Archive for the 'Rutting For Office' Category

Squeeze The Bear

Among the revelations in her new book, Hard Choices—Benghazi, Bin Laden, Iraq, Syria, yeehawand Russia all required hard choices—Hillary Clinton writes, “it was [former Secretary of State] George Shultz who gave me the best gift of all: A teddy bear that sang ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ when its paw was squeezed. I kept it in my office, first as a joke, but every so often it really did help to squeeze the bear and hear that song.”

All The Other Kids

I Hear You Moan

Chris Christie—let’s face it—weighs in at about 400 meaty beaty big & bouncy pounds.

We know from Einstein that mass—and 400 pounds is a lotta mass—can fuck, sometimes seriously, with both space and time.

And so we know that when the fat man screamed till his lips bled that all New Jersey/New  York roads must be closed that might in any way be connected with any Traitor that did not support his meaty beaty big & bouncyness swallowing whole gargantuan a second gubernatorial term, he ripped with his massive mass a massive hole in space/time.

He in this way became Responsible for much of what now recently Puzzles people.

As they scratch their heads in befuddlement, the people . . . well, the fat man, he but splashes, frustrated, impotent, in the tub . . . .

Let’s take a for instance, of what the fat man has wrought.

Malaysia Flight 370. Where do it be gone?

It went clean out of this universe. Sucked through a ripple opened via the space/time rupture of the fat man.

It may still be flying on. That plane. Out there, in some other universe somewhere.

Or, as I earlier suggested: in my universe, it landed, gently, just across the street.

Then there is Ukraine.

The fat man’s bodaciously lardalicious buttocks struck the earth of that nation, and thundered it into pieces.

Already the people of Crimea have retrieved and clung to a wild hair, and remembered that from 1917-1954 the Crimea was part of Russia: until Nikita Khrushchev—himself Ukrainian—gifted the place to Ukraine. A little present for the homeboys. Now, thanks to the fat man’s buttquake, the Crimeans have joyfully returned to the Russian bosom.

Next, Ukraine itself may soon, at last, naturally, split into its two organic halves—one facing east, one facing west.

Ukraine: the land itself has been populated by humans for 44,000 years. But not until 1990 did it become an independent country. With borders, like the borders of so many nations on this planet, completely wrong and ridiculous and out of whack. Created by drunk and deluded and disturbed individuals drawing lines on maps that had nothing to do with the Realities of the people “on the ground.”

Western Ukraine has for centuries crawled across cut glass to be of the people of the Pope.

Eastern Ukraine has for the same centuries crossed its bosom to kiss the beard of the Patriarch.

It is a stitched-together country; it is doomed; it is Fail.

And this is sad. Because, once upon a time, Ukraine offered some of the richest agricultural soil in the world. Until: Chernobyl: the nuke rain did fall. And because, once upon a time, Ukraine offered some of the most beautiful free and feisty women in the world. Until grinding poverty sucked so many of the nation’s x-chromes into the international forced sex trade.

But what the hey. Probably it’s good that the fat man fucked with his lard-butt all of space/time, and thereby broke loose Ukraine.

Had to happen some time.

And with this piece we re-learn that is easy to explain, in one neat little package, all and recent every, when once one has drifted loose, from the moorings of “sanity.”

As St. Jerome did say:

once in a while you can get shown the light
in the strangest of places
if you look at it right

the more that you give
the more it will take
to the thin line beyond which
you really can’t fake

As for the fat man. He himself has always said he’s always just wanted to be Bruce Springsteen. That, then, is what he should have done. Never ever ventured into such a false and fatal poisonous swamp as “politics.” Kept, instead, always, his eyes on the prize.

she’s the one . . . .

Scrotum Displays Penis

As is now well known, at least to readers of red, Turtle Scrotum, titular head of the Confederate States of America, is the result of a hideous Dr. Moreau-like experiment in which some demented doctor sought to cross a human with both a turtle and a diseased and swollen scrotum.

Turtle Scrotum is a de-evolved yeehaw so terminally demented and depraved that the very idea that black people exist on this planet gives him the scrotum penis gunhives. And so, from the moment that the black man entered the White House, Turtle Scrotum has devoted every fiber of his malformed and mutant being to frustrating the president’s every effort, unto determining that if the black man says “Jesus is Lord,” the Scrotum will then vow: “I stand with Satan.”

But, alas for the Scrotum, the de-evolution of that diseased and useless appendix known as the Republican Party, it is proceeding at such a rapid pace that, now, it is no longer enough, in order to please the knuckledragging faithful, who have never once touched the monolith, to but hate and frustrate the black man. Now, it is necessary to want to kill him.

And so, last week, the Scrotum strode on stage at the annual convocation of CPAC—this outfit the primary reason why extraterrestrials have placed this planet off-limits—bearing a rifle. To let the ur-people know that, yea, verily, he was prepared, now, to actually shoot the black man.

It was required of the Scrotum to so declare himself after Rick Perry, a person who would be noted as the dumbest man on the planet if not for the fact that he is a farm animal, the result of a failed Moreau experiment to cross a man with a steer, whose brain contains a supermassive mini-black hole that swallows not only all rational thought but even light, had earlier jacked off those assembled by declaring it is “time for a black hole headlittle rebellion.” Meaning: “A ni**er is in the White House. And so it’s time to resume, with arms, the Civil War. And slap that rat bastard back into slave-chains, where he belongs.”

And so the Scrotum, to keep up with the farm animals, drug his gun on to the stage, raised it above his head, and screeched: “The gun is good! The penis is evil!”

For, you see, as soon as a human male lays hand on a firearm, he becomes an agent of Thanatos. He is no longer of the body of Eros. He has amputated his penis. His new penis, it is a killing machine.

Poor Turtle Scrotum. His shameless penis-displaying attempt to keep up with the farm animals, it will do him no good. For, in his attempt to retain his US senate seat, he is going to be beaten like a gong. Where it appears that even Ashley Judd, or a raccoon, can send him down to defeat.

The people of Kentucky, you see, two years ago elected to send to the Senate Pawnd Rawl—the second coming of Pawn Rawl, noted slave-owner and Hebrew-fearer, doyen of Occupy Womb Street, whose singular goal in life is to ram his hands up every vagina in the land—a man who has the letters KKK tattooed on his chest, and who has actually publicly stated that he wants to use drones to kill black people coming out of liquor stores.

Not even the people of Kentucky, no matter how much meth they shoot up both arms before slapping raccoon corpses over their fences and then engaging in wild-eyed sexual congress where they demand that one another squeal like a pig, are comfortable with seating in the Senate two creatures who predate Cro-Magnon Man. With Pawnd Rawl already in there—and there has yet to be a definitive classification of his species; all that is known is that it is jaw-droppingly primitive—they feel compelled to elect to that second Senate seat someone who at least acknowledges the Age of Enlightenment, or even the wheel.

So, the Scrotum, he’s over.

This site revealed to the world that the 2012 Republican presidential primary season was owned and controlled by extraterrestrials, who assembled as candidates a stone-mad motley crew of pseudo-humans, just for laughs, to be fucking with us.

Apparently these beings had so much fun, that in 2016 they’re going to do it again. Because the 2016 Republican presidential field, smoke a bowlfrom all indications, is going to out-froot-loop the previous pork-pie.

Already there is the aforementioned brainless black-hole light-sucking farm animal Mr. Perry. And Rawl II, who will leap up from the lectern to wildly ejaculate drones at Negroes, whenever a debate gets slow. Also signed on is Ted Cruz, more a dingo than a human; a creature that not only lacks a brain, but has also had all the bones sucked out of his face. Then there is Sarah Palin, the demonic creation of some unknown nimrod who fashioned a golem from a disused Barbie doll and a quart of fermented moose semen. Here for another go-round is Rick Santorum, the 4th Century Don Quixote tilting at pleasure; a freaking grub in a skin-suit. No doubt his fellow insect, Newt Gingrich, a bedbug in a skin-suit, will not be able to resist the notion of bloating—and perhaps bursting—on stage. The meth monkey will, again, melt all our minds.

And so on.

The horror. The horror.

One cretin who will not be running for president is Turtle Scrotum. No matter how many peni he hoists above his head.

His day, it is done.

The Loser

Darth Cheney: jeebus: he’s pretty much a cartoon character these days, isn’t he? No longer really recognizable, much less acceptable, as an actual human being. He is simply fiction, and, I’m pretty sure, always has been. Somebody—fucking with us—just made the shit up. And then rolled it into Reality.

For what he really is, is Simon Legree, whuppin’ on them Negroes; Snidely he be loserWhiplash, tying Little Nell to the tracks; some ur-version of Ebenezer Scrooge, one that Dickens ultimately abandoned, papers fed to the fire, because he was way too creepy and Wrong for anyone, for even a moment, to Believe.

This we Know, most recently, because, when the black man announced some modest proposed reductions to the US death industry—which has grown swollen to the size of a thousand-million Harkonnens—Darth ran utterly wild, all over the land, preaching and screeching that the black man thereby means to rain down upon the nation Doom and Destruction.

“This really is over the top,” Darth Legree thundered. “It does enormous long-term damage to our military.”

“He would much rather spend the money on food stamps,” Ebenezer Cheney chundered, “than he would on a strong military.”

And this is wrong . . . exactly how?

Food stamps feed people. Who would otherwise go hungry. They are implements of Eros.

The military is about killing people and breaking things. It is the apotheosis of Thanatos.

Weird. That this planet is still so primitive, that anyone, at all, would, ever, take seriously, a being who asserts that resources should be dedicated to death, rather than life.

Oh well. Darth is over, of course. He, and his, are like those soldiers in combat who, running, are shot and killed, but their legs continue to carry them on, sometimes for quite a number of paces, before they look down, and notice that they are dead.

Darth is an agent of Thanatos. And therefore The Loser.

Because Eros, always, is ascendant over Thanatos. This is the one thing I know. Always has been, is now, always will be. Else life would not continue. Though it has. And does. And will.

Sign Of A Local Nigger Unravelin’

Once upon a time, there on the deeply sad, old-and-in-the-way mercy-preserve for crippled, doddering, withered, sick, ancient, and/or feeble white people—known round these parts as The Great White—there was a foam-at-the-mouth, blind pigprojectile-vomiting, glow-in-the-dark racist, who called hisself Uberbah.

Among this man’s many manifest manifold sins, included his inability to inscribe a comment without upchucking either the term “weak tea,” or “hand-waving.”

Well, as it is said, “even a blind pig can find an acorn every once in a while.”

And so, tonight, Uberbah, I bow to you. In all your nightriding, white-hooded, glory.

Because, having heard, and turned round and round in my mind’s hands, like a rubik’s cube of the operative universe, the black man’s speech, in re the serial killers of the NSA, I conclude, but four words.

Weak tea.

Hand-waving.

furthur=>

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.

furthur=>

Eyes Be Closed

This Monday, came a “report,” from a “study,” that US medical doctors, attached to the armed services, they had joined right in, back in the BushCo days, when American serial killers had determined that it was Right And Meet to, in the name of the abu ghraib superstarWar on Terra, torture, or even kill, Bad Brown People.

They had, these docs, at the very least, according to said study, sat on their asses and sucked their thumbs, while their fellow serial killers inflicted “cruel, inhumane and degrading treatment” on human beings never charged with, much less convicted of, a single crime.

Imagine my surprise.

For, back in the day—five, six, seven years ago—on the once and future blog Never In Our Names, folks like Valtin, and Avila, and I, we wrote about this shit all the time.

Not that anyone paid any attention.

And: note: we didn’t merely foam at the mouth. We strived, just as did these newbie “study” people, to source, to soberly express.

Not that anyone gave a damn.

I understand why the right didn’t give no damn. Because, nothing at all ever pursued, by George II and Darth Cheney, could ever possibly be considered, by such people, “torture,” much less “death.”

But I remain puzzled, even unto today, why the “left,” they, during this period, mostly sat on their Cheetos.

Until—Avila was the first to point this out to me—the black man ascended, in 2009, into office. At which time the lefty white dumb racist fuckscrackers, they suddenly came boiling from out of each other’s a-holes, to scream till their lips bled, that the black man, he should be lashed into jail, for not lashing into jail the white men—torture! rendition!—who had come before him.

Weird.

Today, I feel like such a fool. For spending all those years. There at StormKos. In an alleged “lefty” borough. As riven with racists as any righty sewer on the tubes. Yea, verily: even more so. For, these days, on StormKos, you can even crow you helped kill a black man. And still be lovingly embraced. To the dKos Marky-Markos bosom.

Semper fi.

Anyway. When, on Monday, “reports” of the “study” emerged, there came a great hand-wringing:

“This is a big, big striking horror,” said Dr. Gerald Thomson, professor of medicine emeritus at Columbia University[.]

Why? Why, exactly, is it a horror?

These doctors, all of them, every one, to the fucking core of all that they are, they are serial killers. Because they have sold their souls to the US armed forces. Which is about nothing but killing people. And breaking things.

They, these people, these “doctors,” are wedded to Thanatos. Lined up against life.

They, these alleged doctors, may once upon a time have sworn to some bullshit oath about “first, do no harm.” But that’s all over now. Because they are in the United States armed forces. Where their sworn duty is to kill. Or assist in a kill. Or overlook a kill. Or excuse away a kill.

They are not doctors. They are killers.

They don’t give a goddam fucking shit. They will, these “doctors,” visit whatever harm, upon a human being, they are told to.

And this they did.

We don’t need to go to Germany. We don’t need to go to Japan. We don’t need to go to China. We don’t need to go to the USSR.

For examples. Of doctors as killers.

We have just had more than enough. Right wronghere. In the US of A. Thank you very much.

I try not to write about this stuff anymore. Because It breaks me.

But not completely. Because I’ve looked over.

It’s simple: you don’t want your hoo-rah doctors to be some latter-day riff on Dr. Mengele? Then get them out of the armed forces.

Next, get your country, out of the armed forces.

This last, it is so simple and basic and obvious, that I’m weary tired unto death of expressing it.

But I will, below, again, because I feel that some people—this “feeling” no doubt merely some form of brain damage—are just creeping up on getting it.

And so, once again:

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:

Me, I vote no. On Thanatos. In its all and every.

I vote, instead, for this: eros over eros eyes be closed in eros over all:

AvoWoman Seizes Icepick

 . . . from Election Central . . . .

While elsewhere on the tubes tonight people are being snored into somnambulism by the anti-news that Captain LapBand, a.k.a. the Baron Harkonnen, a.k.a. Chris “Meaty, Beaty, Big, and Bouncy” Christie, has secured a sentence of a second term as governor of the meatyincredibly foul and indescribably noxious uber-fart known as New Jersey, and that some ugly ooze-slug of a Democrat has slimed into the governorship of Virginia, because his dufe GOoPer opponent was so batshit insane he even called upon the febrile fuck-brained “chain-the-nig*ers” nimrod Pawn Rawl to wildly ejaculate the confederate flag at his final rallies, we, we here at red, are offering the Real News: that is, that AvoWoman has been elected mayor of the Minnesota metropolis known as Icepick.

People who Don’t Know think that Icepick is actually called Minneapolis. But that is because they Don’t Know. In truth, and in all realms of Reality, as soon as all the region’s native peoples were all buggered out, the place became known, to all its white inhabitants, as Icepick. Because it is so often so fucking cold there that an icepick is required to perform even the simplest tasks: opening the front door, gathering firewood, grooming the cat, cooking a meal, making the bed, engaging in sexual congress.

These, the Icepickians, have long been the hardiest of American souls. Though it’s not like they really knew any better. Because most of them sprang from some sort of Viking stock—Norwegians, Swedes, Finns, Normans, High Germans, etc.—and so they considered it perfectly normal that one had to wield an icepick to, say, carve one’s sexual partner out of an ice cave before beginning the breeding season.

Those who did not consider this normal; those who did not spring from any sort of Viking stock; those who, among these non-Vikings, settled in Icepick; they really quickly died. Like fucking fruit-flies.

But: lo. A new dawn. It is shining brightly. On Icepick.

For global warming, which in so many elsewheres, has so many people shrieking their undies into their ovaries—well, over there in Icepick, it has people sunnily rolling the dice on avocado futures.

Because the ice, in Icepick, it has gone astray.

The cold, more and more, it has forgotten to come.

And thus, Icepick, it is poised—yea, verily—to become the new premier avocado-growing region, of all the planet.

There were Some who saw this. But none of the Some saw it as did AvoWoman. Who saw not only that Icepick would be growing whole town-rows of avocados. But also saw that people would next be wearing avocados.

Avocados. The clothes of the future.

AvoWoman: she says. And, since she says: so let it be avo oever allwritten. So let it be done.

The photo. Over there to the left. Depicting the common everyday costume of the Icepickian. Before the illumination that was vouchsafed to AvoWoman. Which resulted in her AvoWear.

Clearly, there needed to be a Change.

A change now embraced by all Decent citizens of Icepick. Who have, this night, ecstatically elevated AvoWoman to the mayoralty.

 . . . . we interrupt this program for a special news bulletin . . . . 

This here site, red, is now in possession of the full text of the victory speech emitted by AvoWoman. She having this night overwhelmingly been elected mayor of Icepick. These, her Words of Wisdom, we reprint, exclusively, below:

I would like to thank the voters of Icepick for sweeping me to a Landslide Victory over 30 – yeah count ‘em! – worthy opponents including Captain Jack Sparrow and the Half-Naked Guy From the Lake

I had complete faith that Icepickians would be able to distinguish True Vikings from those interlopers of the Pirate Party, and Yes They Did.

Also…: )

Your full embrace of the platform of environmentally friendly high fashion meets prison abolition is a tribute to the long standing progressive legacy of Icepick.

I am honored to be your Mayor. I promise to Do Better than that Man from Toronto.

And now, let me go shovel some snow :/

Yeah, but what does AvoWoman really want? This, the two or three readers of red who are at any one time fitfully conscious: they might wanna, maybe, someday, know.

Well. Shit. Because I am an omniscient being, one aided greatly by my access to all and every NSA intercept, I suppose I could go ahead and here reveal previously private conversations that indicate that AvoWoman is, probably, an imp of Satan.

We begin with a September 13, 2013 missive from Satan himself. Who suggests, temptingly, to AvoWoman:

You can campaign in AvoWear, and announce that you will appoint a cat as chief of police. You can propose mining the bridge to St. Paul, to keep those people out, and suggest an electrified fence at the state border, to take out any blind Iowans who attempt to wander over with their six-guns. Your jobs program can consist of starting the Icepick cheese industry, since Wisconsans are simply too embarrassing to be allowed to make cheese. Any Icepickian caught with cheese on their head will be forced by city ordinance to clean the sidewalks with a toothbrush.

AvoWoman, already a shrewd political operative, replies thusly:

You know—that’s kinda an appealing thought. Not a bad platform—especially the part about Police Chief and the electrified border w/Iowa. Possible appeal to many constituencies.

The NSA intercepts next indicate that crazed penis-hacking lesbians will be running hog-wild throughout AvoWoman’s godless anti-man administration.

The evidence, as ever, begins with a tempting missive from Satan:

Am I remembering right that there were one or more lesbian students who really Wanted you? These could serve as your security/bodyguards, when you are AvoMayor.

To which AvoWoman replies:

And yes you do remember correctly. More—maybe many?? So i have wardrobe, an Icepick-centric platform, a press secretary, and security.

The evidence: it is irrefutable.

No penis, is hereafter safe, in Icepick. Now that there is AvoWoman, as AvoMayor.

Why has the News Media not picked up on this? Why is red the only Fount of True Knowledge? And why do we even care if a penis survives in AvoWoman’s city? Where previously a penis was serviceable only if it was pried outta the permafrost with one or more icepicks? Why don’t we just listen to Lou Reed?

Feed Your Head

Mort Sahl is an American satirist who for many years made a career of walking on stage with a newspaper; he then proceeded to consult the headlines, in order to effectively mock the day’s political news.

It is said that Sahl retired sometime during the Nixon administration, having glumly concluded that the news was now satirizing itself: there was no longer any place for nohim. The political world had become so absurd and unsane, the news itself had usurped Sahl’s former role. A great Tear had occurred in the fabric of Reality, so that it was no longer possible to discern the Real, from the Joke.

The Sahl-retirement story probably isn’t true, but it should be. Richard Nixon, for instance, couldn’t possibly have been Real. And Sahl no doubt sensed this. Nixon was instead a character from a Robert Coover novel. Nixon was followed into the presidency by a former football player who never wore a helmet and who fell down the ramp whenever Air Force One landed. Next came a born-again nuclear-powered peanut farmer. Anyone who previously had pitched a work of fiction featuring as president a born-again nuclear-powered peanut farmer would have been shown the door. On the grounds that such a thing strayed just too far from the Real. Then, Ronald Reagan, who was clearly impossible, an Alzheimers-afflicted animatronic-being escaped from a Disney lab.

With Reagan’s successor, that’s when they really started getting obvious about it. Whoever “they” might be. With George I, who, in his convention acceptance speech, said “read my lips: no new taxes.” Even though he had no lips. Once in office, this comedic character indulged in absurdities like hauling a big bag of crack cocaine into the Oval Office, there to display it to the American people. Not even all the many pounds of Peruvian Marching Powder in the offices of Saturday Night Live would have inspired that show’s writers to concoct a president who played with a bag of crack during a nationally televised presidential address. George I they followed into office with an insatiable six-foot-tall penis. And, in the course of things, we were expected to believe that, in the late 20th Century, the political class of an entire nation would devote 18 straight months to minutely tracing every peregrination of this penis. Just as we were next expected to believe George II was the son of George I, when it was clear the man was actually Andy Kaufman.

And the nonsense continues to this day. Where, during the arc of Kaufman’s presidency, the two men on all the planet identified as America’s premier boogeymen were Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden. So they next roll into the presidency some guy named Barack Hussein Obama. No one could make up such a thing. And no one has to. Because it is Reality.

Of course, it is not only in politics where the Joke is inseparable from the Real. Which brings us to the hideous photo from which you are averting your eyes, above. Here, we are expected to believe that humans shall soon stroll the streets wearing “food helmets,” a.k.a. the Algaculture Symbiosis Suit. Instead of whistling while they work, humans shall grow algae, with their breath, piped into a series of wormy tubes draped all over their heads. Then, at the end of the day, the algae, they shall eat it.

[The suit] grows food while wearers go about their daily business. A series of tubes, placed in front of the mouth, capture carbon dioxide and feed it to which is Reala constantly growing population of suit-embedded algae. But algae needs sunlight to grow, right? Easy, the wearer just needs to sit by a window or go outside.

You probably consume more algae than you think. That sushi you had last night and the ice cream you had for dessert, even the mayonnaise you spread on your lunchtime turkey sandwich—all have derivatives of algae.

“Algaculture designs a new symbiotic relationship between humans and algae. It proposes a future where humans will be enhanced with algae living inside new bodily organs, allowing us to be semi-photosynthetic[.]“

Yesterday came news that Science Men are now guesstimating that some 8.8 billion Earth-like planets exist in this galaxy. Out there in the dimmer precincts of the intertubes, humans immediately began wailing: “if there are so many Earth-like places out there, which must have lifes on them, how for come none of these lifes have contacted us Americans?”

The answer to this is both simple, and obvious. Intelligent life in this universe is deliberately eschewing direct contact with the human species. Until such time as said species get its Reality straight. And so no longer indulges in such weirdsmobiles as the Algaculture Symbiosis Suit. Or Richard Nixon.

A Series Of Tubes

Matt Drudge is an illiterate dumbfuck. He remains a vital cog in the rightwing noise machine because his site caters to the worst slowing-to-gawk-at-a-car-wreck instincts of human beings, and is so simple and stripped-down it can be navigated by brain-damaged monkeys. Which pretty much super mario netdescribes his core audience. Drudge is a closeted gay man who likes to fuck all drippy and gooey with raw eggs; he is of that subset of gay men that fears and loathes women. Thus, when, as yesterday, he posts some uber-screeching five-alarm headline that damns someone as “The Most Hated Woman In America,” you can rest assured that, in Reality, she is no such thing. Probably, there’s nothing wrong with her at all.

Kathleen Sebelius. That is the woman yesterday scarlet-lettered by The Eggman as “The Most Hated Woman In America.”

This designation demonstrates only that Drudge is a baboon. For not only is Kathleen Sebelius not the most hated woman in America, most Americans don’t even know who she is.

Who she is, is the Secretary of Health and Human Services. And why she is, to nimrods like Drudge, “the most hated woman in America,” is because, as soon as the last notes of the endless debt-ceiling/government-shutdown nonsense receded, the organ-grinders immediately began wheezing and blatting the monkeys to St. Vitus Dance over “the rollout of Obamacare.”

There always has to be something. Some terminal Crisis and Doom. And this, now, is that.

I am not exactly sure of the full and complete nature of the propellor-beanie complaint. Because I refuse any more to minutely follow the day-to-day fight-or-flight phantasm of “politics.” What I have managed to grasp is that it has apparently been determined, by Drudge and his ilk, that Sebelius should be tied to a stake and set on fire because she heads up the agency implementing the ACA website, and said website “doesn’t work.”

No. Really? A website that “doesn’t work”? This, to me, is “shocked, shocked to find that gambling is going on here” territory. For I wonder if any of these screamers have cited to any website that does work. Surely I have yet to find one. They’ve all got some thing or another wrong with shocked shockedthem. How could they not? They are created and maintained by human beings. Who are imperfect. And thus, everything that passes through their hands, is likewise imperfect.

The Drudge site itself “doesn’t work.” The Eggman commonly posts headlines with howling misspellings that would embarrass a third-grader. It is also often true that clicking on a link there will take the reader nowhere but back to the Drudge front-page. It is like an endless loop of fail. Over on StormKos, where the usual suspects are screaming till their lips bleed that the “doesn’t work” website proves the black man should be heaved in a trash can . . . well, that site too “doesn’t work,” when one attempts to utilize the search function, which became of the bungled and the botched several years ago. When I go to the power-company website, I find it completely impossible to simply access an accounting of my most recent bill. It’s like there must be some secret invisible Super Mario place, where I have to leap up and grab something that I cannot see, in order to be vouchsafed such information. And this site right here, lemme tell you, also “doesn’t work.”

While other folks were debating what type of wood should be used, in burning Sebelius at the stake, a Sane Person somehow spoke up:

California Democrat and committee sub-chair Henry Waxman told his colleagues to “stop hyperventilating” and focus on what is working and not what is not.

Waxman said, “The early glitches in this rollout will soon be forgotten,” and asked the committee to “keep this in perspective: The Affordable Care Act is working.”

Waxman stated that more than 100 million Americans have access to free preventive coverage and no longer face lifetime limits on their coverage.

“The worst abuses of the insurance industry will be halted,” he said. “Never again will individuals see their premiums shoot up because they got sick or faced an unforeseen medical issue.”

He stated that 60 percent of Americans will be able to get coverage for less than $100 per month.

And that’s what it’s really all about. The Eggman and his ilk don’t like the ACA because it might help someone who is not them.

So it’s simply got to go.

But we’re not supposed to listen to Waxman. Because he is a man not conventionally attractive, he was damned decades ago by the rightwing noise machine as “Nostrildamus”; we are required simply to giggle, whenever we hear his name.

Same as it ever was.

Oh, Ashley

In one of her most recent meth-mouth ejaculations, Sarah Palin, the tundra termagant, decreed that a number of sitting Republican US senators shall soon have their heads cut off at the ballot box.

This fate they shall suffer because the witless Panzer Powder aficionado, and her confederates, have determined senior senator, south carolinathat said men are insufficiently committed to the complete and total destruction of the United States, in the name of Getting The Black Man.

One of the termagant’s targets was identified as Lindsey Graham, senior senator from the Confederate state of South Carolina.

Graham has long frenzied the nightriders galloping at the outer edges of the GOoPer herd of the unsane. This is first because he is a closeted gay man. And second because he is so often joined at the hip to John McCain. A loose cannon anathema to the nightriders, because he first primary-challenged once and future favorite son George II for the presidency (McCain’s campaign effectively scuttled right there in South Carolina, when Rove & Co let it be known (falsely) that McCain had fathered a black child; though such is a South Carolina tradition, see Strom Thurmond, it is one that is supposed to remain delicately concealed until after the white rapist’s death). And then, when McCain had his own shot at the presidency, he refused to center his campaign around the fact that his opponent was black, and therefore an unacceptable existential threat to all that is Good and Godly.

Graham periodically attempts to woo the nightriders by dragging his knuckles right down to the ground. Such as his July 2013 scratching and hooting that the United States should boycott the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi, Russia, because of “what the Russian government is doing throughout the world.”

And so, within hours of Palin recently mustering the riders, Graham was flapping across all the televisions and tubes in the land, thundering that he shall not allow the black man to appoint anyone to a job in the federal government until he, Graham, “gets some answers on Benghazi.”

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The Light Is On The Left Side Of Your Head

Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.

—William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

So far as I can determine, Darth Cheney has always been controlled by Fear.

He grew up—a child—in Caspar, Wyoming. Staring across the endless wastes. Where there was nothing. Nothing at all. Least the light is onof all: him. Amidst all this nothingness. Young Darth. He became Afraid. So lonely. So cold. Just . . . so lonely.

And then, his corporeal container, it failed him. Utterly. And early.

In 1978, when Darth was but 37, a massive real-bad heart attack, attempted to carry him away. This he, somehow, survived. Six years later, he had a second heart attack. A third came after four more years. He underwent quadruple bypass surgery at age 47. In late November of 2000, while waiting for the United States Supreme Court to complete its judicial coup, and thereby elevate Darth, and his minion George II, to the vice presidency and presidency, of the United States, respectively, Cheney was hit with a fourth heart attack. A fifth struck in 2010.

In the many meantimes, Cheney underwent coronary artery stenting, urgent coronary balloon angioplasty, the implantation of a cardioverter-defibrillator. Etc., etc., and etc. He also had fitted this and that and the other, and more, pacemakers.

In the spring of 2011, amid desperate and extraordinary attempts to extend his life, he became a man with no pulse.

Basically, Darth Cheney is a roboman. Nature, it tried to carry him off. And many years ago. But technology. It keeps him keepin’ on.

furthur=>

Speed Kills

So here we have Sarah Palin, former Republican nominee as vice-president of the United States, now a public and obvious meth-mouth. Keep poundin’ that Panzer Powder, honey.

The First Monday In October

Below find excerpts from NSA intercepts of recent communications involving various justices to the United States Supreme Court.

John Roberts: Yes, David, be assured: the Plan is proceeding apace. We have firmly defined corporations as persons, thanks to Scalia pulling enormous quantities of effluvia out of the vast cavernous reaches of his capacious anal canal. And last term, in the Voting Rights cases, we succeeded in bashing the Negroes and the Brown uber allesOnes off the walls of the Alamo; this term, we are determined to declare definitively that Negroes are, in fact, not persons. Scalia says if “no Negro is a human” was good enough for his hero, Judge Taney, in Dred Scott v. Sandford, it’s good enough for us; and, since we went back to the 19th Century for the “corporations-are-people” decision, there is no reason why we can’t return to that same century for the “Negroes are not people” ruling. As Scalia points out—convincingly—the Founders did not regard The Blacks as human: so why should we? (Nino says Thomas won’t be a problem—he doesn’t consider himself black.) The Negroes-ain’t-persons doctrine will also obviate the birther cases: it won’t matter where Obama was born, once it is determined he is a non-person. He could have been born in Peoria, or even on the grounds of Liberty University; but, if he’s a non-person, he can’t serve. The day is coming, David—believe me—when the White House will be White again. As you know, I have been working for this Negroless day since my days in the Reagan administration. Hewing always to my secret motto: Land o’ cotton uber alles! Soon, David, we shall see again the Real America: the one where White businesses are people, but the Wrong-colored creatures who work for them are not. Next, we shall see about lifting the requirement that such creatures be paid . . . .

Stephen Breyer: Okay. What I need you clerks to do is to find me some cases this term where I can vote so it looks like I’m a liberal. While meanwhile fulfilling, always, my prime directive: fellate business.

Samuel Alito: I am hoping that in one of the 954 cases on the docket this term where we get to sneer at Sandra Day O’Connor and meanwhile march on a road of bones to the complete and total abolition of all abortions in this land, that we can find some “hook,” in which we may rule that the government not only can, but should, install monitoring devices in the reproductive regions of all American women. (Maybe “national security”?) Because, really, the only way to get these animals under control is to track, in real time, what goes in and out of their vaginas. As is well known, the only permitted use of a vagina is to receive a married penis, at the peak time of fertilization, and lizardpersonthen to expel a child, some months after fertilization has occurred. Meanwhile, Nino says he is working on the opinion wherein we shall declare that life begins when a man looks at a woman and decides she should have his baby. I’m excited! When that decision comes down, there are already many babies out there, from me!

Sonia Sotomayer: Elena, I asked Ruth about poisoning Scalia, and she says it just won’t work. She says she’s tried several times, at those dinners they have together, to slip damn great doses of poison into his food, but none of them have ever had any effect. It is her opinion that he actually died many years ago—probably from an aorta blow during one of his many uncontrollable fits—and was then replaced by some sort of manufactured RoboJustice, that is impervious to poison. Also, she says nothing really can be done about Clarence telling you, during conference, to “get me some more coffee, bitch”; according to her, “that’s just his way.”

Anthony Kennedy: Roberts was being an ass again, swaggering in here to smirk: “Look, Tony, in this job you can’t just be about pleasing the homos. You got to do that last term; this term you need to take the heat of the health-care cases, re-rigging the thing so it continues to serve our corporate friends, which the knuckledraggers in the stupid tea-hats are just too dumb to get.” I asked him if I could at least write the opinion striking down the contraception-coverage requirement, but he said he’d promised Sam and Scalia that this term they could exercise total control over all cases involving “the holes.”

Elena Kagan: Looks like I may get the decision where we decide that the Fourth Amendment permits cops to seize, without a warrant, people’s cellphones, and roar through all the contents. The ghost of William O. Douglas came around to start screaming at me again last night: see about doubling down on my downer prescriptions.

Clarence Thomas: The porn the clerks got for me last term was for shit. I need good hard continuous action this year; how the hell else am I going to stay awake in this damn job? Also, thank “The Cleaner” for stuffing in the Jimmy Hoffa landfill that Post reporter who was planning to break the story that the reason why I never ask questions during oral argument is because of the earbuds implanted in both my earholes, broadcasting non-stop dirty talk from Vicki, Vixen, and Juggs. Oh—and find out if that reporter, before he disappeared, told anybody in his family about me. If so, The Cleaner says there’s room for them in the landfill.

Ruth Bader Ginsburg: Just waiting to find out what part of my body will need to be removed and/or replaced this term. Meanwhile, watched the last episode of the lordthat Breaking Bad show. Regarded wistfully the part where the machine-gun mounted in the car cut down all the bad boys. Oh well. A girl can dream . . . .

Antonin Scalia: I am the Lord thy God. Thou shalt have no other gods before me. Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain. And I, the Lord, said unto Roberts, Come up to me into the mount, and be there: and I will give thee tables of stone, and a law, and commandments which I have written; that thou mayest teach them.

Tombstones

“Profit motive” means very simply: you give less than you take. If you give less than you take, you grow mean and stingy. Everybody suffers. Morality is totally impossible.

—Lew Welch

Money is death. Ask yourself why banks and currency use the same images as tombstones.

—Lew Welch 

The money. It is almost over. Blessed be.

We can see this, rightly, if we just look, right, at the current roil of news.

—First, in re the latest eternal recurrence of the American debt limit/grand bargain/ACA/government shutdown/blah-de-blah kabuki.

Senator Ted Cruz, he read Green Eggs And Ham, on the floor of theexorcising the blah man Senate. And proved that he did not understand it. At all. And that he is as run-amok nuts as a schoolyard flasher.

Cruz, and his fellow senators Mike Lee, Marco Rubio, and Ayn Rand Paul: all of them are non-sane; de-evolved; deeply, deeply, stupid. They are the Four Stooges of the 21st Century. With Cruz as the really fat and oafish Stooge, the one with the flat-top, who finds it difficult to even drool properly.

When people in other nations regard a person like Cruz, they clamor to know why their borders cannot be immediately and permanently sealed, against the advent of any and all Americans.

Extraterrestrials, meanwhile, have hastily constructed a hyperspace bypass, so that none of them need come anywhere near this planet.

The photo reproduced above, it proves absolutely that Cruz is a mentally divergent knuckledragger. An atavist who grunts and grinds in a world 2000 years long gone. For he is calling, there, down upon his knees, for divine assistance from one Jesus of Nazareth—a millennially long-gone, thoroughly mortal, Jewish prophet; pressganged, upon his death, by an ambitious toadstool of a Saul of Tarsus, into serving as cat’s-paw for some new and improved Sun King faith.

But of course, in truth, what Stooge Cruz is here really doing, upon his knees, before the White House, is calling upon all and every deity—Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha, Beelzebub, anyfuckingbody, even frigging Cthulhu—to get the goddam black man out of the White House.

For Ted Cruz, like anybody and everybody associated with, or even once fleetingly sympathetic with, the fabled “Tea Party,” is a five-star, glow-in-the-dark, racist.

If you could manage, some deep dark night, to burst into his bedroom, and shine a black light onto his forehead, before he might Take Precautions, you would find, stenciled there, on his forehead, as is stenciled upon the forehead of anybody and everybody ever associated with the Tea Party, these words: “I Hate Ni**ers.”

Cruz hates anything black. And, most especially, the black man in the White House. So much so that he, like his fellow five-star glow-in-the-dark racists Mike Lee, Marco Rubio, Ayn Rand Paul, and any and all persons ever even remotely associated or even fleetingly sympathetic with the Tea Party, is intent on making sure that the United States is transformed, economically, into Zimbabwe. Rather than let any dollars, touch the black man’s hands. They would first deny the black man the money to run the federal government . . . and they would deny it solely because he is black. That was the message and import of the fabled Cruz Green Eggs And Ham flaccidbuster. They are next intent on cthlulhu save me!insuring that the black man cannot pay the nation’s debts. By refusing to raise the debt-ceiling limit. Thereby crashing and burning not only the federal government, but also the American economy . . . and, as my colleague has been cassandraing for the past umpteen-years, the status of the dollar as the world’s reserve currency.

But Cruz and Co., they don’t care. They are perfectly willing to stand in the fire. Even as it consumes them. So long as it first burns the black man.

—Next, there’s the pope. Something has gone seriously wrong with the fellow. So much so, that they’re probably going to have to poison him.

We first understood he’d gone stone-mad when one of his sub-primates emerged from some catacomb to pronounce priestly celibacy and marriage-eschewing “tradition,” rather than dogma. That means, the catacomber explained, that these things are not essential god-ordained ways to be a Catholic. But instead just something they do. And therefore they can change their minds about it, whenever they feel like it.

Then the pope himself, suddenly roared out of the pope-hole, to give an interview in which he told Catholic primates, prelates, and random assorted lay-nimrods, that people, like them, “obsessed” with abortion, birth control, gay people, and the like, should put a cork in it. He said that, in his popedom, he’s not going to talk about those things. Because they’re boring and trivial. And if people don’t like that, well, they can just bugger right off.

Finally, the new popeling, he seized the microphone, at some radio station, to rant, correctly, that money is “the dung of the devil”:

Money sickens our minds, poisons our thoughts, even poisons our faith, leading us down the path of jealousy, quarrels, suspicion and conflict. It drives to idle words and pointless discussions.

We can never serve God and money at the same time. It is not possible: either one or the other. This is not Communism. It is the true Gospel! They are the Lord’s words.

Money begins by offering a sense of well-being. Then you feel important and vanity comes. This vanity is useless, but still you think you are important. And after vanity comes pride. Those are the three steps: wealth, vanity, and pride.

“But, Father, I read the Ten Commandments and they say nothing about the evils of money. Against which Commandment do you sin when you do something for money?” Against the first one! You worship a false idol. And this is the reason: because money becomes an idol and you worship it. And that’s why Jesus tells us that you cannot serve money and the living God: either one or the other.

The early Fathers of the Church, in the 3rd Century, around the year 200 or 300, put it in a very blunt way, calling money ‘the dung of the devil’. And so it is. Because it turns us idolatrous, fills our thoughts with pride, and leads us away from our faith.

Holy fuck! It was bad enough that the guy opened his yap to say no war in Syria. Not even we love deaththe Big Hat during WWII said stop the war: in fact, that cretin got down on his knees and thanked god when the Nazis invaded the USSR, imploring the Big Guy In The Sky to grant the Germans “total victory.”

Why can’t this pope behave like that?

But no.

Not only does he say stop the bomb-rain, but now he’s on about money.

Clearly, something’s going to have to go into his soup.

—Finally, it is a fact that there exists five times as much debt in this world, as there exists money. And anyone who has evolved beyond even Cruz-level can quickly apprehend—no matter how deficient their math skills—that this is a hole from which it is not possible to emerge.

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Sign Of A Local Nigger Unravelin’

Michelangelo was a sculptor. That’s all of who he was. The rich rat bastards, they kept paying him for paintings—he didn’t want to paint, but painting was where the money was. So, he painted.

A sculptor—what he really was—involved selecting and regarding a block of marble. Seeing what it was meant to be. Knowing the interior. The finished let the slaveglowing being. Then, having to go, through time and effort and time, the tiresome endless work, of bringing out what was already there. The already happened.

Chisel.

Chip.

Chip. Chip. Chip.

In the last decades of his life, Michelangelo approached marble, chipped away for a time, then stood back, saying he was finished.

No one, at the time, could see how he could possibly say that he was the least bit finished.

To this day, people do not understand what he meant. By “finished.”

His, here, is an avenue of art, that no one, over the past umpteen-hundred years, has pursued. Because it appears to be nothing but “unfinished.” Like, maybe, probably, he just gave up.

Bollocks. This is the man who had already used chisel and stone to depict the most precise and divine representations of human beings in the entire history of sculpture. Before, or since.

So, when he moved elsewhere, people should have paid attention.

But they didn’t. And they still don’t.

The “unfinished” Michelangelo pictured above is called “Awakening Slave.” From the title alone, it should be obvious, to anyone employing brain cells, that it is absolutely right, that the slave is unable to fully emerge from the marble. Michelangelo’s choice, here, was absolutely right.

He said that the marble spoke to him. And, when it said, stop carving, he stopped.

True artists don’t listen to the bullshit. They listen to the art.

Writing is like regarding a block of marble. The task is to chip away the bullshit, the effluvia, the waste, revealing, relating, only what is.

That is why, when I was 16, and first regarded the “unfinished” sculptures of Michelangelo, I knew exactly what they were about. He had gone beyond the mere perfection of form. To regarding, and representing, perfection attempting to emerge, yet held back, by the muck.

Now that I am older, I see a second reason why he went with the “unfinished.” Because, for decades, he’d put it all out there, in the way that they wanted to see it. Yet, they still didn’t get it. So: fuck ‘em. Go with the quantum. The finished/unfinished. The way it really is.

So, uh, this piece, that follows, I had grand finished plans for the thing, some weeks ago, when I wanted to both Snowden, and Zimmerman. I was first concerned about those in my karass so hurt by the Zimmerman verdict. And, next, those, also in my karass, so wounded by the Snowden revelations. Unfortunately, I don’t think I ever got around to serving, in what I have here written, completely, either. Much less both. The piece is unfinished. But I’ve decided to put it out there anyway. In hopes people can regard what is there, and see also into the marble. To what was meant to be. To what is.

(for robin and denise and amazing and adept and time and sephius and conk and tree and trayvon and sooth and seeta and ms. turn-up-your-radio and my pooldar anacaona and she-be-hawaiian-feet and the far rambling planet and all whose skins and souls burn 24/7 with the lies of this nation . . . . ) 

The Snowden uproar has been driven mostly by white people.

In garment-rending frenzy, that maybe government folks, are ear-trumpeting their phone conversations, goggle-eyeing their email.

Like, checking them.

People of color have, generally, been less exercised. Because, from when they first become conscious in this country, in this culture, people of color naturally assume they are being allchecked. Watched. Listened to. Tracked. As a condition of their very lives. Because, everything about their lives, about their history, teaches them that they are.

(The exception was when the Bolivian president’s homeward-bound plane was forced to the ground: people of color, then, particularly south of the border, they for sure, then uproared, over that. Because it was, so humiliatingly, typical of their lives, their history. To wit: white people won’t believe them. Will naturally assume them of involvement in nefariousness. Will physically roust them. Whenever they feel like it. Even if the rousted is the president of a sovereign nation.

(So let it be written. So let it be done.

(Same as it ever was.)

What people of color in this country would like, it is something more basic than freedom from a government-snout snorting about in their email.

What they would like, is a guarantee of physical safety.

That, maybe, they can feel free, to, oh, say, walk to the store, and back again, without getting shot.

And what the Zimmerman verdict tells them is that, once again, this—this is a forlorn hope.

Because what the Zimmerman verdict tells people of color is: no, really, they can’t—still “not yet”—walk to the store and back, without fear of being shot.

And white people, they have no idea, what that means.

To live, day in, day out, every day, like that.

Knowing they might be killed. For just walking the streets.

As they continue to squeal. The white people. About a snout. Maybe in their email.

I received, in the wake of the Zimmerman verdict, an email from a person of color, who has succumbed to despair.

Says she:

A lot of what I came up believing, spouted ad nauseam by Jose Marti and Rev Dr. King? I am doubting any of it now. I don’t believe for a New York minute we shall overcome, or “not too long.” This seems like the weakest pabulum and fairy tale imaginable. It’s open season on people of color.

What can I say to her?

Nothing.

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Ah-nuld Aristotle

From the first time ever I saw his face, Arnold Schwarzenegger has annoyed me.

Almost as much as the song “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.”

But never mind that now.

Schwarzenegger first inflicted himself upon me more than 35 years ago, when he was an arrogant dumbcluck dope-smoking bobybuilder, and as such bodybuildingsomehow invaded the pages of my Rolling Stone.

“What a nimrod,” I thought. “Here’s a goofy gap-toothed guy whose last name translates as ‘Blackblack.’ His name is redundant, and so is he.”

Humans engage in many pursuits that may be fairly described as imbecilic. “Bodybuilding” surely is one of these. I have long believed that such people should be confined to zoos. For the poses they strike, the spectacle they make of their tortured and contorted near-naked bodies—these may be likened only to baboons shimmy-shaking their bright-pink asses, giraffes blithely running fourteen feet of tongue in and out of their nostrils, pint-sized hippos waddling about with their penises on backwards, terminally nearsighted rhinos suddenly gone mad racing across the dirt to plunge their horns into shivering two-by-fours.

“Martial artists”—they can occupy the next cage over.

It was during this “bodybuilding” period that Schwarzenegger personally consumed most of the steroids annually imported into the state of California. Indeed, so extreme was his consumption, that by the age of 30 his testicles had negative mass. They could not be detected even through an electron microscope.

Schwarzenegger next decided he would defile the movies.

Director and self-described Cro-Magnon Man John Milius must be blamed for this: he cast Schwarzenegger as the ur-human protagonist in Conan the Barbarian.

Schwarzenegger’s film career, combined with Milius’ literally unbelievable Red Dawn, recently resulted in a United Nations declaration that, as Punishment for his Sins against Mankind, Milius must be placed in a see-through bamboo cage and run through the streets of Hong Kong, followed by a million Chinese loudly banging gongs.

From time to time I have earned my crust as a film critic. For many years, it seemed like whenever some new Schwarzenegger vomit hurled itself upon the screen, I was ordered to review it. Once I thought seriously of shooting myself in the arm, to avoid a Schwarzenegger assignment, one that I knew would result in a lifetime of PTSD. I refrained only because my then-editor was such a Walter Burns that he would have ordered me to do The Job anyway, insisting I could dictate the piece into a handheld tape recorder, using my one good arm.

I remember leaving the Schwarzenegger monstrosity End of Days convinced that motion pictures should just be abolished. Better that no film, ever, anywhere, ever again be screened, it. is. the. end.than that something like that End of Days atrocity be allowed to slouch out of Schwarzenegger to be borne.

Somewhere along the line, Schwarzenegger married a Kennedy.

For a long time this pissed me off. Until I realized that, because of completely out-of-control Catholic breeding practices, there are now so many Kennedys in America, that the chances of a person entering matrimony finding his- or herself marrying a Kennedy, these are about equivalent to getting “heads” on a coin-toss. In fact, odds are good that I myself may marry a Kennedy, before my day is done.

Not that Schwarzenegger should be marrying anyone. He is the sort of man for whom Science Men should construct a cunning device that would be implanted under the skin in order to deliver a powerful and incapacitating jolt of electricity, whenever he comes within five feet of a woman.

This is because Schwarzenegger is the sort of “man” who, when he comes within five feet of a woman, thinks it a hoot to reach out and twist her nipple, then giggle like a monkey.

We now know that, during his marriage, whenever Schwarzenegger was puttering around the house, and would grow bored, he would wander down the hall and impregnate the maid.

After so befouling the movies that extraterrestrials have blocked off-world transmission of Terran films for a thousand years, Schwarzenegger next decided to invade politics.

When Karl Rove and Enron deliberately shot in the stomach California Governor Gray Davis with that phony 2000-2001 California “electricity crisis,” Schwarzenegger announced as one of about 465 humans, semi-humans, and flaming freakazoids of no known origin, seeking to replace Davis in a special recall election.

Listening to debates featuring the duelling accents of Schwarzenegger and that shameless freak Arianna Huffington, I felt like I had been transported into some Saturday Night Live skit titled something like “Spawn Of The Fascists.”

Where the fuck did I live? California? Bavaria? The summer playhouse of the Greek colonels?

This nonsense was so far removed from Reality, it had to be staged.

It was this experience that allowed me, some 10 years or so on, to instantly identify the 2012 Republican presidential primary sideshow as an event owned and controlled by extraterrestrials, having a lark, just fucking with the humans.

Schwarzenegger was actually elected governor by the people of California; he was then—yes, it’s true—re-elected.

I haven’t the faintest idea what he did while in office. Because I refused to the horroraccept it. I studiously avoided all awareness of state politics. I chose to live in an alternative universe during that period. Because I would not be a part of the universe where Californians, having already inflicted Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan upon the land, decided it would be Right and Meet to roll in the hay with Arnold Schwarzenegger.

I do know that his term must have been a complete and total disaster. Because, upon his exit from office, the state’s voters desperately employed a time machine. To return to the governor’s mansion Jerry Brown, who had already served in that office from 1975 to 1983. Clearly, these voters were, ashamedly, trying to roll back time to 1983. And pretend that all the years after—and particularly those with Ah-nuld—Never Happened.

I had not thought of Schwarzenegger for many moons. Until this morning. When the intertubes chucked up the photo you see there above, and to the left.

I am not exactly sure what is going on there. But it is not anything like Good.

It seems that, with that lectern, and that pointed finger, and that earnest/amused expression, and that absurd facial hair, Schwarzenegger may now be trying to recast himself as some sort of philosopher. Ah-nuld as Aristotle.

My colleague is fond of asserting that “the American people always get exactly what they deserve.”

But no peoples, deserve such as this.

The horror. The horror.

Barking Mad Meth Monkey Michele Bachmann Abruptly Announces Congressional Exit

Michele Bachmann, the insane Congresswoman from out of Icepick, Minnesota, placed on her campaign website at about 4 a.m. local time Wednesday an eight-minute video in which she announced she would not seek re-election in 2014.

Political observers were nearly unanimous in concluding that the weirdsmobile wee-hours timing of the Bachmann announcement confirmed meth is my lifelongstanding suspicions that the unsane teabagger is owned and controlled by truly mammoth mountains of methamphetamine.

“No one thinks it is Sane or Normal to suddenly throw up such a video at four in the morning, unless they’re a fucking meth monkey,” wrote Barney Rubble in Politico.

“It was just too cold up there in the frozen tundra to go out and tinker with the innards of her automobile at two in the morning, like a normal meth person,” Rubble explained. “So she recorded and released a crazed video. That’s what these people do.”

There was, however, a minority view. “I don’t think she released the thing when she did because she shoots speed in both arms all day and all of the night,” demurred Dr. E Pluribus Unum. “I think it’s because she’s a werewolf.”

In any event, there was near-universal rejoicing at the werewolfian meth-huffer’s abrupt abandonment of the political landscape.

“There simply must be some minimal standards,” groused Rubble. “And a woman who can’t even correctly spell her first name has no place in politics. Not even in America.”

Bachmann is best known for her barking mad utterances during the 751 globally televised Republican presidential debates of 2012. These broadcasts bled into space, causing extraterrestrials to build a hyperspace bypass so that Thinking and Feeling creatures need no longer venture into this quadrant of the galaxy. Where they would surely succumb to The Fear.

In her pre-dawn-patrol video, the noted meth-mouth gibbered that “my decision was not in any way influenced by any concerns about my being re-elected to Congress.” This remark was interpreted to mean that Bachmann knows that in 2014 she would be beaten like a gong by any sentient creature who happened to oppose her. Creatures not excluding Baby Huey, Yosemite Sam, or Wile E. Coyote.

The werewolf further howled: “This decision was not impacted in any way by the recent inquiries into the activities of my former presidential campaign or my former presidential staff.” This remark fires_finalwas interpreted to mean that Bachmann knows that the several dozen ongoing legal investigations into the Gang That Couldn’t Crook Straight bumblings of her staff will inevitably result in everyone she’s ever known or even seen being lashed into jail on multiple felony charges.

Because there are no coincidences, the addled announcement preceded but by hours the release of a new book titled Fires of Siberia, “a romance novel based on the life of Minnesota Congresswoman Michele Bachmann.”

The book follows Danielle Powers, a presidential candidate “full of firebrand pluck and red state sex appeal” whose plane crashes over Siberia, according to the press release. Together with the only other survivor, Steadman Bass, Danielle Powers is forced to “confront her deepest self and choose between civilization and a wild, primitive ecstasy.” (Skimming the galley, I noticed a reference to her nipples, at one point, “pebbl[ing].”)

And thus, all becomes clear. Bachmann is abandoning her seat because Fires of Siberia is not fiction. It is True.

And Bachmann knows it.

Unable to live with the Shame, she beat the book’s release—though only by hours—with her announced retirement from public life.

Now, Bachmann can wallow in meth—nipples pebbled—in privacy and peace. Yes, now, and with a wild, primitive ecstasy, she can rearrange her silverware drawer at 2 a.m. Or stare intently at minute pieces of string, wondering What They Want. And when the day inevitably comes, as it must to all meth people, and most werewolves, that the refrigerator Needs to be Shot, she can blast away without fear of appearing on the national news. And otherwise freely indulge, now, she, in all the many other wonderments, that occupy the lives of the meth people among us.

Friday News Dump

—Yesterday on the Sean Klannity radio show I heard the second generation of the insane Paul clan indicate that not only is he running for president in 2016, but he would like his three nutso teabagger nutbag 2.0mates—fellow Cro-Magnon senators Mike Lee, Ted Cruz, and Marco Rubio, all of whom are also planning to run for president—to get out of the race immediately and endorse him. They are all loons, and seem fated to crash and burn together. People in other countries, and on other planets, are averting their eyes. It is just Too Much.

—Some Chinese mathematician has had a new and intriguing brainshower about prime numbers. People are grumpy about this, not least because he is over 50, and is therefore supposedly “too old” to discover anything important.

—The I-5 bridge that collapsed in Washington when the semi barrelled into it had been classified “fracture critical,” which means the entire structure could be brought down if even one major part failed. There are a lot of bridges like that—like, 18,000—around the country. It would be nice if the Americans would invest money in fixing such things. Would mean a lot of jobs: give the serial killers something constructive to do. But, I suppose not.

—In Los Altos, California, a woman was crabby that her estranged husband had a new girlfriend. So, she “went to the couple’s Redwood City construction business, dressed in a mechanics jumpsuit with bubble wrap underneath. She approached her husband while he sat at a computer, discharged a stun gun into his side, and stabbed him several times in the neck and chest.” He lived; she is on trial. I guess these things happen.

—News is belatedly filtering out of the Mayberrys about the 5.7 earthquake that rocked and rolled mountainous northeastern California last night:

Susan Shephard and her husband Alan Shephard, who run the Quail Lodge at Lake Almanor near Greenville very close to the epicenter, said they were watching The Hunger Games on TV when the whole building started shaking.

“All of a sudden things started falling off the shelves, mirrors fell off the wall, vases fell down to the floor, everything started crashing,” Shephard told the Redding Record-Searchlight. “It felt like the end of our world.”

Apparently crashing dishes and the like was the extent of the mayhem. No reports of deaths or injuries.

It shook the Manor pretty good, that quake. The cats held me responsible. So. Not only are they convinced that I control the weather, but now the earth rumbling and buckling is somehow within my purview.

The last time I felt a quake this seriously was in Stinson Beach, in what turned out to be a pre-shock to that 1989 shake-up that collapsed San Francisco. May this, not be that. Hard to know, though. Because there has not been much study of the faults that run through the mountains up here. That is because there are no rich people around. And, as is well-known, if it won’t affect rich people, it Doesn’t Matter.

—In that strange speech yesterday, President Obama told Congress to repeal the AUMF. Duh. The original sin from bad luckwhich all the War on Terra hath flowed. I used to grouse about that over on StormKos, but nobody wanted to hear about it. Someday the Americans will erect a statue to Barbara Lee, the only person to vote against it. Someday.

—Poor Richard III. Born into a non-ordinary body, his reign brief and tumultuous, whacked to shit in a field by an upstart Tudor. Then, 100 years later, with Tudors still running the Brit-throne show, Shakespeare dutifully transformed Richard into one of the most despicable villains in all Christendom. Nobody knew where the guy’s body lay more than 400 years, until it was unearthed a while back in some parking lot. They dug it up and ran it through a bunch of Science Man tests, and now various moneygrubbers are arguing over where best to reinter it. You see, it is expected that wherever it goes, people will come see it, and, therefore, whoever controls it, will Get Money. The family has now come roaring out to complain that the moneygrubbers should bugger right off, as their behavior is violating the European Convention on Human Rights. Because the guy has the right to have his remains lie in peace. Even if he’s been dead 400 years, and was, or so sayeth Shakespeare, a Meanie.

Reality Theatre

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 rightall 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 leftaway 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.

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.

Serial Killers Continue To Cry

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 serial killer at workArmed 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 what it iswish 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:


When I Worked

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