Archive for January, 2015

O Hoireann O

This is god. Transporting wee nascent beings through the drowning waters. So they may be able to Be.


This is god. Sunrise, next door, on the neighbor: Mars.

Good morning, neighbor starshine. We will fully join you, in the great wide open, when we can reach you, evolved, without machines, without bodies.


This is god. Brothers, falsely separated, because there are “politics,” and therefore one brother, through murderous arms, must live in a dirt-patch called “North Korea,” and the other brother, though murderous arms, must live in a dirt-patch called “South Korea.” And so they must needs, at all times, except every 50 years or so, live separated.

But the love—the god—never goes. Is never separated.


This is god. Dead cartoonists of Charlie Hedbo, going back, the next week, after death, to work.


This is god. Hebdo-massacred dead man. Charb. Dead because “he was a child, who drew in a newspaper.”

French satirical weekly Charlie Hebdo publishing director Charb poses at their offices in Paris

This is god. This is what is. And forever will be. Alpha unto omega. Never to be let go. Marianne.


This is god. Here, her sing.

Listen Here

Automobiles Are Over

Graham Crackin’

The extraterrestrials who are assembling candidates for the 2016 Republican presidential contest just can’t stop themselves from ceaselessly churning out ever more freaks, frauds, mutants, and monsters. These extraterrestrials had so much fun breeding and building candidates for the 2012 campaign, I guess, that this oh ashleytime they are adhering to no limits at all. For, with still some 22 months to go until election day 2016, already they have introduced some 617 separate weirdsmobiles vying for the GOoPer nomination. Every freakin’ day, it seems—and this is without exaggeration—they roll out some new ludicrous loonbin to heave his or her cracked cranium into the ring.

Today’s balderdash was Ashley Wilkes, senior senator from the Confederate state of South Carolina. Wilkes was previously profiled here on red. As what he is: the otherwise perfectly useless plantation son, unfit for the really important things, like riding to the hounds, or diddling cousins, but who can be depended upon to serve the Lost Cause there in the legislature, keeping the Yankees at bay.

Every one of these extraterrestrial roll-outs is programmed with his or her own private personal hallucinatory vision of how it shall be s/he who will successfully ride the white horse into the White House. Wilkes today shared his particular hallucination. And a hallucination it surely is.

John “Old Man Shouts At Cloud” McCain had previously wished to name Wilkes as his vice-presidential running mate in the doomed GOoPer jihad for the presidency in 2008. However, party elders vetoed Wilkes, for the same reason they vetoed Charlie Crist, another McCain fave: because these are closeted gay men. (Poor Crist had even gone out and got himself a wife; but, alas, all for nought.) The elders also vetoed a third McCain fave, Joe Lieberman, on the grounds he was a Democrat, which the elders considered a perversion nearly as anathema as being gay.

It was after this triple whammy of refusal that McCain famously exploded into one of his titanic tantrums, and rashly announced that he would accept instead, as his would-be VP, Meth Mouth, a crank-controlled tundra-termagant that Science Men have proved conclusively is Literally and Measurably dumber than dirt. But whom influential GOoPer brain-trains like William Kristol desperately wished to penetrate with their penises. The Kristol-naught theory was that, if he succeeded in elevating Meth Mouth to the VP spot, she would, in gratitude, permit him to slip his wee shaft into her bottomless slot. Alas, Kristol was unaware that Meth Mouth prefers penises that are black, and which enter her flesh after she has snorted cocaine off a 55-gallon oil drum.

It is because the 2008 GOoPer presidential jihad was Doomed that the nation was spared a Meth Mouth presidency, which would have occurred as soon as McCain was informed by the generals that he could not, as he wished, attack Russia over Georgia. At which time he would have stroked out, and gone under the ground. Allowing the Meth Mouth crime-family to pee freely in the rounded corners of the Oval Office, and indulge in crazed drunken brawls on the White House lawn, until she—soon—succeeded in searing the entire planet to a cinder.

It is only because humans are rapidly evolving—notwithstanding all seeming evidence to the contrary—that Wilkes this go-round is rolled out as a potential presidential assembly-liner.

For whereas but seven years ago GOoPer gayness was considered among GOoPers an Unholy Crime against God and Man, rendering unacceptable, on gayness alone, any GOoPer so inclined, today no GOoPer gives a shit, so long as the gayyep GOoPer promises to bomb and strafe and stab and slit. And this, surely, Wilkes, he has promised to do.

Some may object that Wilkes is not gay. These people consult the true-life non-fiction tome Gone With The Wind, and protest that Wilkes was married to Melanie, the former Hamilton, with whom he produced children.

Uh-huh. Sure. Gotcha. Right.

That Wilkes is gay is such an open secret that Runt Limprod has for years aired a parody riffing off Brokeback Mountain, called “Return To Saddlesore Canyon,” which broadly, no hints at all, presents a gay-blading involving Wilkes and McCain.

Too, a close reading of Gone With The Wind reveals that the children produced out of Melanie, allegedly sired by Wilkes, were in truth planted in her womb by Rhett Butler.

Don’t believe me? Read it again. Still not satisfied, we’ll then go to the DNA evidence.

Ashley Wilkes was simply too otherwise occupied, to ever create—and upon a woman, ugh—a child.  He needed to try—and fail—to ride to the hounds. To diddle—male—cousins. And to keep the Yankees—cursed Yankees—at bay. There in politics. Confederate States of America. Uber alles.

Ride it, Ashley. This time—even the extraterrestrials do say—is your time. The time is right. Feelin’ hot. Feel it now. Much harder now. Get on top more. Do the right thing.

Great Moments In Farm Animals

Red readers were first to learn that former Texas governor Rick Perry is actually a farm animal, the result of a Dr. Moreau-style experiment seeking to cross a man with a steer.

It didn’t work.

It so didn’t work, that he was born without a brain. He is like that Star Trek episode where Spock’s brain was choke it downlifted entirely out of his body; his stiff and wooden, mindless corporeal container then had to be controlled by a little box in the hands of Dr. McCoy.

This is why, when Perry “reads,” he does so with the words upside down.

Just as it was extraterrestrials who removed Spock’s brain, so too was it extraterrestrials who bred the Perry farm animal. These same aliens, as red readers learned, in truth bred and/or assembled all the Republican 2012 presidential candidates. Just to fuck with the humans.

Further red research revealed that a supermassive black hole has taken up residence in the Perry cabeza, rendering the farm animal incapable of rational thought, even if he had a brain in there. For whenever Perry attempts to form a thought, it is immediately sucked into the black hole, where it disappears, never to return.

Later it was determined that all light stops when it encounters the farm animal; Penny’s cranium is where light goes to die.

It has by now become Obvious to All that the extraterrestrials are again in charge of breeding and/or assembling the Republican candidates for the 2016 presidential sweepstakes. These aliens had so much fun yeehawfour years ago, they simply couldn’t pass up the opportunity to reprise their efforts.

Already they have rolled out such new mutant freakazoids as Ted Cruz, more a dingo than a human, a man whose face consists entirely of putty, and who reads Green Eggs And Ham on the Senate floor. And “Doctor” Ben Carson, something crumbly and stale out of an old Easter chocolate box, who actually convened a speech to announce he is “not crazy.”

So delighted were these madcap extraterrestrials with some of their 2012 creations that they are bringing them back in 2016 for an encore. These retreads include Rick Santorum, the grub in a skin-suit; Captain Underpants, the official Loser of the 2102 presidential election; and, yes, Rick Perry, the one and only, once and future, farm animal.

They have made a modification to the 2016 model of farm animal. They have put glasses on him. This is supposed to convince voters that he has become smart. It might seem that a more efficient method of rendering the creature intelligent would involve putting a brain in his head. But that, I guess, wouldn’t be as much fun.

I have worn glasses since the age of five. But every time I see a photo of the farm animal in specs, I rip mine right off. For I don’t want to be dumb and dumberassociated in any way with that spectacle.

The reason for this rambling entry is that I recently came upon a tube featuring photos of the pre-glasses farm animal accompanied by actual true-life quotes from the brainless one’s very mouth.

As a Public Duty, I thought I should reproduce some of those here. So I have.

So that you all can make best guesstimates as to how much heroin you should lay in, to survive the upcoming campaign.

The extraterrestrials, they may find this shit funny. But the rest of us, we need Medicine.

Mayor: “Beijing Is Not A Livable City”

Cities are wrong, and they are all going to be put to sleep.

Wang Anshun, mayor of Beijing, knows this. And so, last Friday, he told China Youth Daily: “Beijing is not a livable city.”

Currently 21.5 million people livemove in Beijing. That is 21,450,000 more people than is Sane.

Wang admitted that there is no longer air in Beijing. There is, instead, poison.

Wang, a former official in the state-controlled petroleum sector and in north-west China’s Gansu province, said the pollution was caused by its distribution of polluting factories and skyrocketing ownership of motor vehicles. In his speech, he demanded that Beijing’s polluting factories shut down entirely rather than “irresponsibly relocate” to neighbouring areas of Hebei and Tianjin.

In 2014, Beijing authorities closed 392 companies for causing pollution and took 476,000 old vehicles off the roads, Wang said.

He added that despite the choking pollution, Beijing’s biggest problem was population control, claiming the influx of migrant labour put strains on the city’s infrastructure. The city has 21.5 million residents and is growing at a rate of more than 350,000 a year.

People are killing themselves, living there.

As doctors tended the patients snaking through the ground floor of Beijing Children’s Hospital last week, it wasn’t the raspy throats and watery eyes caused by the city’s acrid air that concerned Li Pu most. It was the potential for lifelong lung damage and behavioral changes.

Li, a pediatrician focusing on early childhood development, is finding evidence of the cumulative toxic effect that pollution is having on children. It suggests that the acute sickness triggered this year by some of Beijing’s worst smog-cloaked days may be a prelude of chronic illnesses, such as heart disease, decades later.

Cities are wrong, and they are all going to go.

When even your mayor pronounces your city “not livable,” it would seem time to get out.

Meth Mouth Vs. Falafel Fondler

While farting out his show Tuesday night, Ted Baxter, noted falafel-fondler, mentioned that Meth Mouth, a colossally stupid woman up in Alaska who shoots speed in both arms all day and all of the night, can not really be taken tedseriously as a 2016 presidential candidate—not even among the ludicrous screaming meemies clambering daily aboard the GOoPer clown train.

Baxter opined that Meth Mouth’s professed interest in the presidency is but a form of “reality show,” and offered that she and Donald Trump—the well-known bankrupt wind-blown wig—would “certainly liven up the proceedings, but they need effective organizations in 50 states, and that’ll be a major challenge for them.”

Meth Mouth herself heard this, because she never sleeps, and is always watching the television. So she loaded up on some particularly powerful Panzer Powder, and then, screaming into the earhole of an assistant to Sean Klannity, dumbest man on Fox, demanded that she be permitted to appear on Klannity’s meth womanshow that very night, in order to respond to Baxter.

And lo, she so appeared.

And, brain shorting out on her beloved meth, said, among other things, this:

“On Fox, kind of a quasi or a an assumed conservative outlet, and we have all day listening to the Ts of Bill O’Reilly.”

“He’s talking about, the guests on his show tonight or oh the commentary on his show, and that would be oh all these GOP contenders thinking about running for President, like Donald Trump, Sarah Palin and he names them off. He says, ‘Oh what a reality show that would be, yuck, yuck.’

“Well the left doesn’t do that, okay they take the serious because this is war and hopefully the media, even the quasi, right side of the media, won’t be looking at this as some kind of reality show, a joke because maybe they have theirs so it’s they’re taken care of. They’re fine.

“No, the people of America deserve the best and competition through a GOP primary, whether a Bill O’Reilly or somebody else assumes a reality show or not, they deserve that competition to surface the competitor who can take on Hillary or whomever it may be and win for this country.”

The horror. The horror.

Polar Bear Penises Are Melting

Stunned and sorrowful are Science Men, having determined that polar bear penis bones are shriveling and snapping, due to the human penchant for plastics.

[E]xperts have warned that chemical pollutants may be help me spockreducing the density of the bears’ penis bones.

This puts them at risk of breaking their penis, which could have disastrous consequences for mating and the survival of the endangered species.

A team of scientists led by Christian Sonne at Aarhus University, Denmark, has found that a certain type of pollutant called polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) is associated with a less dense penile bone.

They have previously shown bears that have high levels of pollutants named organohalogens, such as PCBs, in their bodies, have smaller than average penis bones and testes.

PCBs were used to make paints and rubber goods in the 1930s, but were banned in 2001 after scientists discovered they can cause cancer.

Because they break down slowly, they can still be found in the Arctic, meaning that animals such as polar bears are especially at risk.

In the wake of this Horror, informed sources have told Bedlam News that Clinton II, the death’s-head recently disqualified as a Democratic Party candidate for president, has laid in truly massive amounts of PCBs, intending to administer them in huge doses to her husband, Mr. Death’s-Head, in order to render reasonably quiescent his rampaging Clenis.

Unstuck In Time

The other night I was becalmed in what I think of as American Stupor: lying on the couch, watching the television.

The series I was watching was unreeling a show, set many years ago, at Christmas. And I thought, “right, Christmas. We’ll be having that here soon.”

For, in my mind, I believed I was timeinhabiting that time and space that is the resting-on-one’s-oars period between Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Thanksgiving, I knew, had passed. But Christmas was still to come.

This was my Reality. Until nearly the show was over. When suddenly I recalled: no, we have already had Christmas. It passed more than three weeks ago.

And I then realized: I had become unstuck in time.

Billy Pilgrim famously became unstuck in time in Dr. Kurt Vonnegut’s true-life non-fiction anthropological accounting Slaughterhouse-Five.

There, Mr. Pilgrim, he went through life, oscillating to and fro, from the moment of his birth, to the moment of his death, and unto every moment in between. He traveled, bouncing, bob-bob-bobbing along, from here to there to everywhere. And back again.

It was hypothesized that Mr. Pilgrim had become unstuck in time because of his experience in the German meat-locker dubbed Slaughterhouse-Five, wherein he survived the fire-bombing of Dresden. Such a horror, this, that it catapulted his being beyond the “normal” boundaries of space and time.

As I lay there, in my American Stupor, not really sure where or when I was, I understood that I had maybe become unmoored from space and time because of my experience with SlaughterhouseHebdo. Which I had opened spacemy being to be. Because sometimes I do that. Against all sense. Because it is Right.

Part of me, for sure, knew there had already been Christmas.

But, really, another part said, how could I be sure? I mean, the Christmas tree—can’t be denied—is still out there in the front room. I “thought” it was because the cats had not yet come to a final conclusion as to which ornaments were but ornaments, rather than cat toys. But maybe it was up there because really Christmas hadn’t come yet. How should I know? Would I know? Could I know?

Right this moment the kitten is out there playing the piano. Not just walking across the keys, but playing the piano. He is making a melody. Next, I suppose, he’ll sing. Why not? Nothing is stopping that, except a belief that it can’t happen.

I am now and forever eschewing all that. Any and all “can’ts.” For I am unstuck in time. And in space.

Anything can happen. And therefore it will.

So let it be written. So let it redone.


I get the old guy now. The mean one. The rat bastard out of the Old Testament.

Mr. Grumpy. Yahweh. Jehovah. Mr. Fuck You I’m chew backSick Of You I’m Killing You.

Mr. Anger.

The vicious Abrahamic paterfamilias who oozes his anger into Judaism, Christianity, Islam. Who fires his peoples with bile.

Brought to his knees. In anger in tears like water flow in anger in tears like water flow in anger from aching in anger broken in anger disappointed in anger in broken heart. In anger. Righteous. Blinding. Blinded.

So. Drown the globe. Melt the motherfucker. Sweep it all away. For look what, look what, look what, look what, look what they, what they, what they, what they all have done.

You just, in anger, get sick of them. And think:

the fire next time. burn the motherfuckers down.

But he fucked up. The old one. The mean one. The rat bastard out of the Old Testament.

Because drowning and burning and erasing: these don’t do shit. All they do is make more of themselves. Make more of drowning and burning and erasing. Of shit.

Instead, shave that flagyou have to laugh.

You know, old mean rat bastard dude: like your murdered Charlie Hebdo kids did. The ones who met the horror of anti-semitism upbubbling again in France by taking the “pretty face” of the supreme ugliness of renewed Jew-hatred, Marine Le Pen, and portraying her as shaving the Hitler mustache off her pubes.

Like your kid Kenneth Patchen did. In one of your best Good Books. In The Journal Of Albion Moonlight. Where he recounts how your own murdered flesh-and-blood-of-the-dove kid did laugh, and couldn’t stop, laughing.

I forgot to say that Christ went back to Heaven. His presence was awkward for all concerned. However, Jackeen (rest her soul), did make a dictaphone record of a conversation between Adolph Hitler and Him.

Hitler: Punishment? What do you know of my punishment?
Christ: (He laughs).
Hitler: I take credit for my own guilt.
Christ: (Laughs).
Hitler: What do you say to that?
Christ: (Laughs).
Hitler: Answer me!
Christ: (Laughs louder).
Hitler: (Beginning to sob). Give me credit for my guilt!
Christ: (Laughs still louder).
Hitler: (Sobs). All my life I have been afraid.
Christ: (Laughs uncontrollably).
Hitler: (Sobs).
Christ: (Continues to laugh).
Hitler: (Sobs louder).
Christ: (Laughs).
Hitler: Please . . . !
Christ: Ho! Ho! Ho!
Hitler: Please . . .
Christ: Ha! Ha! Ha!
Hitler: (Beginning to scream). Please! Please . . .
Christ: (His laughter drowns out all else).

Away In A Manger

A Russian nascent-mother can expect to pay a bribe of $4000 for a private hospital room in which to give birth. Can’t come up with the dough: deliver in a hallway.

Abortions are increasingly anathema in Russia: these days, after 12 weeks, a woman seeking abortion better cry rape. And the revivified Russian Orthodox Church, that snuffling butt-buddy of purse-lipped closet case President Vladimir Putin godin lashing uppity Russian women into jail, seeks to permanently plug up half the vaginas currently aborting.

While meanwhile there are roughly one to five million homeless children in Russia.

The government, from need, has set up, up and down the land, “baby boxes,” where mothers who cannot be, can box, for some other, their babies, rather than leave them on the streets.

And so, cats, they have taken, to caring for Russian children.

In Obinsk, a week or so ago, a “baby was abandoned in front of an apartment block and left lying on the floor on a day when temperatures were several degrees centigrade below zero.”

A local cat by the name of Masha that lived in a cardboard box in the hallway “warmed the baby for several hours with her body,” TV Zvezda channel reported yesterday.

After hearing loud cries, one of the residents opened her front door and spotted the baby on the floor, with the cat sitting beside it, licking it and trying to warm it, TV Zvezda reported.

“The residents are certain, if the cat hadn’t taken care of it, the your are so beautifulbaby wouldn’t have had a chance,” the channel’s anchor said.

Nadezhda Makhovikova, who lives in a flat on the stairway, told REN TV she went out after hearing sounds as if the cat was meowing in distress.

“When I went down, I saw it was the baby crying.”

When paramedics arrived and took the baby into the ambulance, Masha ran after them, REN TV reported.

Vera Ivanina, a paramedic, told REN TV: “She was so worried about where we were taking the baby. She ran right behind us, miaowing. She was really a rational creature.”

Russian television aired footage of the shaggy green-eyed tabby cat, fed by residents and allowed to live in the hall.

“Allowed to live in the hall.”

 . . . and she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn . . . .

pre-monolith unevolved blind deaf dumb unhuman unlife unholy unseeing unknowing unfeeling unaware unloving unloved jesus wept and wept and wept and wept and wept ooga-booga pre-human ape-less knuckledragging and oh you weep oh you weep oh you weak oh you weak oh you sorry sorry bastards

Sunday Services

born on christmas day

Into The Great Wide Open

Voyager, in case it’s ever encountered by extraterrestrials, is carrying photos of life on Earth, greetings in 55 languages, and he is risena collection of music, from Gregorian chants to Chuck Berry, including “Dark Was The Night, Cold Was The Ground,” by ’20s bluesman Blind Willie Johnson. Whose stepmother blinded him at seven by throwing lye in his eyes, after his father beat her for being with another man. He died penniless of pneumonia after sleeping bundled in wet newspapers in the ruins of his house that burned down. But his music just left the solar system.

—Peter Noah

The Light Is Beautiful

Our Town

Lodz was cruel and unusual. Singularly picturesque with its dilapidated buildings, dilapidated staircases, dilapidated people. Lodz had only been slightly damaged during the war so the town of my film-school days was, in fact, the pre-war town. And, because it stood just as it had before the war and there’d never been any money for repairs and townrenovations, the walls were all blistering, plaster was peeling away, crumbling everywhere. And all that was singularly picturesque. It’s not an ordinary town.

When I was still at film school, my friends and I often played a game which was very simple but required integrity. On the way to school in the morning, we had to collect points. If you saw someone without an arm you got one point, without two arms two points, without a leg two points, without two legs three points, without arms or legs, a trunk that is, ten points, and so on. A blind person was five points. Then, at school we’d meet at about ten in the morning for breakfast and see who had won. We’d usually all get about ten or twelve points, on average. If anyone got fifteen, he was almost sure to have won that day. That shows you how many people there were in Lodz who didn’t have arms or legs or who were mere trunks without both arms and legs. This was a result of the extremely backward, ancient textile industry there, where people were forever having limbs tore off. It was also the result of very narrow streets where trams went right up next to the building. You just had to take one inadvertent step and you’d find yourself under a tram. Anyway, that’s the sort of town it was.

It’s a town where, for example, there were notices in the trams which said that if you wanted to transport a cabbage-slicer, you had to buy two tickets. I’ve never ever seen a notice like that since—that there’s a special loofare for transporting a cabbage-slicer.

There was this guy in a park with a special machine which would give you an electric shock. You’d hold on to the negative charge, with one hand, and with the other a wire which was positively charged. And he’d turn on the power. The whole point was to see who could stand the highest voltage. How much will you stand? 120 volts? Proof of whether you were a man depended on whether you could bear 380 volts, for example. And not 120. A child could stand sixty or eighty then would let go immediately. But serious, fat men would hold on to 380 volts and say: “Okay, give me more.” But the guy didn’t have any more. He only had 380 volts.

There was a woman who lived right next to the school. The road near the school was quite wide in one place because there was a park there. It was, say, twenty-five meters wide. The old woman’s house was on one side of the road, opposite was the park. And where the park started, there was a public toilet where you had to go down some stairs if you wanted a pee. At more or less ten in the morning, that old woman would leave her house where she presumably didn’t have a toilet, and make her way to that public loo. She was, well, very old. She moved with great difficulty. She moved so slowly that it took her eight hours to get to that toilet. Sometimes seven. Sometimes six. Then she had to climb down the stairs. Afterwards, she had to climb up again and, in the evening, she’d go back home. She’d go to bed. Sleep. Then get up in the morning and go to the loo again.

—Krzysztof Kieslowski

Disqualified Death’s-Head To Take All Of The Money, All Of The Names

Clinton II, recently disqualified by the Democratic National Committee from seeking the presidency as a Democrat, because she is a cruel and callous death’s-head who snickers and chortles at the killing of human beings, is nonetheless planning to suck up all of the money available to 2016 Democratic presidential contenders.

Major donors are ready to announce huge financial commitments to Hillary Clinton as soon as she she is risenannounces a second run for the White House, according to Clinton allies and Democratic fundraisers.

“The floodgates are going to open immediately, and there’s going to be a rush to get on the team,” said Don Peebles, the real estate mogul who served on President Obama’s national finance committee. “There’s nobody in the Democratic Party who can match her. Not even close.”

“It’s going to be like nothing you’ve seen,” added one top Democratic donor, who supported both of Obama’s presidential campaigns and plans to throw big support behind Clinton. “The numbers will be astounding.”

Having secured all of the money, the people of the Thanatos Candidate are now throwing a tantrum because The Black Man will not bend to her the knee and immediately turn over to her Death’s-Head Juggernaut the enormous, sophisticated email list, and associated data, keying his supporters.

“There’s a lot of data—voter data, massive email lists that Obama built and there are a lot of people who want to make sure that he spreads that wealth,” the Clinton ally said. “They want to make sure he doesn’t take it in a suitcase back to Chicago and move on. No one wants to see it disappear or have it used just to build a library.”

Oh bugger off, “Clinton ally.” Better in a suitcase, than catapulting the Death’s-Head into the White House.

Death’s-Head’s husband, Mr. Death’s-Head, is reportedly so enraged at The Black Man’s failure to crawl across cut glass to Mrs. Death’s-Head in order to fawningly present her with anything and everything she wants, that he has taken to randomly snatching women off the street and inserting his penis into them.

Mr. Death’s-Head is a howling racist who back in 1992 interrupted his campaign for the presidency to fly down to Arkansas, where he was then serving as governor, to personally preside over the execution of Ricky Ray Rector, a mentally retarded black man.

[R]icky Ray Rector became world famous upon his execution in 1992. Then Governor Bill politicsClinton left the campaign trail in January of that year to sign the warrant for Rector’s execution. Rector’s mental capacity was such that when taken from his cell as a “dead man walking” he told a guard to save his pie. He thought he would return to finish his dessert.

I try to remember this story when I am told that all Black people love Bill Clinton or that he should be considered the first Black president. Clinton wasn’t Black when Rector needed him. He was just another politician who didn’t want to be labeled soft on crime.

Then, in 2008, when The Black Man was beating Mrs. Death’s-Head like a gong in their contest for the presidency, Mr. Death’s-Head famously fumed that “a few years ago, this guy would have been getting us coffee.”

Instead, he drank their milkshake. And is drinking it still.

Putin Puppet Proclaims Russian People Shall Eschew Electricity, Food, To Protect Der Leader

Russian Deputy Prime Minister and shameless kleptocrat Igor Shuvalov went down to Davos this weekend to warn that people better bugger right off Vladimir Putin, the current Russian tsar, because “when a Russian feels any foreign pressure, he will never give up his leader. Never. We will survive any hardship in the country, eat less food, use less electricity.”


Russian food, as is well known, consists go get emprimarily of potatoes, and things that are pickled. Also, vodka.

It is significant that Shuvalov did not promise that the Russian people would stop drinking, in their drive to Protect the President.

As for electricity, more than most of that is generated by resources stolen from the Siberian people.

Around the time that other European peoples were clambering aboard boats to cross the great water and there steal the Americas, Russians began pouring over the Urals, to snatch with greedy grasping hands Siberia. Native Siberians were told to get lost, just as native Americans were. Today, the region is violated by innumerable techno-whiz-bang dumberments ceaselessly extracting this and that, dumberments that can never be switched off, because if they were, they would freeze solid, and never come back on again.

It is true that some Russian electricity is generated by nuclear devices, but these have a tendency to blow up or sink. That is because they are relicts of the era when Russia was run by men—Brezhnev, Andropov, Chernenko—who were either functionally or literally dead.

It was during this epoch, for instance, when Russian bicycles were famously built of cement.

There then came a brief six-year period of light, when the nation was helmed by Mikhail Gorbachev, who, in the histories, will go down as pretty much unique, in deliberately declining to exercise the powers available to him, allowing events to take their course, and so he presided over the dissolution of an empire.

But Gorbachev was rudely shoved aside by the lumbering hot damndrunkard Boris Yeltsin, who famously shelled his own parliament, and sold his country into Hell.

Today the tsar is Putin, veteran KGB disinformation officer and Yeltsin protege. A pitiable closet case whose zealous rejection of his own homoerotic tendencies manifests in such denialist madness as appointing to head the 2300-employee Rossiya Segodnya cum Sputnik News the babbling 12th Century baboon Dmitry Kiselyov. Who believes gay people who die in car accidents should have their hearts and other internal organs burned or buried, so as not to be inadvertently transplanted into The Normal People; that in the libertine homo-overrun Sweden “at age 12 there is already child impotency”; and that a 22 year-old murdered Russian, in coming out as gay, “provoked” his own slaying.

And Shuvalov thinks the Russian people are going to starve themselves in the darkened streets for such people.

Right. Sure they are.

Worth It

A thirty-year-old actress told me that when she was sad she’d go out into the street to be with people. I’d heard stories like this several times in France already. They sounded like literary fiction to me. So I asked for details. Why did she go out? What could possibly happen to a sad girl in the street? A concrete example. She fly awayremembered an event from six years previously. She was going through some breakdown and went out. She caught sight of the famous French mime artist, Marcel Marceau, in the street. He was now an old man. She walked past, turned to give him another glance. He also turned and suddenly smiled at her. He stood there for a few seconds, smiling, and then walked on. “He saved me then,” the actress said, and here literary fiction ended because she was completely serious and I believed her. We pondered for a while whether Marcel Marceau really lived only to save the young French actress. Maybe everything he’d done, all the performances and emotions which he’d stirred in people through them, were nothing compared to this fact. “Did he know how important he was for you?” I asked. “No,” the actress answered. “I never saw him again.”

At a meeting just outside Paris, a fifteen-year-old girl came up to me and said that she’d been to see Veronique. She’d gone once, twice, three times and only wanted to say one thing really—that she realized that there is such a thing as a soul. She hadn’t known before, but now she knew that the soul does exist. There’s something very beautiful in that. It was worth making Veronique for that girl. It was worth working for a year, sacrificing all that money, energy, time, patience, torturing yourself, killing yourself, taking thousands of decisions, so that one young girl in Paris should realize that there is such a thing as a soul. It’s worth it.

—Krzysztof Kieslowski

This Is Your Brain On Meth

Two New Dispatches From “The Fart Of God”


Orange Boner Invites Looney Tune To Throw Tantrum In Playpen

Speaker of the US House of Representatives Orange Boner has invited Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu to travel to Washington next month and there throw a public tantrum before both houses of Congress assembled.

Boner issued the invitation just hours after The Black Man in orange boner manhis 2015 State of the Union address vowed to veto any new sanctions against Iran that might ooze out of the primordial swamp that is the new Republican-controlled Congress.

“[Obama’s] exact message to us was: ‘Hold your fire.’ He expects us to stand idly by and do nothing while he cuts a bad deal with Iran. Two words: ‘Hell no!'” Boner ejaculated. “We’re going to do no such thing.”

As is well-known, and as has been exhaustively documented here on this site, the Republicans of this country hate The Black Man with a passion and fury unprecedented in the nation’s history. That is why Turtle Scrotum, today Senate Majority Leader, announced immediately after the The Black Man’s election in 2008 that he and all the other stalwarts of the Confederate States of America would firmly oppose absolutely anything and everything proposed by The Black Man, no matter how worthy. Up to and including nominating Jesus H. Christ to the United States Supreme Court.

The Black Man is currently involved in negotiations to peacefully resolve the question of Iran obtaining nuclear weapons. Because The Black Man is for this, the Republicans are instead for the opposite. They are, to put it simply, for war.

Enter Netanyahu. The man’s older brother, Yonatan, was killed during the 1976 raid on Entebbe. Ever since then, Netanyahu has wanted all brown people to dry up and blow away. Netanyahu is these days possessed of a particular Fear that the brown people of Iran may make a nuke bomb; his country, Israel, only owns and controls somewhere between 75 and 400 of the things, and in some realm of mentally divergent thought that embarrassmentmakes no sense to me, it is Wrong for Iran to have a nuke bomb, but Right for Israel to have 3 or 400 of them.

In his ceaseless jihad against Iran, Netanyahu previously embarrassed the entirety of the human race with a 2012 speech before the United Nations, in which he flourished drawings right out of a Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote cartoon. Immediately after this unbelievable display, all extraterrestrials in any and all universes agreed, for their own protection, to remain an additional 50 parsecs away from the Earth, and all its works.

Now Orange Boner has invited Netanyahu to bring his bent roadshow to the United States Congress. Where he may be expected to weep and wail and rend his garments, and perhaps throw up more insipid yeehaw illustrations, thundering against any “solution” to the Iran nuke thingie that does not involve reducing that country to a smoking sheet of molten glass.

Now, it is true that, ordinarily, Republicans do not like Jews. Regular red readers may recall when Orange Boner funneled money to, and publicly campaigned on behalf of, fellow GOoPer Rich Iott, a certified freak who likes to dress up like a Nazi and “re-enact” robberGerman stormtrooping “victories” of World War II.

However, and particularly when it comes to the Middle East, Republicans dislike brown people even more than they dislike Jews.

And they particularly dislike the brown people of Iran. Because that nation made monkeys out of all the many Dudley Do-Rights of the Reagan administration during the Iran-Contra fiasco.

Ronald “Where’s The Brain Of Me?” Reagan was an animatronic device constructed by the Walt Disney Corporation, one that Republicans today worship as a god. However, in recent years the Reagan device has transformed into a zombie, and is now pursuing an eccentric orbit robbing people at gunpoint in Florida.


The Democratic National Committee announced Wednesday that Clinton II would not be permitted to seek that party’s nomination to the presidency, because she is a cruel, heartless death’s-head who glories in the extinguishment of human beings.

“This is just not what we want to about,” DNC spokesperson Yail Bloor told reporters. “Let the Republicans be the party of Thanatos. One such party is enough.”

Je Suis Know


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January 2015