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

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

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

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

Well. Except for golf.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeehaw.

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile: to place a golf course in the parched desert of the Central Valley of California? Where no rain doth fall for six months out of the year? Where for three rainless months the temperatures hover happily around 100 degrees?

Yes, it is true: there do exist places, even more Insane, than the Central Valley, to place a golf course: say, the Sahara desert, or that region of the bubbling-hot planet Venus scabbed somehow unto Terra, and known as Phoenix, Arizona.

But this was not enough—to know there were golf-siting places even more Unsane than where he did labor—to save the sanity of my couch-hurling companero.

In the three-part jihad that hopefully exists somewhere down there in the Manor basement, my Los Molinos-exiled compadre ululates at some fervent length about the massive mountains of water that must be poured forth to sustain the false creation of his job, the golf course. The streams of mutagenic pesticides and herbicides, ejaculated hither and yon, required to Sustain golf-course plants wanted, and Choke those undesired. Foam, it flew from his lips, as he described, from decades of experience, golf as, at root, a sterile pursuit, of rich rat bastards. Who bang balls around. As, out on the fairways and the greens, they discuss banging dollars around. People he perfectly described as congenitally a-feared of nature: they liked the tamed and tormented fairways and greens, which serenely codified their sadistic majesty; but nature itself, the thing itself, untamed, caused their scrotums to shrivel in Fear. They wanted all such, put to sleep. And that is what they are always and mostly about. In their rich rat bastardness. They are the people of here; of Lew Welch’s wisdom of NYC’s Central Park:

To the north a large green rectangle, Central Park, lies flat, clean-edged, indented. A skin has been pulled off, a bandage removed, and a small section of the Planet has been allowed to grow.

I think, “They have chosen to do this in order to save their lives.” And then I think, “It is not really a section of the Planet, it is a perfect imitation of a section of the Planet (remembering the zoo). It is how they think it might look.” I am struck by their wisdom. Moved.

All of the above is basically a long introductory shriek to this: the golf courses are returning to Cuba.

Hopefully, the above wander-words have presented some reasonable indication of why golf outside of a realm like the naturally musty misty sheep-shafting realm of Scotland, is Totally Wrong.

Golf is especially Totally Wrong in Cuba.

Cuba, prior to the 1959 revolution, was a beaten and abused redheaded step-child, an orphan of the Caribbean, kicked to shit by snotty sadistic lord-it-all gringos. A very small number of the richest Cubans swallowed their daily bread by fawningly kneeling to fellate the gringos. A still small portion of other Cubans survived as menial servants. The rest of the Cubans could just starve and die and go to hell.

Come the revolution, among the first to go, were the casinos, and the nightclubs, and the golf courses. These, previously, run by gringos, means by which to suck money, and more, off the island. Come the Castros, they were over.

That, as Cuba now, some 55 years later, transitions from the Castros, the golf courses are coming back, in the realm of the same ol’ same ol’, sucking up dollars from gringos, few or none of which dollars will ever reach a Cuban: this is not a good sign, at all.

But I am not, really, at root, concerned. Too much.

Because the gringos, and their money, are over. And money is all that the gringos have ever really been about. Their stupid fucking money.

Too bad for the gringos, that there is currently five times as much money owed in the world, as there exists actual money. Therefore, the gringo money system is over. It is in a state of collapse. Because nobody can hope to crawl out of such a five-times-debt hole. Not even clever foxy gringos.

The gringos—dumbfucks—haven’t really realized this yet. It is, like, in combat, when a man is shot, as he is running, and is killed, but still runs a few steps farther, not knowing, yet, that he has been killed: that is the place where the gringos are, today, with their money.

Gringo money, it is over. And so, gringos, too, they are over.

It will be close. It always is. But Eros, thus far, on this planet, has always won out. Over Thanatos. And so, here, too, will Eros win out again.

I wish only that the race will be run in time so as not to ruint Cuba. Because Cuba has what gringos do not have. Spirit, magic, honey.

Oggun can be very sad. Once, he was so angry at the way of people, their crimes and lies, that he went into the deep woods, so deep no one could find him, and he was so silent no one could talk to him or could coax him out. Finally, Oshun went after him and walked through the woods and walked through the woods until she came to a clearing by a stream. She could feel Oggun carefully watching from behind the trees. She didn’t make the mistake of calling out to him. She began to dance slowly with her arms out like this. Oshun has her own dance, very sexual. When she felt that he was curious and moving closer she still didn’t call his name. She danced a little faster, a little slower, and when he came out of hiding she danced until he was close enough to her to dip her fingers into a gourd of honey hanging from her waist and she smeared the honey on his lips. He had never tasted anything so sweet in his life. She danced and filled her hand with honey and put more honey in his mouth and more honey while she tied him to her with a rope of yellow silk, and led him back into the world.

What the Hitchcock documentary does not depict is the armistice negotiated by the squirrels, which ended the bloodshed between the humans and the flying dinosaurs. As in the Korean War, there was no actual peace treaty, but instead merely an agreement to suspend hostilities.

Like the Koreans, the birds remain grumpy. As I experienced firsthand, when I lived in Sonoma County some decades ago. When I would labor on my automobile, for instance, ravens would wait until I was wedged under the thing, then swoop down and steal small loose parts with their demon beaks, returning with them to the trees, there to laugh in my face.

I was reminded of this Wrongness when I recently stumbled upon evidence of what appears to be a nationwide movement among animals to move into the yards and houses and automobiles of the humans.

Up there in the land of icepicks, a two-year old moose monikered variously Bullwinkle, Mr. Moose, and Mike, has taken to frequenting, in and around the hamlet of Crookston, a sugar beet factory, a pizzeria, a convenience store, a Ford dealership, and various and sundry backyards.

The moose seems a friendly enough creature, but nonetheless fills the humans with Fear. “Moose kill more humans than any other wild animal,” groused a human named Ross Hier, who claims to be some sort of “wildlife manager.” According to this quaky-pants, “if a moose doesn’t like the scenario, it can put its hooves through your stomach.”

Hier and Crookston Police Chief Tim Motherway said they were surprised about how the public was captivated by the moose, which grew into a tourist attraction. They feared that the moose would never want to leave.

However, success came on the fifth try of chasing the moose eastward with ATVs and other vehicles.

What a couple of nimrods. What if Mike the Moose gets pissed off? And rounds up some buddies? They could come thundering back into town, drunk on whiskey and hate, at which time no one’s stomach would be safe.

And speaking of whiskey, over in Brookline, Massachusetts a wild turkey flew through a window and into a house one recent Sunday night, apparently because it Felt Like It.

The turkey smashed through a double-paned window at the house on Addington Road around 6:30 p.m. April 28, leaving large holes in the screen and window shade, said Didi Coyle, who lives in the house.

Her husband, Tom Szydlowski, and their dog were sitting in the living room when the bird exploded through the glass. Coyle saw the incident from the outside; she was standing in her driveway with a neighbor when the bird barged in.

“I was just sort of casually watching it and I realized it was aiming for my house,” Coyle said. “It’s a big old Victorian house, a pinkish color, so I can’t imagine it didn’t see the house.”

The uninvited guest startled the family’s 12-year-old collie. While Coyle called police, the dazed turkey flew over Szydlowski’s head toward the back of the house, she said.

A Brookline police officer soon arrived and managed to corner the bird in a bathroom. The officer opened a back window and the turkey exited the house in a slightly more graceful manner than it had arrived, Coyle said.

Science Man Lowell George told Bedlam News Service that the turkey probably arrived in search of “weed, whites, and wine,” and will no doubt be back.

Finally, a black bear attempted to make off with a truck owned by Truckee, California human Evan Nielsen.

It’s a sight Evan Nielsen had to rewatch again and again to believe, even though he recorded the video—a black bear, making itself comfortable in his truck, after somehow opening the door and hopping in.

At one point, it seems like he even waves to the camera.

“At one point, he had both hands up on the steering wheel, and was honking the horn with his snout,” Nielsen said. “It was pretty amazing for awhile.”

It looks like the bear was hoping to drive away, and very quickly. Nielsen knew he had to get this guy out, because in bear versus truck, the vehicle wasn’t holding up too well.

“Destroyed the back seat, this is where probably the majority of the damage is,” Nielsen said.

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

—Martin Cruz Smith, Red Square

“Everything with this Kenyan is connected,” chundered Fawcett Farah. “And what it is connected to is his Marxist monkey hatred of all that is Good and Decent and White in America.”

Tony Crankalucci, chief propellor-beanie of minddestroyer, has meanwhile confirmed that the black man’s badness is driven by “Zionist neurons,” which transmit Orders to an army of nano-engineered “Wall Street and London” operatives who circulate in his bloodstream.

Turtle Scrotum, titular head of the Confederate States of America, ejaculated in his pants on live television Wednesday morning, as he triumphantly exclaimed: “We finally got the darkie sum’bitch!

“His wanton disregard of these slain tax-exempt phone-record-identified teabaggers,” continued Scrotum, “there in some desert where brown people run around with the sort of guns the darkie would deny good white-blooded god-fearin’ Americans—this is more than the kountry can stomach. We will impeach his Kenyanness, and then we will steam-clean the White House, to make it fit again for decent white folk.”

CSA Congressmember Louis Gohmert Pyle was shown Wednesday on CNN utilizing, there in his office, very large crayons, in order to draft articles of impeachment. The first of which reads:

Articel Won:

He iz a Neegro.

The cats of my acquaintance have never really approved of poetry. For instance, in another decade, in another abode, the poetry volumes were subjected to a wanton urine rain.

The culprit has never been caught or confessed, and remains at large.

The bestained tomes, meanwhile: too many just too odd and obscure, and therefore not replaceable. So they remain in the collection. Ruint.

Cats are actually proud of their Luciferian penchant for drizzling urine. See the recent best-selling collection of poems, penned by cats, I Could Pee On This, pictured there to the left.

It is a known Science Fact that cat urine is so pungent that fresh spray let fly in, say, Albuquerque, can be smelled within moments on the Moon.

I am not really sure why, of all earthly substances, cat urine is the King Reeker . . . save for “the powerful and obnoxious odor of mendacity,” as Big Daddy puts it in Cat On A Hot Tin Roof. (See: cat: there are no coincidences).

I believe it may have something to do with the fact that a cat’s natural diet is 100% flesh and bones. This requires stomach enzymes so powerful they can basically break down concrete. In their power, these enzymes are of stench.

Cats also use their urine as a territorial marking mechanism. And apparently it is necessary for a cat marking something in, say, Icepick, Minnesota, to olfactorily announce ownership to cats living as far away as Venus.

Anyway. Among the odd and obscure bestained volumes in the poetry collection is I Never Saw It Lit, which is pictured there to the right. This book I remember, and retain, because years ago it caught my father’s eye, when he and I were roving the old Berkeley wholesaler Bookpeople for tomes to retail in our modest bookshop up north, on the Russian River. He thought it a worthy effort. But then said, “though probably nobody would like it but me.” I put it in the cart. Because it wasn’t, it developed, to sell. It was for me to keep. To remember him by.

Another of the poetry collections that the other night spilled to the floor was a thing called Leaves of Poetry. This volume contains a poem or two written by me.

And this is where we naturally segue from cat urine, to my writing.

Apparently I wrote these poems when I was 11 or 12 years old. And they were then pressed into a book, together with poems by other wee ones, and distributed to the masses by the county school system.

One of the poems I wrote bears the wildly creative title “Summer,” and goes like this:

Summer is hot, dull, and dry
It’s when under the sun
Your skin starts to fry
And when, on beaches,
Boys like to spy
On girls in bikinis
Who might walk by.

I see that here I was not only already wedded to the Oxford comma, but also afflicted with the need to employ commas at every opportunity, even inventing opportunities that, to a Normal writer, might not exist. I was also then too aroil with these little mini-strokes that cause me to arrange words in odd order. I was grousing about the blasted heath of summer, a constant to this day. And, even at age 11, Eros was elbowing in.

I frankly do not understand how the bit about bikinis was permitted in a collection of poems by junior-high students assembled and then peddled across the land by school officials.

If, today, I were 11 years old, and submitted such a thing, the teachers receiving it would shriek and poke their eyes out. Then hustle me down the halls—patrolled by “school resource officers” bristling with mace and pepper spray and guns and truncheons and whatnot—to be taken into custody by the deans. Who would immediately and permanently expel me. I would then be placed in a cage, and paraded through the streets, pelted by the outraged populace with eggs, tomatoes, and full beer cans, condemned as a dangerous pervert. I would be thrown in a dungeon, and there be subjected to electroshock treatments. Until I had been transformed into a True American. One pledging allegiance to Thanatos. Rather than Eros. Hoorah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But no.

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

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

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

Yeehaw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—The Muslim Brotherhood is owned and controlled by Israel.

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

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

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

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

Soon be the day.