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.

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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.

proof

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.

Money Honey

This is one of those stories that is hilarious, in a projectile-vomit sort of way.

Apparently the nation’s banks have decided they are “too moral” to handle money earned by people involved in the adult entertainment business.

Chanel Preston knows not everyone approves of her chosen profession. That’s one of the risks that go with being one of the biggest stars in porn. But she love moneynever thought it would affect her ability to open a bank account.

Preston recently opened a business account with City National Bank in Los Angeles. When she went to deposit checks into the account days later, however, she was told it had been shut down, due to “compliance issues.”

She found the manager she had originally worked with and asked what had happened. The bank, she was told, was worried about the Webcam shows she had on her site and had revoked the account . . . .

Preston noted she [also] has been denied a loan because of her profession[.]

“[The loan officer] asked me ‘are you affiliated with the adult entertainment industry?’ When I said yes, she said ‘We will not give you a loan,'” she said.

At least one adult-entertainment figure has had enough of this bollocks, and is taking to the courts.

Earlier this week, Marc Greenberg, founder of the soft porn studio MRG Entertainment, filed suit against JPMorgan Chase in Los Angeles Superior Court, alleging the bank violated fair lending laws and its own policy for refusing to underwrite a loan for “moral reasons”.

Greenberg says he was approached by a representative of the bank about refinancing an existing loan. But once he started the process, he says he saw repeated delays for four months. That’s when he said he reached out to mr. potter says noa JPMorgan vice president for an explanation.

The vice president “was evasive in his response to plaintiff’s application status requests and finally informed plaintiff during a telephone conversation that plaintiff’s loan application was refused due to ‘moral reasons,’ because of JPMorgan’s disapproval of plaintiff’s former source of income and occupation as an owner of a television production company that produced television programs that dealt with the subject of human sexuality,” the complaint reads.

Greenberg’s attorneys claim they were told by the vice president that the application was denied because of the potential “reputational risk” to the firm.

Curiously, JPMorgan Chase, back when it was known simply as Chase, perceived no “moral reasons” or “reputational risk” that might prevent it from fondling money employed in Nazi Germany to kill and rob Jews.

Between 1936 and 1941, Chase and other US banks helped the Germans raise over $20 million in dollar exchange, netting over $1.2 million in commission—of which Chase pocketed a cool $500,000. That was a lot of money at the time. The fact that the German marks used to fund the operation came from Jews who had fled Nazi Germany didn’t seem to bother Chase—in fact they upped their business after Kristallnacht (the night Jews throughout Nazi Germany and Austria were systematically attacked by mobs in 1938). Chase also froze the accounts of French Jews in occupied France before the Nazis had even gotten around to asking them to.

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Orwell Suffers Unspeakable Torments

(By popular request, another entry in the Orwell is Eeyore series).

Many thanks for letter. I hope the enclosed MS is what you wanted. I infer from what you would no doubt call your handwriting that you were taught script whinyat school; the result is that I can’t read a single word of the manuscript part of your letter, so I may not have followed your instructions exactly.

I am suffering unspeakable torments with my serial, having already been at it four days and being still at the second page. This is because I sat down and wrote what was not a bad first installment, and then upon counting it up found it was 3500 words instead of 2000. Of course this means rewriting it entirely. I don’t think I am cut out for a serial-writer.

Even if my serial doesn’t come to anything, and I don’t expect it to, I intend taking a week or so off next month. My people have asked me to come down and stay with them, and if I can get my sister to drive me over, as I don’t think I can drive her present car, I will come over and see you.

I forwarded a letter this evening which had urgent proofs in it. I hope it gets to you in time, but it had already been to your old address. You ought to let editors and people know that you have changed your address.

—George Orwell, letter to Rayner Heppenstall, September 1935

Fore

Golf is so Wrong, it’s hard for me to be coherent about it.

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, thenbaby, 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 thewow, man 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 youve_been_trumped_stillliteral 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.

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The River

Moving In

The 1963 Alfred Hitchcock documentary film The Birds chronicles that parlous period when the birds of Sonoma County, California decided they’d had just about enough out of the humans, and so started pecking big holes in their bodies.

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 mike and manKorean 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 werelemme in 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 wavesgetaway driver 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.
It appears that the bear, like the turkey, may be an imbiber of human beverages.
[Nielsen] thinks [the bear invasion] may have something to do with a cup filled with tea left it in his other car. The windows were down, the bear got in, drank the tea and went over to Nielsen’s truck, probably looking for more.

A Good Price

good price“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

The Unified Field Theory Of The Black Man’s Badness

The black man ate popcorn and laughed and laughed whilst he watched on the Situation Room teevee four Americans die in Benghazi, because he believed those Americans were teabaggers who had applied to the Internal Revenue Service for tax-exempt status, their teabaggerness identified through rhett blackmanAssociated Press phone records obtained by the Justice Department, writes Joseph Fawcett Farah in World Nut Daily.

“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.

I Have Always Been Wrong

The other night, for no reason known to me, but one no doubt connected to Satan, some cat, or cats, upended a bookshelf, and spilled the poetry books to the floor.

The cats of my acquaintance have never really approved of poetry. For instance, in another decade, in another abode, the poetry proudvolumes 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 collectiondad book 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.

I Alone Feel This Torment

Another World

 

Can You

Reality Theatre

This week we were asked to endure the dog and pony show in a clown car known as “Benghazi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But no.

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

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

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

Yeehaw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—The Muslim Brotherhood is owned and controlled by Israel.

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

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

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

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

Soon be the day.

Just Another Sunday, Here At The Manor

Heave Ho

I have not watched what they put on the television for more than 25 years.

As I’ve said here before, when they started using Beethoven’s “Ode To Joy” to push dishwashing detergent, that was it for me.

Cable TV, that I abandoned some years before. Of the broadcast variety, it is true that, from time to time, tee veeover that quarter-century or so, I might now and again tune in the news, national or local. But even that ended, for good, in 2009, when they switched nationwide to digital. My television set—so old it was actually made in the United States—didn’t know from digital. And I didn’t feel like going to Radio Shack for one of those little converter boxes . . . that are anyway no doubt malevolent spy devices.

I do, these days, have a television set that is digital-compatible. But no television comes over it. It is for movies and such, that flow from the intertubes.

I spend enough time chained to the tubes. I don’t need to double my servitude by hooking up with the television programmers.

However, the other day, I did look at a television.

I was in a pizza parlor.

Apparently there has been enacted some Law that requires that pizza parlors be festooned with multiple wall-mounted televisions, all tuned to sports channels.

The sound on these televisions is muted. Presumably because the blaring babeling din from the multiple programming on the multiple sets might induce nervousness and disorientation among the humans. And this would not be wise.

Because too many of them carry guns.

furthur=>

Let There Be Life

(Somehow May Day has come and gone. How did this happen? Who are these time bandits, who gallop around with the hours and the days, so that I don’t notice that they’re passing? Oh well. Belatedly, here’s a May Day something from three years ago.)

Millennia before the political people got hold of it, May Day was for lovers.

Equidistant between the Vernal Equinox and the Summer Solstice, arrived that day when human beings participated in the seasonal renewal of life by themselves bursting into bloom—making love.

Details varied. In some places, particularly in the Celtic realm, this day was known as Beltane. Sometimes a woman and man, recognized as particularly sympathetic to or skilled in the magic arts, would, representing the Goddess and God themselves,couple in a ritualized ceremony, either observed or alone, and most often in a freshly seeded field.

Very often, as it says here, “[y]oung couples were encouraged to test their fertility with Beltane trysts, and any babies born from Beltane were believed to be blessed by the Goddess herself.” Pretty magical, such witch children.

Too, “[t]rial unions, called hand-fastings (as the lovers’ clasped hands were bound by ribbon), were also popular at Beltane, committing the couple to each other for one year and a day in preparation for a marital commitment.” Such a ceremony is today popular among some contemporary neo-pagans.

Other places, on this day, there was a sort of relationship “time-out,” when the people of the tribe, in the interest of renewing the earth, could couple indiscriminately, and without consequence.

Of course, “without consequence” is in such things more often a wish, than a reality. In many versions of the Arthurian tale, for instance, Guinevere and Lancelot first acknowledge the inevitability of their attraction on May Day. Fair to say there were some consequences from that one.

furthur=>

Orwell Contemplates Starting A New Religion

(In which, by popular request, we revive the fabled Orwell series.)

Unless the India Office takes steps to prevent it, I am in all probability going to India for about a year quite swamishortly. It is a frightful bore and I have seldom wanted to do anything less, but I feel that it is an opportunity to see interesting things and that I should afterwards curse myself if I didn’t go. I wish it didn’t come at this moment, because I particularly wanted to vegetate for a few months, look after the garden etc and think about my next novel. I am afraid I don’t just at the moment see how exactly you connect up with the Aryan Path. I always had a vague idea it had to do with theosophy. The only bit of advice I can give is that on a number of occasions when someone suddenly turned the light up the ectoplasm turned out to be butter-muslin. But I have always thought there might be a lot of cash in starting a new religion, and we’ll talk it over some time. Looking forward to seeing you on Saturday.

—George Orwell, letter to Jack Common, February 1938


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