Archive for the 'Rutting For Office' Category

Ah-nuld Aristotle

Published June 2, 2013 Animal Matters , Capital Crime , Cineman , Rutting For Office , War On Women 1 Comment

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

Published May 29, 2013 Rutting For Office 2 Comments

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

Published May 24, 2013 Animal Matters , Capital Crime , Destry , Eternal Recurrence , Rutting For Office , War On Terra 1 Comment

—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

Published May 9, 2013 Africa , Capital Crime , Destry , Eternal Recurrence , Israel/Palestine , Rutting For Office , War On Terra 10 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 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

Published April 27, 2013 Animal Matters , Destry , Rutting For Office Leave a Comment

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

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 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:

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 let's reada 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.”

In Which We Regard Two Proofs That Thought Is Alien To The Male Brain

Published April 20, 2013 Animal Matters , Eternal Recurrence , Rutting For Office 20 Comments

Previously here on red we referenced the work of my colleague—a Science Man who is a woman—that determined that there are striking differences in the brains of male homo sapiens, as compared to those of females.

Here is some of what we then reported:

Women, their brains contain many folds, storing a dazzling array of information: from how to clean lampshades, to the male brainways and means of compacting more matter than exists in the entire universe into one small purse.

Men, however, their brains contain but two folds: one for sports, and one for pornography.

Building on her ground-breaking work, I have now determined that it is probable that in neither of these folds is present what is commonly considered as “thought.” It seems likely that male human beings do not “think,” at all.

I have obtained two proofs: one from the sports fold, and one from the porn fold. These proofs are presented past the “furthur.”

furthur=>

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. Pluribusvote for rock 1 or rock 2 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 meet your u.s.senatorswent 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.”

Light Moves

Published April 10, 2013 Outer Limits , Rutting For Office 3 Comments

So it seems that some Science Men have now determined that the speed of light is not so constant after all.

Across the great water, intensively studying light moves, are March let there beUrban of the University of Paris-Sud, and Gerd Leuchs and Luis L. Sanchez-Soto of the Max Planck Institute for the Physics of Light in Erlangen, Germany.

Let us note parenthetically that it is Good to see the French and the Germans getting along.

In any event, these three Science Men will soon be publishing two new Studies in European Physical Journal D (what’s with that name?) that will posit that light basically travels at whatever speed it Feels Like.

A major part of the discussion in both studies is the nature of a vacuum, which on a quantum level is not, as most believe, empty. Rather, it is filled with particle pairs.

First, Urban and his team propose that there are in fact a limited number of particle pairs including electron-positron or quark-antiquark pairs within a vacuum. This opens the possibility that the speed of light can then fluctuate at a level independent of the energy of each light quantom or photon. In other words, the speed of light would depend on the vacuum properties of space and time.

In their study, Leuchs and Sanchez-Soto found that variations in the speed of light can reveal the number of charged elementary particles in any given space. If correct, the value of the speed of light can then be combined with the value of vacuum impedance in order to determine the total number of charged elementary particles that exist in nature.

My colleague and I are a particle pair. And sometimes one or both of us can get a little quarky. When this occurs, there is generally less light. Also, it moves slower. Sometimes, like, at a crawl.

People who do not have a Science Lab can still observe variations in the speed of light, by noting light’s reaction when it encounters certain humans.

Light streaming around Sarah Palin, for instance, can be seen to slow considerably, so appalled is it in encountering farm animal stops lightthis transdimensional being from a Wrong Portal.

And light can be detected coming to a dead stop when it encounters the cabeza of Rick Perry, noted farm animal. This is because, as revealed here on red in a Science Study published in December of 2011, the farm animal’s head contains a supermassive mini-black hole, which swallows all light.

The farm animal cranium, it is where light goes to die.

After the farm-animal campaign for the United States presidency crashed and burned in early 2012, the creature was quietly spirited away to a Lab, where he was Studied, as to the effects of supermassive mini-black holes on the human—or, in his case, quasi-human—brain.

Unfortunately, he escaped from the Lab before the Studies were completed. And is now thrashing and bellowing down there in Texas about maybe running for president again. Causing all light, to quake in Fear.

Charged By Negativity

Published April 9, 2013 La Musica , Rutting For Office 4 Comments

Dour British popster Morrissey (full name Steven Patrick Morrissey, but, like fellow luminaries Baloo, Boo-Boo, and Butthead, just Too Kool to have more than one name), has released a statement of appreciation in re recently passed former British prime minister Margaret Thatcher, a woman whose hair was a helmet, and who lived some 87 years with a stick rammed up her gluteus maximus.

Among the Morrissey remarks:

Thatcher is remembered as The Iron Lady only because she scarypossessed completely negative traits such as persistent stubbornness and a determined refusal to listen to others.

Every move she made was charged by negativity; she destroyed the British manufacturing industry, she hated the miners, she hated the arts, she hated the Irish Freedom Fighters and allowed them to die, she hated the English poor and did nothing at all to help them, she hated Greenpeace and environmental protectionists, she was the only European political leader who opposed a ban on the Ivory Trade, she had no wit and no warmth and even her own Cabinet booted her out.

As a matter of recorded fact, Thatcher was a terror without an atom of humanity.

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 turtle scrotumare 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 the new senatortruly 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 part non-humanscrotum 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.

I Sometimes Think About Sarah Palin When I Drive

Published March 11, 2013 Into The Light , Rutting For Office 49 Comments

Which is why I don’t drive much these days.

I prefer to walk. Or take the bus.

Because I don’t think about Sarah Palin. Then.

See, I decided, and some time ago, that Sarah Palin palinswas never Real. At least in any universe I might inhabit. She couldn’t possibly be. Must needs: perish that thought. Just too horrifying.

As I once expressed it:

I am not comfortable with occupying the same Reality where Bristol Palin is considered worthy of a television show.

There has to be another, more real Reality. One where neither Bristol, nor Sarah, is considered worthy of any attention whatsoever.

Where children are not named “Tripp.”

Where Mad John McCain was permitted to select Joe Lieberman or Charlie Crist as his VP. Instead of being denied that opportunity by The Rove Brigade. Causing him to pitch a fit, and petulantly lunge for this unutterable creature from non-Reality. Who burst in from another dimension, through some sort of strange and terrifying portal, up there in the snows of Alaska.

It is comforting, believing that Sarah Palin was never Real. And, once it is accepted that even the so-called “sun,” around which the Earth purportedly revolves, is no longer there—Not Real—it is not all that difficult to apprehend: that “Sarah Palin”: was never Real.

But today I am occupied by a different thought. And that is that Sarah Palin may, after all, be Real. But also Proof of the Reality of De-Evolution.

Or so say the Science Men. Beyond the “furthur.”

furthur=>

The Hardest Part Is To Shoot Ramon

Published January 20, 2013 Eternal Recurrence , Oddbins , Rutting For Office , War On Terra , War On Women 8 Comments

Among the people who will not be inaugurated president today is the strange and unusual slave-holder and Hebrew-fearer Pawn Rawl.

In 2012, the 311-year-old Rawl sought the presidency for something like luvs her sum rawnthe 13th time. But no one wanted him.

He ran non-stop, like some chipmunk on speed, from one end of the nation to the other, and back again, throughout the entirety of the GOoPer primary campaign. But in the end he received only 2,095,795 votes. Or roughly the same number of ballots cast in November for Barack Obama in the city of Chicago alone.

Rawl was a favorite of the extraterrestrials who owned and controlled the 2012 GOoPer primary campaign. And so he was induced to remain in the race even after such falling bodies as the pizza topping (Herman Cain), the bedbug in a skin-suit (Newt Gingrich), the farm animal (Rick Perry), and the raccoon (John Huntsman) had crashed and burned.

Perhaps the high point of Rawl’s campaign was when his eyebrows slid off his face during a televised debate.

For reasons that passseth understanding, Rawl had decided he needed to apply eyebrow toupees. When, there on the TV, the things proceeded to melt and migrate all over his dim-bulb phiz, and in a perfect expression of the hapless mendacity that defines everything about the man, his people announced that “allergies” had caused Rawl to suddenly sprout fake, mobile eyebrows.

When a Rawl hot-air balloon deflated and fell to earth onto some i will shoot the germsroad outside a hamlet in South Carolina, it became apparent that the man was but a pale copy of the humbug Wizard of Oz. But by then no one cared.

Rawl not only failed to attain the presidency, but also gave up this year his seat in Congress, where various assorted Texas yeehaws, retroverts, and knuckledraggers had sent him over the past decade, so that he could periodically take to the floor and there mumble darkly about Money.

Rawl has long been a favorite of the sort of people who shoot speed in both arms and then stay up all night cleaning their guns and obsessing about assaults on the American dollar.

Rawl is a partisan of gold, because he has determined that paper money is crawling with germs spread by black and brown and other Wrong people; precious metals, it seems, can retard both the presence and potency of these germs.

Too, people who should otherwise know better would occasionally hug Rawl to their heavy-breathing bosoms, because he spoke out against the US mucking about in foreign lands, and because he disfavored the surveillance state.

What these people failed to get is that Rawl abjures foreign wanderings because he believes all non-Americans to be a form of monkey. He would not war on them, but neither would he give them a crust of bread. He doesn’t want to get involved, in whatever it is that’s going on out there in the world, because he Knows it is the Work of the Jews.

Similarly, his suspicion of the surveillance state arises from fears that gub’mint boys i'm smelting, smeltingmight interfere with the plans of he and his posse to beat with big sticks any black or brown or red or yellow people who happen to wander into their stores and there attempt to purchase a donut.

Now, in retirement, Rawl can return to his primary concern: Occupy Womb Street. Out on the campaign trail, Rawl made no secret of the fact that in an America According To Pawn, all doctors who performed abortions would be lashed into jail, and so would all the women who sought them.

So much for this “libertarian” protector of “freedom.”

All the vaginas, belong to him.

Here at red, we are occasionally able to access alternative universes.

And so today is presented a dispatch from one such Reality. Find below, the inaugural address, of President Pawn Rawl.

Words That, If I Use Them: Shoot Me

Published November 29, 2012 Capital Crime , Destry , Eros , Eternal Recurrence , Into The Light , La Musica , Rutting For Office 39 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What dat mean?”

And I—I, am a man without a language.

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

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

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

furthur=>

Home For The Holidays

Published November 26, 2012 Oddbins , Rutting For Office 6 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

I just don’t get these people.

Man Without A Country

Published November 21, 2012 Oddbins , Rutting For Office Leave a Comment

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

Someday. But not today.

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

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

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

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

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

Born Without The Ability To Consider Others

Published November 21, 2012 Capital Crime , Rutting For Office 5 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

And thus it is so with Paul Ryan as well.

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

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

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

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

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

furthur=>

Out Of Gas

Published November 21, 2012 Destry , Oddbins , Rutting For Office 8 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slouching Towards Betelgeuse To Be Born

Published November 15, 2012 Oddbins , Rutting For Office 14 Comments

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

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

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

I reprint. You decide.

Song Of Solomon

Published November 13, 2012 Destry , Eternal Recurrence , Oddbins , Rutting For Office 5 Comments

Draw me, we will run after thee.

—Song of Solomon, 1:4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And A Thousand Thousand Slimy Things Lived On

Published November 11, 2012 Eternal Recurrence , Rutting For Office 7 Comments

The 2012 presidential roadshow closed less than a week ago, after what seemed like a run of about 632 years, but there is no hope at all that life can now return to anything like Normal, because the forces of Nimrod are already assembling the clown car for the 2016 sequel.

Before the votes in his state had last week even been counted, Marco Rubio, the slimy Florida teabag, announced he was rushing down to Iowa November 17 to pull a corndog train. Iowa is the state that will host the first caucuses for the 2016 presidential contest, and so it is required that everyone rutting for that office start to Be There.

Rubio has written a book called 100 Innovative Ideas for Florida’s Future, the title of which seems to indicate that he is dumber than even George II. Presumably he will soon churn out a variant: 100 Knuckledragging Notions for Iowa’s Future.

Turtle Scrotum, titular head of the Confederate States of America, took to the pages of the Wall Street Journal to assure the money-mad readers of that treesheet that he fully intends to spend the next four years devotedly dedicated to the task that consumed him over the past four: Hating The Black Man.

This so sickened Ashley Judd, yeehaw actor and singer, that it is said she plans to sentence herself to living in Kentucky, state of the Scrotum, in order to beat him like a gong when he runs for re-election two years hence.

Gail Collins, generally a nice woman and decent writer, fitted herself for a clown nose by penning a piece for the New York Times in which she openly lusted for a 2016 Hillary Clinton presidential candidacy.

Hillary Clinton will be 111 years old in 2016. She and her permanent boner of a husband have writhed like eels in the Sargasso Sea of American politics since the age of the steam engine.

Nothing more expresses the utter bankruptcy of the nation’s political system than the baying for a Clinton II presidency among Democrats, while Republicans meanwhile moon for a George III presidency, in the person of Jeb Bush.

It is like Americans believe they are in something like 1330 CE, and there are but two warring families vying for the crown: the darn-diggy Clintons, and the lipless Bush clan.

This is 2012. In Civilized and Sane countries, people are no longer recurrently ruled by members of the same family, over and over and over again.

At least David Petraeus tripped over his pee-pee, and so is no longer a factor in the 2016 presidential sweepstakes. The only thing worse than family dynasts seeking the White House, are generals clamoring for the place. Generals are born and bred to kill people. And the office already provides too many opportunities to do just that, without filling it with a person whose very reason to live, is to end the lives of others.

Make It Stop

Published November 9, 2012 Destry , Eternal Recurrence , Rutting For Office 9 Comments

Below is a photo documenting a hideous Dr. Moreau-like experiment in which some demented doctor sought to cross a human with a turtle and a scrotum. The result: Mitch McConnell—Senate minority leader, five-star glow-in-the-dark racist, de facto head of the Confederate States of America, the de-evolved retrovert obstructionist who called together the CSA faithful in the days after Barack Obama was elected president in 2008 to announce that CSA policy would be to oppose absolutely anything and everything proposed by the black man, up to and including nominating Jesus H. Christ to sit on the US Supreme Court. Because Obama had the effrontery to be a black man moving into the White House.

I look at that picture, and all I can think is that any political party that permits such a bodacious butt-ugly to occupy a position of prominence should be abolished, and any nation where he so serves is doomed.

That is all.

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