see. They loved his guts.”

“Blind mad,” Mr. Pelling repeated. “Barking.”

—John Le Carre, The Honourable Schoolboy

Many Mansions

Published March 31, 2013 Capital Crime , Cineman , Eternal Recurrence , Into The Light , Outer Limits , Variations In B-Flat 4 Comments

(This a piece that, since its first appearance here several years ago, has never really been able to figure out whether it’s for Christmas, or Easter. So now I generally reprint it in both seasons.)

* * *

In my Father’s house are many mansions.

—John 14:2

A couple years ago, in contemplating Santa and Jesus, the two began to get confused in my mind. Santa Claus, for reasons that have never really been explained, devotes each year to overseeing minute laborers who fashion gifts which he annually delivers, in a single night, to all deserving children the world over. Jesus Christ, for reasons that have been variously explained, roamed for a short time across a relatively minute plot of land, uttering gnomic wisdoms, then was seized and subjected to excruciating suffering, so that all, deserving and undeserving alike, might be gifted with salvation.

When a sprout, I was taught that while Santa’s labors never end—a yearly, year-long grind—Jesus’ was a one-shot gig. Wander around Palestine, ascend the cross, into the tomb, three days later out again, brief appearances before various friends and lovers, then up to heaven for a well-deserved eternal rest.

I no longer believe that. I believe that, as is set forth here, “Jesus Christ suffers from now until the end. On the cross. He goes on suffering. Until the death of the last human being.” That is the mystic meaning of his tale: he suffers with all beings suffering in the exile of existence. And we are called upon to do the same—to grow to empathy, so that thy neighbor truly is thyself, and suffering everywhere, for everyone, may be eased. With this meaning there is no need for the resurrection. All of us are him, doing the same work; our work, his work, never ends.

For those who are wedded to the resurrection, the advances in science and philosophy in my lifetime, in the understanding of the multiple dimensions and multiple worlds about us, too mean that his work never ends. For the planets, it is now known, are innumerable, and so are the dimensional variations of this one. And if salvation is indeed his calling, he will forever be busy as twelve bastards, for there are those who need saving, inhabiting every one.

furthur=>

Vamanos

Published March 31, 2013 Capital Crime , Eternal Recurrence 3 Comments

The good folks at Lapham’s Quarterly notified me this morning, via e-tube, that today, March 31, as we slide from Passover into Easter, marks the anniversary of the 1492 Alhambra Decree, by which those howling imbeciles King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella heaved all the Jews out of Spain.

Ferdinand and Isabella, they occupy a special place in the Human Hall Of Shame.

Not only did they throw all the best people out of their country—meanwhile stealing all their money—they also dispatched The Admiral to muck up the New World.

The full Alhambra may be found here. An excerpt:

We, with the counsel and advice of prelates, great noblemen of our kingdoms, and other persons of learning and wisdom of our council, having taken deliberation about this matter, resolve to order the Jews and Jewesses of our kingdoms to depart and never to return or come back to them. And concerning this we command this our charter to be given, by which we order all Jews and Jewesses of whatever they may be, who live, reside, and exist in our kingdoms and lordships, as much those who are natives as those who are not, who by whatever manner or whatever cause have come to live and reside therein, that by the end of the month of July next of the present year, they depart from all of these our realms and lordships, along with their sons and daughters, manservants and maidservants, Jewish familiars, those who are great as well as the lesser folk, of whatever age they may be. And they shall not dare to return to those places, nor to reside in them, nor to live in any part of them, neither temporarily on the way to somewhere else nor in any other manner, under pain that if they do not perform and comply with this command and should be found in our said kingdom and lordships and should in any manner live in them, they incur the penalty of death and the confiscation of all their possessions by our chamber of finance, incurring these penalties by the act itself, without further trial, sentence, or declaration.

The decree was not formally voided until December 16, 1968.

Scrotum On The Storm

Published March 29, 2013 Animal Matters , Capital Crime , Destry , Rutting For Office 5 Comments

Kentucky is not without its charms.

For instance, the grass there really is blue. Also, county sheriffs in the state generally do not remain in office long enough to inflict real damage, as they are soon found to be heavily invested in the local methamphetamine trade, and so are hustled off to reside in their own pokeys.

However, there is a disturbing penchant among the congenitally yeehawed of Kentucky’s residents to slay raccoons and then slap their corpses over roadside fences. Traveling on the back roads of Kentucky is like boarding some bent Disney ride through an open-air abattoir.

This is why I believe that it is right and meet that a raccoon be selected by the state’s Democratic Party to challenge and defeat Turtle Scrotum in the 2014 Congressional elections. The masked nocturnal omnivores require, and deserve, Vengeance.

Turtle Scrotum is the US Senate Minority Leader and the titular head of the Confederate States of America.

He is also the horrific result of a failed Dr. Moreau-like experiment that sought to cross a human with both a turtle and a diseased and swollen scrotum.

The elevation of Barack Obama to the presidency rendered Turtle Scrotum totally insane. For Turtle Scrotum is a relict, an atavist, a being who truly believes that the only good black man is one dangling, strange fruit, from a tree.

The people of Kentucky know this, and it is why increasing numbers of them are uncomfortable with the notion of Turtle Scrotum continuing to represent them in the United States Congress. For Kentuckians also recently sent to the Senate Rand Paul, son of Ron “Rugs” Paul, another well-known advocate of black people as roadkill. And the general feeling seems to be that one such person from the state in the Senate, is enough. Turtle Scrotum’s time, then, is up.

This is why winter polls showed Turtle Scrotum leading by but four points one Ashley Judd, who seems to be some sort of singer and actor, but who has never been involved in politics, not even in the movies, and who does not even live in the state.

But Judd is gone now—has decided she don’t wanna—and so the Democrats must alight on an alternative candidate.

I say a raccoon.

Those who would object to running an animal for office overlook two things.

First, nowhere in the Constitution of either the United States or the state of Kentucky may be found any provision that requires an officeholder to qualify as an actual human being.

Second, Turtle Scrotum himself is at least partially of non-human origin, what with the turtle and diseased swollen scrotum elements of his genetic makeup.

Turtle Scrotum will not be able to devote the time and effort that he should to his re-election campaign, consumed as he is with hatred of the black man. For Turtle Scrotum is the sadsack who, from the moment the black man entered the White House, devoted every fiber of his being to frustrating the president’s every effort, no matter how benign. Who, upon Obama’s re-election, immediately informed the money-mites of the Wall Street Journal that over the next four years he would again dedicate the entirety of his being to Hating The Black Man. And who, according to an illuminating recent piece in the National Journal, has been, and is, monomaniacally focused on utterly extinguishing the Affordable Care Act. Because Turtle Scrotum, like any good Republican, is dedicated to the proposition that everyone who is not him should suffer and die. Especially if they are black.

When he does turn his attention to his campaign, Turtle Scrotum will be confronted with the fact that his opponent is a raccoon. This will derange his mind. All he will be able to think is: “coon.” This will remind him of the black man in the White House. White foam will appear at the corners of his mouth. It will not be pretty.

He will also be unnerved by the campaign song of his opponent, which I and the raccoons here at the Manor are currently refining. It will be based on the ominous strains of the Doors’ “Riders On The Storm,” and will include such revised and revisited lyrics as:

there’s a killer on the road
his scrotum’s squirming like a toad

A Super PAC that the Manor skunks have formed will flood the Kentucky airwaves with ads that will ask state voters if they really want representing them in Washington a man who brazenly wanders around with a face that consists of a body part that all decent and chaste Kentuckians modestly keep squirreled away beneath layers of clothing.

Turtle Scrotum, he is Over.

You Could Even Say It Glows

Published March 29, 2013 Capital Crime , War On Terra , Wyrds Leave a Comment

“When I was a cadet, far back in the days of Khrushchev, we set off a hydrogen device in the Arctic Sea. It was a hundred-megaton bomb, the largest ever detonated then or since. Actually, it was a fifty-megaton warhead wrapped in a uranium case to double the yield. A very dirty bomb. We didn’t warn the Swedes or the Finns, and we certainly didn’t tell our own people who were drinking milk under this rain of fallout a thousand times worse than Chernobyl. We didn’t tell our fishermen who sailed in the Arctic Sea. I signed on as a third mate, and my mission was to use a Geiger counter without telling anyone else on board. We caught one shark that measured four hundred roentgens. What could I say to the captain—to throw his quota overboard? His crew would ask questions, and then the cry would spread. But we let the Americans know, and the result was that Kennedy was frightened enough to come to the table and sing a test-ban treaty.”

—Martin Cruz Smith, Polar Star

I Send Greetings

Published March 23, 2013 Ala , Capital Crime , Cineman , Eros , Into The Light , La Musica , Ms. Ah-Ha , Outer Limits , Sunday Services , Variations In B-Flat 5 Comments

Science Men, they are always wanting to Know.

Which is a worthy pursuit.

Mostly.

Times are tough, these days, for Science Men. Because a lot of what a lot of Science Men want these days to Know, involves stuff the Science Men cannot see, or otherwise sense or easily detect. And/or that is, additionally, remote in space and/or time.

And so, they operate, most often, in the land of Guesstimate.

This can, and does, result in a lot of flipbook-rapid changing of opinions. As the Science Men seek to squint, ever finely, through a glass darkly. It also can, and does, result in bouts of belligerent bickering with one another.

This last is currently on display in the ongoing controversy over whether the Voyager 1 spacecraft has or has not left the local solar system. Some Science Men say it has; some Science Men say it hasn’t. But none of them really Know. Because Voyager 1 is out there some 123 AU from Earth. Where no Science Man has ever boldly gone before. Out there some 123 AU from Earth, Voyager either is or is not in the heliosphere. The heliosphere is a thing the Science Men think exists. Though they don’t really Know. Because they have never been there. And the boundaries of this heliosphere, these they don’t really Know, either.

But they sure have a lot of opinions.

To those of us who closely follow Science, the Science Men quarreling over the present position of Voyager 1 is amusing, in a “fighting in the captain’s tower” sort of way. To wit:

ezra pound and t. s. eliot
fighting in the captain’s tower
while calypso singers laugh at them
and fishermen hold flowers

This is because we, we wizened Science-followers, Know that the interstellar mission of the twin Voyager probes, has already been accomplished.

So it don’t really matter, now, wherever the things might be.

You see, each of these Voyager craft were touchingly dispatched with a “golden record” aboard, one that contained pictures and sounds of Earth and its beings, and also directions on how to Get Here. It was hoped, by the humans, that some spacefaring strangers would happen upon one or more of these craft, spin the disc, and then come to visit.

It was so embarrassing. What was, and was not, included, on the “golden record.”

Because hide-your-head-in-shame knuckledragging ur-human retroverts succeeded in erasing from the disc accurate illustrations of the male and female human being.

They objected, these swamp-coolers, to the depiction of the reproductive organs, of male and female.

And so, these were eliminated.

The “golden record” thus went into the great wide open, showing only human “silhouettes.”

All the “naughty parts,” airbrushed out.

Leading any passing extraterrestrials to wonder: how the fuck do these humanoids reproduce? Since they lack the parts to fuck?

Fortunately, past the hang-your-head-in-shame knuckledragging ur-human retroverts, passed a recording, successfully placed on the “golden record,” of the Rolling Stones’ “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.”

That that alone, was sent out there into space, means the species shall survive.

For: ah—upon hearing this, would understand any passing extraterrestrial—I get it. One of those planets.

This, in fact, occurred. The interception of a Voyager. By an extraterrestrial race.

As set forth in the 1984 documentary film Starman.

There we learn that extraterrestrials scooped up Voyager 2, grooved to the pictures, words, and tunes contained therein, and then sent an ambassador to Earth . . . a being who, as soon as s/he entered the planet’s atmosphere, was promptly shot out of the sky by the yeehaws of ekpyrosis.

But extraterrestrials are not so easily extinguished.

The ambassador, abandoning the crippled craft, found nearby some stray human DNA, and so fashioned a temporary corporeal container. Of the young Jeff Bridges.

Not a bad choice.

The news clip below depicts the encounter of the newly incarnated Space Bridges with his first human, a female monikered Jenny Hayden.

Who, upon hearing the naked, and decidedly strange, Space Bridges, recite lines from the Voyager 2 “golden record,” loses consciousness.

Things get better.

Jenny Hayden assists the Space Bridges in traveling cross-country to the Barringer Crater in Arizona. This, it develops, is the traditional landing pad for the Space Bridges form of extraterrestrial (said pad, spacecraft descending, may be viewed in the image that inaugurates this here True Science story). There, at the Crater, the Space Bridges can hitch a ride back home.

The beings of the Space Bridges, we learn, have, over the millennia, monitored humans, from time to time.

They are hardly the only race of extraterrestrials to so indulge. As the documentary film 2001: A Space Odyssey amply demonstrates.

Of course, in order for Jenny Hayden and the Space Bridges to reach the Crater, they must many times evade the yeehaws of ekpyrosis. Who desperately want to lay hands on the Space Bridges. So they can avidly kill and joyfully dissect him.

Because the yeehaws of ekpyrosis can never be happy, so long as they are not avidly killing, and joyfully dissecting, any and all people, places, and things.

Which is why extraterrestrial beings like the Space Bridges do not straight-forward contact the whole of humanity.

Before the Space Bridges goes home, he and Jenny Hayden engage in tender and loving, Real, sexual congress. Which, in the course of things, results in a child, representative of both species.

Such a thing is not all that uncommon. In fact, as we speak, the Huffington Post, also known as the Weekly World News of the intertubes, is canvassing for people willing to tell all about engaging in sexual relations with extraterrestrials. So far, it is said, there have been 15 respondents.

But all these people lie. Because humans, and extraterrestrials, who join in Desire, do not kiss and tell.

Those who Know the true-life documentary film Starman are aware that the Space Bridges arrives on this planet equipped with a number of silver balls, what humans would consider more or less magical and/or transformational objects, which he may deploy, from the palm of his hand, if needful—and the need several times arises—to protect him, and his, or project him, and his, from the extreme and unnatural Danger and Weirdness that is this Earth.

I don’t suppose that it will come as a surprise, to anyone who has long been on this blog, and in anywise Aware, that I am not unfamiliar with these balls.

And that, as shown in the photo there above, I, from time to time, come to hold one, in the palm of my hand.

And You Give Yourself Away

Published March 22, 2013 Capital Crime , Eternal Recurrence , Into The Light 37 Comments

Chris Colwell is an emergency room doctor in Denver, Colorado. This is the world that he sees:

“I see patients every day that are right on the edge of being unstable and are out there in the environment, and they describe problems with access to medications, problems with access to psychiatric care or substance abuse care, problems with access to homes or to shelter,” says Colwell. “But they don’t describe problems with access to guns.”

This is how this man lives his life:

He sees gun violence victims on a weekly basis. When those cases are fatal, they are hard for him to forget.

“They’ll come in, and they’ll look at me, and they’ll talk to me, and then they’ll die.”

Hoorah. Second Amendment. Freedom. Semper fi.

red

Archive for the 'Capital Crime' Category

Somebody Has To Do It

Money Honey

Fore

A Good Price

Reality Theatre

Heave Ho

Serial Killers Continue To Cry

Bushed

Errand Boy, Sent By Grocery Clerks, To Collect A Bill

Drone Who Thou Wilt Is The Whole Of The Law

US/North Korea Nonsense Explained

American Warriors

Senate Cro-Magnon Count Completed

Grounded

Senate Cro-Magnons Identified

Mother And Child Reunion

Scrambled

Many Mansions

Vamanos

Scrotum On The Storm

You Could Even Say It Glows

I Send Greetings

And You Give Yourself Away

Recent Posts

Recent Comments

Top Posts

When I Worked

Categories

Archives

May 2013
M	T	W	T	F	S	S
« Apr
		1	2	3	4	5
6	7	8	9	10	11	12
13	14	15	16	17	18	19
20	21	22	23	24	25	26
27	28	29	30	31