Archive for April, 2013

And We Walked All The Way

Really Love

Food Flight

The chickenshitness of Adolf Hitler is well-established. The very last act of his life—blowing his brains out—defined the essential chickenshitness of his existence: he was too much of a two-year-old to stomach the prospect of a world where he eat it first, girliewas not, as my brother would have put it, “King Shit.”

Still, I felt a new level of disgust for the pure chickenshitness of the fellow upon learning last night that he directed that 15 young women be required to first consume his food, in case somebody had dumped some nasty poisons into the stuff.

I don’t care who you are, if you believe that someone might be lacing your meals with toxins, you’re doing something pretty damn wrong. And you need to stop it. Probably you should retire to a monastery. And if They manage to poison you in there: well, then you gotta figure God wanted it.

But to sentence young women to the convulsions and death meant for you—what a complete and utter chickenshit.

Why not some of those fine strapping young wunderkind Aryan men? Should not oodles of these oddbodies been fervently willing to give of their palates to Mr. Moustache?

But no. It had to be young women.

What an utter fucking shmaltsik shmutsik shmo. A shandeh un a charpeh. A feier zol im trefen.

Underpants Unraveling Exposed

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

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

But for some, though, that is not enough.

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

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

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

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

This Should Happen In Everyone’s House

Inline image 1

Serial Killers Continue To Cry

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

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


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:


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.”

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

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

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

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

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

So as to Endure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which they subsequently did.

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


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



Drone Who Thou Wilt Is The Whole Of The Law

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Really Want To See You

Richie Havens was best known for an improvisation, a prolonged riff on “Motherless Child,” which he spontaneously transformed into a new tune subsequently dubbed “Freedom.”

This “Freedom” he in-the-moment created and the manperformed when the hapless organizers of the Woodstock Music and Arts Festival more or less ordered him to remain on stage for more than three hours, as the artists scheduled to follow him were hopelessly stuck in snarled traffic.

More normally, however, Havens was a careful-craftsman inspired-interpreter of songs originally penned by others. That was his career, for more than 40 years. Until his heart retired—beating elsewhere now—on April 22. Below is my favorite medley of his. Go well, Mr. Havens. Into the light.


(this one writ by our Alexa)

Sometime late Thursday night, 26-year-old Sean Collier was assassinated, allegedly by two terrorists who lived among us.

In so many other ways, they lived in different universes.

Sean Collier wasn’t using his time on this earth plotting death and destruction. And he wasn’t living his life as a coward.

Sean Collier was going to help keep the peace. That was his goal, his dream. He was going to “protect and serve.”

That phrase has somehow become a cliche over the years, a punch line.

But it’s what cops do; it’s what Sean Collier was going to dedicate his life to doing.

Vaya con Dias, mi hermano, con mi más sincero agradecimiento, respeto y amor. Tu ido demasiado pronto.

Gone too soon.

Like The Wild Geese In The West

So Glad You Made It




Every Little One

when the day goes down on watertown
when the sun sinks low all around
that’s when i know i need you now
yes you’re what i miss

every little kiss
every little one

I come from a place that is all light.

I know: because, even, grounded, here, I’ve seenlet there be it. Multiple times.

I see it now.

But here, on this planet, it is most commonly believed that there cannot be light, without darkness.


There is this pretty sad persistent duality disability here. Gotta have everything in oppositional twos. Light/dark. Yin/yang. Good/evil. Etc./etc.


Where I come from, there is no duality. But instead infinite multiplicity. Which resolves always into light.

And nobody needs darkness to define that light.

Long ago, we, from where I come from, said just this:

There is no darkness anywhere. There are only sick little men who have turned away from the light.

I have all my lights on.

And it is my own face I see in the blazing windows of all the houses on earth.

But that was so long ago. Now there is no darkness, no sick little men. Only light. And all our own faces, blazing in light, from every illuminated window.

Light is just all there is. All gold, all streaming, all forever. All, all right.

This past week, if you were an American, and if you were connected to America, the term and the town of Watertown came crashing into your consciousness. And not in a good way. It came in via violence, and mayhem, and unknowing, and fear. And it squatted like a nasty poisonous toad, across your life.

I love Watertown. The name and the idea of it. I have since it first entered my consciousness.

That was in 1986. I was walking down a street in the Mission District of San Francisco. And from a tiny sliver of a pizza parlor sounded a song I had never heard before, from a band I had never heard before. The song, “Every Little Kiss,” I later learned, by something called Bruce Hornsby and the Range.

I was in that instant transported. Not easy in a city. Cities—like money, and guns, and jobs—among those things that are, soon, going to go. They have to. For they are artificial and dangerous and de-evolved anti-life entities.

Still, if one must be in a city, San Francisco was one, then, to be in.

And, in that city, upon hearing that song, I was transfixed. Drilled to the sidewalk. I had one of those onrushing clarifying totally experienced experiences: that all is all right, and always will be.

Everything in that moment seemed open and possible to me. Because in every moment it always is.

I can recall that moment now, twenty-seven years later, better than I can recall what happened to me an hour ago. Because that moment was real. And so oh-ee-umphmuch of the rest of it is just slogging through the sludgy eyes-wide-shut motions.

And what I experienced then, twenty-seven years ago, of Watertown, as transmitted to me through “Every Little Kiss,” is what Watertown is.

It is not that recent-week fraught place of violence and fear. It is not non-ordinary brothers said to have careened through vomiting out every car door bombs and bullets. It is not stolid phalanxes of armed-past-the-tits security goons, in reaction, marching marching marching to Pretoria. It is not a place of darkness.

It is a place of light.

It is, like anywhere else, about somebody wanting to curl up next to somebody.

A man has two legs.
He’ll build a house—from cellar to rooftop, with his own hands.
He’ll put seeds in the ground.
He’ll watch the sun and the rain at work.
He’ll take a woman to bed.
He’ll find enough tenderness and love to get him through the day.
You’d think that man deserved a little something.
You’d think that man was worthy of a jot or two of sympathy and consideration.
You’d think that maybe someone would say,
Let’s just let him alone for a while, and see what he can do.

It is like every other town of human beings on earth.

Occasionally bad people will run through it. But it’s error to think the dark exceptions are the rule. Anywhere. Because the rule is the light. Everywhere.

Eros is always ascendant over Thanatos. Maybe only barely. But ascendant she always is. Else we wouldn’t be here. But we are. And always shall be. Unto The Great Wide Open.

You do realize that everything is connected. That there are no coincidences. And that all is leading into only light.

Among those extinguished in the Boston into the great wide openbombing was a young boy who, in response to the extinguishing of Trayvon Martin, inscribed a sign that said “No More Hurting People.”

What more do you need. To know that there is a conscious universe. That it is willfully expanding all towards light.

Just kiss. With love. That’s all there is to it. Into The Great Wide Open. Into the light. Bring everybody along with you. With every little one.

Here’s how it works. In the video below, the sweet little white boy is missing his sweetheart. He’s out there in Watertown. But, in Reality, in all of his being, he’s anywhere she may be.

Nothing matters, not to him, but her.

He’s at this moment especially and intensely connected to her, through his presence in Watertown. Because of the four elements without which humans cannot live—air, fire, water, earth—water is the most sensual. And he is at present immersed in a whole town of it.

At 5:03 in this video, he enters the zone. Not Bach, not Beethoven, just earnest sloppy rocknroll, but he gets There. To where it could just keep going like that forever. All Eros, no Thanatos, anywhere around. And, in his smile, you know he knows it: is riding, so high, knows it could keep on going like that forever.

Because it does.

In the place of all light.

Where I come from.

As do you.

every little kiss
every little one
little one

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

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.”


I Am A Wholly Owned Subsidiary Of The Feed Store

Prior to moving to the Manor, I shelled out money for standard dry cat food, whatever cans of wet cat food happened to be on sale at Grocery Outlet, and some sort of Normal cat litter. There was also a little finch seed-mix for the bird who thinks she’s a human, and algae wafers for the sea serpent. Occasionally various toys for these folks would be purchased. And, naturally, there were the periodic panicked trips to the vet. The realm of eccentricity had undoubtedly been entered, but not rulerso extensively that there was any serious question about whether I might not be better off in a Home.

Which is clearly the case today.

For, today, a year or so into the Manor, I am a captive of the demonic feed store that squats like Satan directly across the street.

There, for the cats, I purchase this grain-free Taste of the Wild dry cat food that costs as much as cocaine, a cat litter that consists of precious stones gathered from the beaches of the Aegean Sea, and cans of wet “cat food” composed solely of ingredients like flakes of wild salmon, or ahi tuna sprinkled with shredded crab . . . which is basically the sort of fare people eat after they’ve waited a year or so for a table at Thomas Keller’s French Laundry there in Napa.

There is still the finch mix for the bird, but now there must also be a different-one seed mix for the wild birds . . . which I broke down and started buying after I noticed one such bird desultorily kicking through the squirrel mix, because there just wasn’t enough there that she found suitable. The squirrel mix is of course for the squirrels. The squirrels also require mass quantities of whole peanuts in the shell, which they share with the scrub jays. The latter have buried about 10,000 of these nuts out in the yard: they are winged doomsday preppers.

Then there are the welfare recipients. These require wet cob, which is a sumptuous mix of corn, oats, barley, and molasses. Also, alfalfa. Also, a salt lick. Also, later this year, a Shelter, because I cannot go through another winter of them staring at me with those doe eyes, through the wind and the rain and the sleet, even though it is a Known Science Fact that they do not Suffer in such elements.

Meanwhile, the mixing of the sugar-water for the hummingbirds. And still the algae for the sea serpent.

There are many ancillary costs. Such as the $75 I recently expended to have my boots resoled, because I wore them out walking back and forth to the feed store. Which also offers many toys and related doodads that somehow end up here after nearly every visit to that accursed edifice.

Last Friday I went totally insane and marched across the street to the feed store intending to return with a cat. This adolescent feline, caged, had been pleading with me over the past week or so to induct him into the Manor. Ultimately, I altered my brain chemistry sufficiently to agree to this. However, it developed that some other nutbag had walked out with the fellow a mere two hours before I weaved into the place. My condition remains so severe that I informed the feed-store ladies that if for some reason this cat reappeared, I Must Have Him.

In the normal course of things, I don’t budget. I am missing that gene. I just get some money, and then I spend it. When it starts to run low, I do a little work, to get some more money, and then I spend that. Rinse, repeat.

However, as an experiment, I recently totaled up how much I spent on these people over a month. And discovered that they are consuming about 117.1% of my disposable income.

I need a Grant. Or a Keeper.

US/North Korea Nonsense Explained

the current nonsense

American Warriors

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

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

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

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

He is America.

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

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

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

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

It’s a new dawn.

Senate Cro-Magnon Count Completed

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.”

Okay: I Believe You

Okay: for those who this day may be finding themselves dizzily washed up upon these intertube shores, shaded shores that hug always the dark backwaters, beaten fast and furious here by the jihad of the outraged ala& mefar-flung planet: here’s, how, things, we do here.

—We are sometimes alive; sometimes we are also dead.

—Always we are sad; sometimes we are happy.

—What is mostly important is to See.

—We try never to make anything but an alternative form of “sense.”

—Eros uber alles.

—Nature is Wisdom.

—We likes us some music.

—We bend the knee to but one utterance, and that of Kenneth Patchen: “I said that you were never to kill anyone, and I meant it.”

—We are bound for The Great Wide Open.

Tag We’re It

Here on wordpress, the platform upon which this here “red” blog dwells, we are encouraged to group our pieces into “categories.” Which on other blogs are known as “tags.”

These are, like, general heads, that are supposed to encompass what we red manmost often scrawl about.

But, you know, these days, I just don’t write much, any more, about stuff that so easily fits into them Deked categories. That I myself created.

So, I am dumping the things.

I am not, today, the person who created this blog. And so I will no longer try to fit myself to it.

Embarrassingly appendi categories like “Iran” and “Asia” and “Israel/Palestine”—these are being given the heave-ho.

Thank jeebus.

Henceforth, I shall strive to wriggle myself into those categories that most often most aptly reflect what it is these days I most often write about: Animal Matters, Eros, La Musica (for when a piece is dependent on lifted music), Mammalian Politics, Oddbins (the catch-all), Science Men, There (into the great wide open), and Wyrds (for when I wantonly crib Too Many words from fellow travelers).

It will take a little time to effect the switchover.

And, of course, this latest resolution, is itself subject to revision.

For instance: I will know: that I am really where: I want to go: when each piece is tagged: solely: Into The Great Wide Open.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, they shall shriek no more.

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

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

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

Thus, no more Navy. No more Marines.

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

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

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

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

Senate Cro-Magnons Identified

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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When I Worked

April 2013