The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Anus

Once upon a time, there on the blog of ol’ Marky Mark, there be’d a passel of fierce feisty gals, who weekly posted Diaries on Criminal Injustice.

These wimmins therein tracked the ravages of markosthe police state, as it affected citizens of these United States, particularly those citizens of people of color.

Marky Mark hisself never deigned to enter these diaries.


Not even one.

White racist trolls did, though. And every week.

To there weep and moan that mebbe black/brown/weird prisoner people should be there, in the prison, and that anyway too many of them were pretty much animals, roaming wild and way too free, with big buck knives, seeking to drag frail pale wildwood flower white women into the bushes, to there commit upon these young lovelies Unspeakable crimes.

The fierce feisty Criminal Injustice gals tried every which way but bombs to deal with these nimrods.

But, every week, still, they came.

A mammoth spirit and soul drain.

Occasionally, when one of these idjits would enter a Diary with an actual cross or swastika carved upon his or her forehead, Meteor Pokey, the some-time Indian, would at last ban the bugger.

But by that time the gals were usually so enervated that, if made of weaker stuff, like me, they would have long since been permanently hooked up to an opiate IV.

See, there was a problem with the Marky Mark blog. It was white as a Klansman’s robe. And a lot of the people on it were Klansmen. They just claimed they were “left.”

Marky Mark eventually dealt with this problem by unleashing his banned Armando (and, as always, sancho pitiful panza, faithful at Armando’s knee, the nebbishy knee-muncher Turkana), to take out his site’s black people, all 23 or 24 of them—specifically, his site’s uppity Bigger Thomas, Adept2u—and, thereby, drive into exile anybody who there gave a damn about black people . . . except Denise Oliver Velez, whom he, craftily, boosted onto the front page.

Where she has served as the target of white-hot racist white-rage, ever since.

And Marky Mark’s way of saying: see! I have on my front page a feisty Negro! Like that Indian! What’s his name? The Blades guy? Yeah. Meteor Blades! Feisty! Indian!

The women of Criminal Injustice, while not formally blackballed from the site, were nevertheless, in this Purge, made to feel very unwelcome.

And even if that had not been so, they were not going to stay there anyway. Not after the Marky Mark-through-Armando white-purification project. So they up and left. And they never have been back.

And, in the course of things, when stay-behind nebbishy white boys started creeping in on little cat feet, to try and flich the diaires the CiJ women had left behind on dKos, the fierce feisty CiJ women went in and erased those, too.

Time passes. And, in time, comes Michael Brown, and Ferguson.

Suddenly, the nation comes awake to the fact that white motherfuckers with badges and guns are just shooting down black men michael-brown-1because they can and they want to, and all the doo-dah day.

The sort of thing the CiJ women had been saying, there on the Marky Mark blog, years before. When Marky Mark couldn’t be bothered.

In the news, now, day by day, come boiling, one upon another, white-hot tales of white-ass badged and gunned motherfuckers shooting down black men, for no sane reason.

And, from the news—because the people on the Marky Mark blog are lard-ass cheetos-stained wanking basement-dwellers who do nothing on their own, but just grab from somewhere some news, and then screech about it—these stories come to dominate the pages of the Marky Mark blog.

And, lo, eventually Marky Mark gets a revelation. He will appoint to his front-page a writer who shall specialize in the very subject that the CiJ feisty females covered like a blanket, on his site, years ago, before he drove off his blog the very same sort of black people now getting shot in the street that he suddenly decided to care about.


So what does he do? Marky Mark? He soberly intones that “police-state excesses are issues that we as a community have embraced,” and then hires for the position, the position of righteous crusader against the police, and police state, “Shaun King,” a five-star five-alarm glow-in-the-dark shameless con-man who is some kind of three-fisted combo of Elmer Gantry, Huey Long, and Wile E. Coyote.

I mean, the dude steals from sick kids.

He wildly beats his meat for people to “sponsor a beautiful child in need,” but then, once you click through, you are assaulted by a demand that you vomit forth $49.99 per month to enroll in his “Full Access To Life Goals University.”

For, you see, he would “like for you to consider making me your coach and guide through life.”

Presumably, as your coach and guide, he will teach you how to raise $500,000 for Haitians devastated by an earthquake, but somehow only pass $200,000 along, shaunwhile meanwhile securing a nice fat paying job for yourself.

He might also, in this coaching and guiding, tell you how to hoover up money from people on the intertubes by telling them you’re going to write a book, and then give those people the back of your hand as they scream till their lips bleed that they want a refund, because you haven’t delivered . . . but you have meanwhile tried, repeatedly, to shuck them for even more cash.

He might also, in his coaching and guiding, shucking and jiving, teach you how to move, through the magic of the intertubes, three times in two days.

After spending just a couple hours on this person, I would not believe him if he told me the sky was blue, lest I checked it for myself. But I will note that he does say he hails from Kentucky. Which is the state of Rand Paul. Mitch McConnell. And people who violently and repeatedly fuck pigs. And then call it love.

The only question now is whether Shaun King’s inevitable king-hell mammoth bring-down probably wrist-cuffed scandal occurs while he is sucking at the teat of Marky Mark, or whether Marky will be spared, by King having, before the boom does fall, flitted elsewhere.

What we do know, for sure, is this: Marky Mark is dumb as dirt.

Sure, he sucked after King, because King the con man passes himself off as some social-media genius, and that’s where Marky Mark wants to take his empire . . . to keep it an empire.

But can the man, Marky Mark, do no vetting? Does it bother him at all that people are screaming all over the tubes that King owes them money?

Maybe not.

What do I know?

Maybe, all over the tubes, people say Marky Mark owes them money.

For I don’t know. I haven’t looked.

What I really don’t like, is, as I review the above images, before publishing: Marky Mark, Charlie Armando McCarthy, Shaun King: they all look the same.

And he who don’t look the same, is Michael Brown.


7 Responses to “The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Anus”

  1. 1 Miep October 2, 2014 at 5:49 am

    What, you did this all night? I wish you were my neighbor. My neighbors suck. If you were my neighbor we’d be having good coffee and toast and berries. Right now. I hate this culture.

    • 2 bluenred October 2, 2014 at 6:20 am

      Just drink the coffee, and eat the berries and toast, together with me, though we’re a thousand miles apart. Then let’s go to sleep. And awake the next day to learn whether this post still exists. Or whether, as would be true in China, it in the night evaporated.

  2. 3 nancy a October 4, 2014 at 10:15 pm

    Thank You. Yes it is so. Page-click seeking charlatans joined together to cash in on an injustice that neither of them ever cared a wit about before

    Of course the story that Shaun tells is the kind that Markos can hear: a story of bad cops, a bad department, a bad town, and “bad apples” that must be punished and crushed by outrage. Over and over again. While the Body Count Rises.

    It is not the story told by the CIK pirate women: a story of systemic racism, classism, sexism and more, of a prison industrial complex as an extension of slavery, of abolition and transformative justice as the only way out of more policing, punishment and foundational oppression.

    That is not a story that is welcome on a white supremacist capitalist patriarchy of a site. Nor a story that should be left there — save the Last Words exit – lest it give illusive cover or create the impression that anyone ever cared.

    Time will reveal all. In the end, the charlatans won’t matter and the people will have their say.

    In the midst of much chagrin, i saw this tonight. Right before the St Louis Symphony Orchestra was about to play Brahms Requiem, this happened:

    Requiem for Mike Brown

    The love and creativity and hope of the people will prevail ~ yes, the arc is long, but it bends….

    Nothing else matters.

    • 4 bluenred October 6, 2014 at 11:59 pm

      You all were ahead of your time.

      So, as ever—this time you pirate gals—the far-seeing don’t make a dime. And pretty much no one remembers even who they are.

      I remember, though.

      Shaun, in 20 years or so, he’ll be at some curbside, volubly selling tires.

      You all, will still be you.

      • 5 nancy a August 23, 2015 at 6:09 pm

        “,,,the thing I came for:
        the wreck and not the story of the wreck
        the thing itself and not the myth…

        …We are, I am, you are
        by cowardice or courage
        the one who find our way
        back to this scene
        carrying a knife, a camera
        a book of myths
        in which
        our names do not appear.”

  3. 7 Alexa August 21, 2015 at 8:26 pm

    Jeebus Krispies. Though reading this is literally sick-making (kids? Haitians?) I believe and am thankful for your mad investigative skillz. The truth is much, much worse than I knew.

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When I Worked

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