Archive for May, 2013

Barking Mad Meth Monkey Michele Bachmann Abruptly Announces Congressional Exit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Bachmann knows it.

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

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


Coming In For A Landing

from the dead

The whole thing is so utterly insane that it just sickens me. Eileen and I have decided that if war does come the best thing will be to just stay alive and thus add to the number of sane people.

—George Orwell, September 29, 1938

Ten years ago this March a lawyer in my then-office was arrested for uttering the word “why.”

He had just come back from court, then walked a block from the office to join the rest of the staff. We of the staff were gathered on a street corner supporting several dozen people sitting in our small burg’s nomain street, protesting George II’s lighting the fuse on Operation Iraqi Fiefdom. Shortly before his arrival, state agents had announced that those on the sidewalks needed to leave. Unbeknownst to us, then, even law-enforcement officers in our little town had received the BushCo national memo: the new tactic was to dissolve such assemblies by dispersing first, and, if necessary, arresting, the observers, rather than the observed.

This lawyer had not been present for the dispersal announcement. When he reached the corner, and asked us what was going on, before we could reply, a gendarme brusquely informed him that he needed to leave the sidewalk.

He then asked, as would any reasonable human, “why?”

His arms were immediately pulled behind his back; he was cuffed, arrested, and frog-marched to a waiting cop-bus.

I recall this event often. For the word “why” is the one word that those who promote and pursue war never want uttered. Because following that word to its inevitable conclusion always exposes the Potemkin facade erected to excuse senseless slaughter.

For there is no answer, here, to “why?” Other than: “Madness. Madness.


Cleaning Up The Place

Wheels Of Commerce

Late the next day he came into the breaks of the Canadian, a country of shallow, eroded gullies. He could see where the river curved east, across the plains. He saw a speck moving across the plains north, toward the river. His horse saw the speck too. Augustus drew his rifle in case the speck turned out to be hostile. He loped toward it only to discover an old man with a dirty white beard, pushing a wheelbarrow robacross the plains. The wheelbarrow contained buffalo bones. And as if that wasn’t unusual enough, Augustus found that he even knew the man.

His name was Aus Frank, and he had started as a mountain man, trapping beaver. He had once kept a store in Waco but for some reason got mad and robbed the bank next to the store—the bank had thought they were getting along with him fine until the day he walked in and robbed them. Augustus and Call were in Waco at the time, and though Call was reluctant to bother with bank robbers—he felt bankers were so stupid they deserved robbing—they were persuaded to go after him. They caught him right away, but not without a gun battle. The battle took place in a thicket on the Brazos, where Aus Frank had stopped to cook some venison. It went on for two hours and resulted in no injuries; then Aus Frank ran out of ammunition and had been easy enough to arrest. He cursed them all the way back to Waco and broke out of jail the day they left town. Augustus had not heard of him since—yet there he was wheeling a barrow full of buffalo bones across the high plains.

“Hello, Aus,” Augustus said, as he rode up. “Have you gone in the bone business, or what?”

The old man squinted at him for a moment, but made no reply. He kept on wheeling his barrow full of bones over the rough ground. Tobacco drippings had stained his beard until most of it was a deep brown.

“I guess you don’t remember me,” Augustus said, falling in beside him. “I’m Captain McCrae. We shot at one another all afternoon once, up on the Brazos. You was in one thicket and me and Captain Call was in the next one. We pruned the post oaks with all that shooting, and then we stuck you in jail and you crawled right out again.”

“I don’t like you much,” Aus Frank said, still trundling. “Put me in the goddam jail.”

“Well, why’d you rob that bank?” Augustus said. “It ain’t Christian to rob your neighbors. It ain’t Christian to hold a grudge, neither. Wasn’t you born into the Christian religion?”

“No,” Aus Frank said.

Aus Frank had always been an original. In Waco, as he remembered, he had caused controversy because he never seemed to sleep. The lantern in his store would be on at all hours of the night, and the man would often be seen roaming the streets at three in the morning. Nobody knew what he was looking for, or if he found it.

Aus Frank resumed his walk, and Augustus followed along, amused at the strange turns life took. Soon they came into the valley of the Canadian. Augustus was amazed to see an enormous pyramid of buffalo bones perhaps fifty yards from the water. The bones were piled so high, it storeseemed to him Aus Frank must have a ladder to use in his piling, though he saw no sign of one. Down the river a quarter of a mile there was another pyramid, just as large.

“Well, Aus, I see you’ve been busy,” Augustus said. “You’ll be so rich one of these days some bank will come along and rob you. Who do you sell these bones to?”

Aus Frank ignored the question. While Augustus watched, he pushed his wheelbarrow up to the bottom of the pyramid of bones and began to throw the bones as high as possible up the pyramid. Once or twice he got a leg bone or thigh bone all the way to the top, but most of the bones hit midway and stuck. In five minutes the big wheelbarrow was empty. Without a word Aus Frank took the wheelbarrow and started back across the prairie.

Augustus decided to rest while the old man worked. Such camp as there was was rudimentary. The main crossing was a mile downriver, and Augustus rode down to inspect it before unsaddling. He saw five pyramids of bones between the crossing and Aus Frank’s camp, each containing several tons of bones.

Back at the camp, Augustus rested in the shade of the little bluff. Aus Frank continued to haul in bones until sundown. After pitching his last load up on the pyramid, he wheeled the barrow to his camp, turned it over and sat on it. He looked at Augustus for two or three minutes without saying anything.

“Well, are you going to invite me for supper or not?” Augustus asked.

“Never should have arrested me,” Aus Frank said. “I don’t like that goddam bank.”

“You didn’t stay in jail but four hours,” Augustus reminded him. “Now that I’ve seen how hard you work, I’d say you probably needed the rest. “You could have studied English or something. I see you’ve learned it finally.”

“I don’t like the goddam bank,” Aus repeated.

“Let’s talk about something else,” Augustus suggested. “You’re just lucky you didn’t get shot on account of that bank. Me and Call were both fine shots in those days. The thicket was the only new worldthing that saved you.”

“They cheated me because I couldn’t talk good,” Aus Frank said.

“You got a one-track mind, Aus,” Augustus said. “You and half of mankind. How long you been up here on the Canadian River?”

“I come five years,” Aus said. “I want a store.”

“That’s fine, but you’ve outrun the people,” Augustus said. “They won’t be along for another ten years or so. I guess by then you’ll have a helluva stock of buffalo bones. I just hope there’s a demand for them.”

“I quit the mountains,” Aus said. “Don’t like snow.”

“I’ll pass on snow myself, when I have the option,” Augustus said. “This is a lonely place you’ve settled in, though. I bet you get a nice breeze in the winter, too.”

The old man didn’t answer. Darkness had fallen, and Augustus could barely see him sitting on his wheelbarrow.

“No beaver in this river,” Aus Frank said after several minutes.

“No, a beaver would be foolish to be in this river,” Augustus said. “There ain’t a tree within twenty miles, and beavers like to gnaw trees. You should have stayed up north if you like beavers.”

“I’d rather gather these bones,” the old man said. “You don’t have to get your feet wet.”

—Larry McMurtry, Lonesome Dove

Photographic Proof Of Alternative Universe

Some people persist in denying the Reality of alternative universes. This is silly. But then, there you go. Humans: silly.

Fact is, as Dr. Che Guevera of the Havana Institute for Theoretical and Applied Physics once observed, there are “one, two, many universes.” Some of not realthese universes are very far from the one occupied in this moment by those here reading red. In such a faraway universe, one might encounter strange and startling phenomena like Dick Cheney moon-walking, or Michael Jackson, heartless, calling down bomb-rain. In such a place, a tank might ride around inside Michael Dukakis, rather than vice versa.

Other universes are much closer. There, most stuff may seem just like it is “here.” But there are subtle differences.

For instance, in a nearby universe, Ron “Rugs” Paul may possess three brain cells. Rather than two.

Occasionally, little windows wink in, through which one may briefly perceive an alternative universe. Actually, sometimes the windows aren’t all that little. Sometimes you can drive a freaking semi through the things. Like, when you eat a damn great dose of LSD.

But never mind that now.

It can sometimes be nonplussing, when an alternative universe winks in. One may, say, while driving, miss a turn. Because the turn is no longer there. Or take those teabaggers who wailed that when they attempted to vote for Captain Underpants, the machine recorded instead a vote for Barack Obama. All that happened there, was that they shifted a couple universes over, into one where they were Sane.

Recently photographic evidence emerged of the sudden wink-in of an alternative universe. It was even broadcast live, on the teevee. It involved a baseball pitcher for the team known as the Boston Red Sox.

For the uninitiated, rudimentaries of the game of baseball (as well as Proof that thought is alien to the male brain) may be found here.

Briefly, a baseball pitcher is expected to hurl a ball over the “plate.” Where a hitter then endeavors to hit it. The ball. Not the plate. Or the pitcher.

As seen in the gif below, Boston pitcher Felix Doubront threw a ball some distance from the plate. A fairly significant distance.


Sports people have been guffawing and heehawing about this for more than a week now. But that is because they are rude, and because they don’t Understand.

You see, Doubront did not suffer a little mini-stroke. And he was not under the influence of psychedelics, as was Dock Ellis, during his fabled no-hitter of 1970.

No, what happened is that, as Doubront prepared to deliver the pitch, a little window into an alternative universe winked in. Doubrant perceived the plate in that alternative universe, which was located some distance from the plate in this one. And thus he, correctly, heaved the ball towards that plate. Because that was the one he saw. In fact, in that alternative universe, the pitch was a strike.

We don’t see it, the alternative universe—complete with plate and batter and umpire and hot dogs and popcorn and everything—there in the gif, because it all winked in and out so quickly.

And because winking alternative universes are not always apparent to everybody. Some see ’em; some don’t.

But they’re Real.

Lawman Fingers Flowers As Spies

At the age of 15 he taught himself French and never told anyone about it and never spoke to anyone in French for the next 40 years. In Juan Para he bought himself a hotel room for two years with money he had saved and organised a schedule to learn how to drink. In thesane first three months he forced himself to disintegrate his mind. He would vomit everywhere. In a year he could drink two bottles a day and not vomit. He began to dream for the first time in his life. He would wake up in the mornings, his sheets soaked in urine 40% alcohol. He became frightened of flowers because they grew so slowly that he couldn’t tell what they planned to do. His mind learned to be superior because of the excessive mistakes of those around him. Flowers watched him. He had come to Sumner then, mind full of French he never used, everything equipped to be that rare thing—a sane assassin sane assassin sane assassin sane assassin sane assassin sane

Michael Ondaatje, The Collected Works Of Billy The Kid

Friday News Dump

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When I Worked

May 2013
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