Archive for January 4th, 2014

Maybe She’ll Meet Up With A Character

I been thinkin’ what to do with my future. I could be a mud doctor. Checkin’ out the earth underneath.

—Days of Heaven


Wave That Flag

A number of new laws—national, state, local—took effect January 1.

Many of these laws are Good. Such as the local ordinance that now permits me to deploy mammoth spike strips, both east and west, so that by the time these ludicrous motor wide and highvehicles lumber by The Manor, their tires are totally deflated, the infernally combusting sadsacks shrieking along, slowly, but on the rims, and thereby no longer posing any Menace, at all, to the squirrels.

Others of these laws are, to many people, Unknown.

Such as the Decision by the 60 Cro-Magnons of the United States Senate, back last spring when they were busy not being sane about the nation’s gun laws, to introduce and approve legislation designating American Warrior as the new national icon, and Ordering that he be depicted on both the nation’s money, and its flag.

You see, throughout many regions of this planet, there exists an iconic representation that is said to embody the essential nature and characteristics of a nation’s people.

In Britain, for example, there 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 Bhutan, there is Druk, the dragon who speaks truth in gentle thunder.

In the United States, traditionally, there has been Uncle Sam. A tall, lanky, bewhiskered gent, with a penchant for scowling and 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 slog off to kill non-Americans somewhere.

But in the 1970s Uncle Sam was appropriated by the extraterrestrial anarchists of the Grateful Dead, transformed into a merry skeleton, and set about dancing and drugging and fornicating and astral-space-traveling and all sorts of other essential wonderfulness.

So, decided the Cro-Magnons of the US Senate, Uncle Sam, he is over. He has been soiled, besmirched,  besmeared. He cannot be redeemed. And, moreover, the new, he is americareal, true, iconic representation, that nails, precisely, the essential nature and characteristics of the American people, these days, decreed they, is American Warrior. That is the fellow shown in the photo to the right.

He is America.

American Warrior, he is ugly, and he is obese. He has guns, and he has ammo. He has a computer, so he can howl, to all and every, on whatever might drag its knuckles through his brain, and without surcease, all of the day, and all of the night. He lives in a hole even a termite or scorpion would spurn. He is without sense. He is without taste. He is without grace. He is without shame.

He is America.

That is why he is going on the flag. The design for the new American flag, the American Warrior flag, the flag Mandated by Congress, it may be seen below.

Expect to see it shining, in the rockets’ red glare, soon, from a flagpole near you.

And the money, henceforth, it shall read: “In God—And American Warrior—We Trust.”

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, morally, spiritually—after American Warrior. Those children who do not so model themselves—they shall be Punished.

Hundreds of thousands of Americans costumed like American Warrior shall be dispatched across the land—like a sort of escape of characters from a satanic 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 federal prison, after which they shall be deported.

It’s a new dawn.


A general cause, a continuate cause, an inseparable accident to all men, is discontent, care, misery; were there no other particular affliction (which who is free from?) to molest a man in this life, the very cogitation of that common misery were enough to macerate, and make him weary of his life; to think that he can never be secure, but still in danger, sorrow, grief, and bummer manpersecution. For to begin at the hour of his birth, as Pliny doth elegantly describe it, “he is born naked, and falls a-whining at the very first, he is swaddled and bound up like a prisoner, cannot help himself, and so he continues to his life’s end”; a prey to every wild beast, saith Seneca, impatient of heat and cold, impatient of labour, impatient of idleness, exposed to fortune’s contumelies. To a naked mariner Lucretius compares him, cast on shore by shipwreck, cold and comfortless in an unknown land. No estate, age, sex, can secure himself from this common misery. “A man that is born of a woman is of short continuance, and full of trouble” (Job, xiv, I). “And while his flesh is upon him he shall be sorrowful, and while his soul is in him it shall mourn” (v. 22). “All his days are sorrow and his travails griefs: his heart also taketh not rest in the night” (Eccles. ii, 23); and (11, II), “All that is in it is sorrow and vexation of the spirit.” “Ingress, progress, regress, egress, much alike: blindness seizeth on us in the beginning, labour in the middle, grief in the end, error in all. What day ariseth to us without some grief, care, or anguish? Or what so secure and pleasing a morning have we seen, that hath not been overcast before evening?” One is miserable, another ridiculous, a third odious. One complains of this grievance, another of that. Sometimes his sinews, sometimes his feet trouble him; now it is a catarrh, now liver complaint; sometimes he has too much blood, sometimes too little; now the head aches, then the feet, now the lungs, then the liver, etc. He is rich, but base-born; he is noble, but poor; a third hath means, but he wants health peradventure, or wit to manage his estate; children vex one, wife a second, etc. No man is pleased with his fortune, a pound of sorrow is familiarly mixed with a dram of content, little or no joy, little comfort, but everywhere danger, contention, anxiety, in all places; go where thou wilt, and thou shalt find discontents, cares, woes, complaints, sickness, diseases, encumbrances, exclamations. “If thou look into the market, there,” saith Chrysostom, “is brawling and contention; if to the court, there knavery and flattery, etc.; if to a private man’s house, there’s cark and care, heaviness, etc.” As he said of old, no creature so miserable as man, so generally molested, “in miseries of body, in miseries of mind, miseries of heart, in miseries asleep, in miseries awake, in miseries wheresoever he turns, as Bernard found. A mere temptation is our life, a chain of perpetual ills; who can endure the miseries of it? “In prosperity we are insolent and intolerable, dejected in adversity, in all fortunes foolish and miserable. In adversity I wish for prosperity, and in prosperity I am afraid of adversity. What mediocrity may be found? Where is no temptation? What condition of life is free?” “Wisdom hath labour annexed to it, glory envy; riches and cares, children and encumbrances, pleasure and diseases, rest and beggary, go together: as if a man were therefore born (as the Platonists hold) to be punished in this life for some precedent sins.” Or that, as Pliny complains, “Nature may be rather accounted a stepmother than a mother unto us, all things considered: no creature’s life so brittle, so full of fear, so mad, so furious; only man is plagued with envy, discontent, griefs, covetousness, ambition, superstition.” Our whole life is an Irish Sea, wherein there is naught to be expected but tempestuous storms and troublesome waves, and those infinite.

—Robert Burton, The Anatomy of Melancholy

Let’s Do The Time Warp Again

It is generally believed that Roundhay Garden Scene, an 1888 wonderment from Louis Le Prince, stands as the world’s first film produced using a motion picture camera.

But, as is true of most of evolution can be funwhat is “generally believed,” this is Wrong.

For the fabled Science Men, forever marching on, recently unearthed a film, produced using a motion picture camera, that captures an 1866 Ku Klux Klan rally in that upbubbling of Hell known as Georgia.

Therein, diverting for a moment a demented diatribe centered primarily on the need to hunt down and hang “uppity darkies,” a crazed yeehaw can be seen, and heard, sternly commanding his fellow yeehaws to marry females when they are not more than 15 or 16 years of age, after first insuring that the frail pale wildwood flowers have one hand welded to a bible, while the other is ceaselessly engaged in cooking and/or duck-plucking. Then, as the syphilis seizes his brain—syphilis contracted through many a night devoted to cornholing sheep, feral pigs, and alligators, out in the swamps and bayous—the yeehaw begins ejaculating wildly, waving his bible, and thrusting into George Washington’s mouth things the man never actually said.

The horror. The horror.

When I Worked

January 2014
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