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.


He, do be, Stockman: he be innocent. Of all charges. So sez he. And, meanwhile, he—Herr Stockman—possesses all and every Remedy. That might make Everything, totally and completely, All Right.

Like, you know, like, Ron “Rugs” Paul, gold.

And them not-very-bright legions of the I-gnaw-on-my-knuckles-and-drool-out-of-both-sides-of-my-mouth “left”: them’s buying it.


Stockman’s the killer. But they’ll wuvs us sum goldlet him slide. ‘Cause he sez what they, these days, wants him to sez.

So it goes.

Same as it ever was.

David Stockman was this little pissant who floated into the White House on the blats of the flatulence from Ronald Reagan’s anus.

A devotee of “the Laffer curve.”

Which—appropriately named—claimed that if you chopped to the bone taxes on rich people, allocated every available dollar to the serial killers, and eschewed absolutely any and all expenditures on “entitlements,” the federal budget would be balanced, and Goodness and Mercy and Wonderfulness would rue the land.

Very early on, into the Reagan administration, Stockman, given total free reign, to “Laffer curve” all he wished, realized that he and his were, in truth, utter morons.

“None of us,” he soon admitted, “really understands what’s going on with all these numbers.”

When it became clear that the Reagan approach—Stockman’s approach—to economics, was the greatest disaster ever visited upon the American people, Stockman resigned.

He then oozed into the private sector, where, in the fullness of time, he was, quite naturally, in the natural course of things, indicted for defrauding investors by falsely manipulating—learned this under Ronnie!—revenues and earnings.

And now, of late, he has chundered up to claim that everyone but him killed Boone Marlow.

When it was, in truth, he who initially administered the poison.

There are simply not enough opiates available to deal with something like David Stockman’s recent New York Times piece . . . which was swallowed whole like a moldering corndog by the ignoranti of the “left.”

In which Stockman piously plays the violin about “the 99%” and “the 1%”—though, this, truly, is absolutely akin to, as Hunter S. Thompson once memorably put it, “Nixon flashing the peace sign, or Agnew chanting ‘Right on! ‘at a minstrel show.”

It’s all right there in the Stockman piece, for those “lefties” willing to stop stabbing themselves in the eyes long enough to see.

Where Stockman weeps about “the destruction of fiscal rectitude under Ronald Reagan, [that] created a template for the Republicans’ utter abandonment of the balanced-budget policies of Calvin Coolidge”; where he commences the St. Vitus Dance about the “’green energy’ component of Mr. Obama’s stimulus, [which] was mainly a nearly $1 billion giveaway to crony capitalists, like the venture capitalist John Doerr and the self-proclaimed ooga-boogaouter-space visionary Elon Musk, to make new toys for the affluent.”


When I was a lad, in my late teens and early 20s, I could not really understand why George Orwell spent so much time shivving his supposed compatriots on the left.

Today, I most definitely get it.

They royally pissed him off.

They were supposedly on his side.

But they were so fucking stupid.

And, too often, dangerously so.

Stockman is an ape who has not even been visited by the monolith. He is dragging his knuckles backward in time, into the 18th Century. He thinks “gold” is worth more than paper, or hemorrhoids, or tumors. He doesn’t understand why Negroes don’t just get back into their shackles. And why don’t poor people just die in the alleys? Why can’t we have a Decent White World, like 18th Century London?

David Stockman is a joke. He is indistinguishable from the mutterer who shuffles the sidewalk, fly unzipped, pants scuffed, forever fumbling in his pockets either for bus fare, or his forever flaccid penis.

He is over.

And, when the histories come to be written, appended to his name shall simply be the Greek mask of laughter. With a tear running down one cheek. Representing the tens and hundreds of thousands of human beings that he killed.


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When I Worked

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