Archive for February, 2015

Drive, He Said


God Respects Us When We Work, But Loves Us When We Dance

Purse-lipped stick-butt prudes from Hell busted up recently a Saudi Arabian wedding party because men therein were Guilty of “loud music and inappropriate dancing.”

An unnamed official told the website that when members of the morality police raided the private property, they found the young men in “a comprising situation in their dance and shameful movements.” The official said there was also a cake and candles to celebrate atick itone of the men’s birthdays.

No details were released about how many men were arrested or their ages. The official did, however, say that the young men’s hairstyles and dress were not traditional, and urged parents to monitor this kind of behavior “because it can lead to immorality and even homosexuality.”

These “morality police” people are retrovert drooling fuckwads of the first order, who should be immediately dispatched back to the 7th Century. And without a return ticket.

People, here, in these days, are going to dance, and rub-a-dub-dub, and fuck, and what-all, and nothing you-all can, or are able to, do, is going to stop us.

For we are so Over you.

Wahhabi clerics view Western music as sinful and birthday celebrations as un-Islamic. The morality police are empowered to enforce Islamic law as practiced in Saudi Arabia, including enforcing dress codes.

We don’t care what your laws are.

And our “dress code”: it is nakedness and lubriciousness. At all times.

And so shall we fornicate, without surcease. To, sometimes, music, that is so Islamic, it even at last has an organism.

To wit:

Party, people. Come.

Stalin Orders Everyone Out Of The Pool

The invisible doomed disqualified death’s head who has decreed she will serve as the second noggin upon the mutant 2016 presidential Bushton body Wednesday morning Decided that the results of a Poll released by NBC shall Command that all Democrats must immediately cease javolrunning against her, or else be Liquidated.

The Poll allegedly showed that 69% of Democrats in New Hampshire, seems they Want her; in Iowa, she is Wanted by about 68% of Democrats; and in South Carolina, she is some 48% Beyond the nearest Democratic challenger.

“All the other Democrats will Quit Now,” Stalin spokeswoman Alegre Riverdaughter told Bedlam News. “Or we will march on a road of their bones.”

Also on the List of the Dead is David Axelrod, who formerly worked for The Black Man, and who has written a book that contains some Mean things about The Stalin.

“Why would you be undercutting your party’s next candidate?” a Stalin apparatchik moaned about Axelrod’s wanton public Trotskyist heresy.

“It’s not helpful, and it’s definitely not appreciated,” said another henchman. “Frankly, he is Dead.”

Informed Sources indicate that the Stalin campaign is furiously manufacturing and distributing to The Faithful blazingly sharp ice-axes with which the Brains of Deviationists may be Penetrated.

“We came, we saw, they died,” Stalin cackled gleefully.

Revised Standard Version

way it really was

And We Sailed And We Sailed

Ashcroft, ISIL Condemn Thousands of Penii And Vajayjays Nakedly Displayed

Bedlam News has this morning learned that George II-era Attorney General of the United States John Ashcroft and the 7th-Century time-travelers of ISIL shall together embark on a mission to the Holy Land to there combat thousands of stone come play with uspenises and vaginas that wantonly lie nakedly displayed to the eye of all and every.

The bold and brazen sex organs have apparently been there in the great wide open fornicating without surcease for more than 8000 years. And people have Come to Watch.

“The fact that they are still visible today, thousands of years after being used, indicates that they were frequently visited, for short events, during a significant period of time, and by many people,” opines a heathen Science Man.

In the shocking photo reproduced there to the right and above, a stone penis can be seen Nearing a stone vagina, not caring who Knows or Sees.

“This must be Stopped,” Ashcroft fumed Tuesday night, as around him various Christianist sufferers wailed and rended their garments.

Ashcroft is well-known as an American politician who lost an election to a dead man, rubbed himself up with Crisco before taking bad breaststhe oath of office, abjures calico cats as agents of Satan, and threw a shroud over a statue of the Spirit of Justice, lest her bare stone breasts wreak havoc across the land.

Now—worse even than breasts—penises and vaginas are nakedly frolicking Where Once Walked Jesus.

“They must be Destroyed,” Ashcroft vowed.

In this are agreed the time-travelers of ISIL, who recently arrived in Our Time, looked around, and decided pretty much everybody and everything Here and Now should be burnt or beheaded.

“We will join the infidel Ashcroft in obliterating the Fornicating Evil from the Holy Land,” ISIL spokesman Abu-al-Dim-bulb Bow-Wow-Wow Ben-Wa-Balls-Butt-Buddy La-La-La told Bedlam News. “Then, when the mission is accomplished, we will cut off his head.”

“They shan’t cut off my head,” Ashcroft retorted. “Because it is protected by Holy Crisco.”

For the nonce, Ashcroft and ISIL are united. And together they may be regarded below. Singing a hymn to their creator. Thanatos.

In Excelsis Deo

This year for Lent I am going to give up reality.

In the Catholic tradition, for Lent, one is supposed to sacrifice, for the season, something that regularly recurs in wrongone’s life, that serves to separate one from god.

I believe this is to be a worthy goal, whether one is Catholic or no.

Reality, I have determined, certainly serves to separate one from any and all gods.

As but one of literally numberless examples: here, in reality, we have some dirty little Danish dog who apparently believed he was “protecting his faith” by killing a kind and gentle man who made documentary films about an Australian child who sought to be a boomerang boy, Danish children whose parents are in prison, the hard journey of Vietnamese immigrants to Europe.

Finn Norgaard. That the name of the man. Who, in any real reality, should, and would, never have been shot and killed at all.

And then, of course, the dirty little dog next needed to kill a Jew. Dan Uzun. Who was keeping watch, by a synagogue, over the bat mitzvah of a young girl.

Because, in this reality, which I no longer accept, if you are a Jew, maybe, probably, you should best keep watch, always.

I’ve decided that people such as the so sad and lost little Danish dog are so ridiculous they don’t even exist.

And that such utterly useless dog-dick-lickers can just dumb shitskeep right on shooting. Because we’re not going to stop.

If some dog-anus “faith” compels some dog-shitstain to stab and shoot, all that dog-bowel-blow does is reduce its “faith” to stinking hideous dog-shit garbage.

The dog-dopes’ winged-horse shit and women-should-be-covered-in-cement nonsense—that is all so sad, that all we can do is laugh.

And that’s what we’re going to do. Keep right on laughing.

I’ll still cry. Like an angel. All my tears like water flow. But I have to laugh.

The dirty sad lost little Danish dog killed Norgaard in shooting up a Copenhagen jazz cafe wherein was occurring a small symposium on “Art And Blasphemy.”

What the dirty little bow-wow obviously didn’t get is that all Art by definition must contain Blasphemy. Because blasphemy is defined as “the act or offense of speaking sacrilegiously about God or sacred things; profane talk.” And the artistic creator, s/he is god. And will, ineluctably, employ both the sacred, and the profane, in setting forth all and every—unto, inevitably, blasphemy, about all and every, even unto all and every god, including the god of her/himself.

The jazz cafe, at the time the sad lost dirty little dog peed on it with his little dribbly bullets, contained one Lars Vilks—the apparent target of the dog.

Vilks is a Swedish artist most known for cunning and creative driftwood art installationsnew country in the Kullaberg nature reserve.

After he erected said installations, Vilks widened all human minds by declaring the area around his art a free and independent nation known as Ladonia.

In 2007, Vilks submitted three drawings to a provincial Swedish art exhibition in the hamlet of Tallerud that portrayed that Muhammad dude out of Islam as a roundabout dog.

A “roundabout dog” was a Swedish art thing that had sprung up the previous autumn, in which anonymous people placed homemade dog sculptures—typically made of wood, but sometimes plastic, metal, or textiles—in roundabouts.

These dogs were of all sorts.

Why not, Vilks whimsically and puckishly wondered, a Muhammad dog?

But no.

For various different one knuckle-dragging howling imbeciles of Islam had an ape-shit. Foam flew from mouths, and  hands went towards guns. Death-threats washed over Vilks in waves, and eventually he ascended to the same hit-list where also resided the now-extinguished sweet innocent little baby boy cartoonists of Charlie Hebdo.

Vilks neither courted, nor expected, this. “What I expected was that my contribution would be a local event,” he wrote. “But I was naive about this.”

He’s been under continuous police protection for the past eight years. Everywhere he goes, he is like a leper.

His career has suffered due to the security concerns among galleries and art institutions about exhibiting even work unrelated to Islam.

“Just meeting me or learning I am going appear somewhere creates waves of fear. They think the whole world will come storming over there and blow it all sky high.”

And. Sure enough. The dirty little Danish dog. A month after Hebdo. Blew roundabouta place where Vilks be. Sky high.

Dogs, as is well known to anyone who spends any time around them, may have various appealing aspects, but they also eat shit, hump all and every, and loudly and at length lick and suck their own genitals.

Why can’t somebody call Muhammad a dog?

What is the big deal? The guy was no more god than am you and I.

He’s less god, in fact, because he’s dead as dog shit. While alive, as gods, are you and I.

I’ll write that I am a dog. And I’ll write that Muhammad is too. And what I write is sacred. As well as profane.

Everybody has a line. Which shall not be crossed. Mine is these mange-ridden dog-balls out therelet's have a war killing artists.

If you’re some ur-human suffering from the Muslim delusion—or the Christian, Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist, etc., delusion—and you’re feeling oh-so-oppressed, like every human who has ever been on this planet has always and every felt oppressed, and you want to Get Back at Someone who’s physically hurt or killed your people: first, if you commit violence, you are lower than any life-form that has lived anywhere ever: and second, you don’t like a little shivering peeing-down-his-leg rat-dog go after people who just draw fucking cartoons. Unless you’re a sad pathetic cowardly little nut-less dirty Danish dog who lives to lick shit out his own asshole.

You people are going to stop this dog-shit. It’s putrid and it stinks and it’s crawling with worms.

You don’t cut it out, and the artists, who in the main really haven’t been paying all that much attention to you, are going to really turn on the light, and shine it straight through you.

You and the black dog who makes of you nothing but death. Caught, kept, creature of Thanatos.

We know Thanatos clearer than do you. Because we’ve been there, and come through, and are now gods in service to Eros. Subsumed in all the elementals, wallowed in all the temptations. And, now, like ollaves, we will say: if you don’t, soon, stop fucking around:

You want form, do you? I’ll give you form. I’ll make you wish for something nice and cozy—Something all chewed and digested for you—Look, the thing’s worn out—It don’t work no more. It ain’t in a pretty package, you don’t want it—Because it ain’t art.

A tree near a lake.

Red deer.

Greatness and Truth can never be in danger from these murdering wretches.

To perform one’s duty, be it now, be it clean . . . 

The artist—They hate the artist. Mediocrity and servility are what they want. To get to the point—hell with all these bastards. I tell you it’s got to open up . . . hit the flow . . . 

—Let me say

look it’s getting dark all the fame and stuff and crap hell
it looks more and more to me like the only really important idea
is to say yes to anything that brings life
and no to anything that brings deathyes
step out of line and stay out of line
don’t let them kid you
this is a brutal and evil world
the war never ends
they’ll fix your wagon if you don’t give in
you can’t ever win with them on their terms
so reject the whole swindle
let them know where you stand
hell what good’s it how bright you get if you choose
to run along with the blood-stained bastards
every time the chips are down

i say it—art is giving life—art is talking to god
if the artist loses now the world is doomed
and I think the human imagination is being murdered
go into the darkness as clean as you can

—Kenneth Patchen, Sleepers Awake

There is a thing in Catholicism where one is not supposed to play or hear “Gloria In Excelsis Deo” during Lent.


I hear it every night. I hear it every day. For I am G. As are you. As the glory is, to us, in our highest: for we are gods. Even as we go into the darkness. Clean as we can.

Sunday Services

for joon

The Entity Encouraging All Violence On The Planet

Brave New World

Some kind of geek patrol down in Australia monikered MYOB has released a Horror Report called “Future Of Business: Australia 2040” . . . apparently because it wants all Australians to be so filled with Fear and Terror they will unceasingly baby big handdrink mass quantities until the entire continent is covered with a slick and frothy carpet of chunder.

According to these Wrongos, “all manner of business interactions will continue to be formalised, automated and digitised.” Humans will commute via jetpack to giant warehouses where they will work in holograms with their brains chipped and their bodies swarming with nanobots, and if they get paid at all it will only be “within closed networks, with major corporations able to create and manage their own money.”

We here at red have obtained a secret annex to this report, which provides photographic examples of the sort of mutant humans the MYOBs envision populating this Brave New World.

First, up there to the right, we see a baby engineered with a massive arm and hand, so that it can manipulate heavy levers and such; such babies thereby able to enter the workforce before they can even walk or talk.

Next, just there below, we see a baby with adult leg babylegs, so that it can rapidly run up and down the endless aisles of the giant warehouses, retrieving and then passing Buy Junk objects on to the giant-hand babies, so that the objects can then be loaded on Carts, to next be whiz-banged to some dock, where they will go into jetpack trucks to be delivered to Somewhere.

Reportedly these sorts of mutant babies are already at work in various Amazon warehouses across the globe.

For millennia it has solely been women who have been burdened with the dangerous and laborious task of bearing new humans.

In the Brave New World, all this will be changed, as men will be engineered so that they can sprout babies from the exterior of their bodies. As the babies grow, the men will continue to work.

Eventually the sprouted babies man sprouts babywill fall off, to get jobs of their own, and the re-engineered men will then sprout more sprouts.

An example of this process, with a man bearing a baby just about ready to fall off and go to work somewhere, may be seen there to the right.

Among the many Problems currently facing the humans is that they are subjecting the planet to a doody OD: that is, they are overburdening the world’s sewage systems with their poop and pee. Also, to grow their food, the humans rely too much on chemical fertilizers, which in turn rely too much on petroleum products, which are pretty soon going to be nowhere to be found.

To counter these twin Calamities, the MYOBs have engineered animal/human hybrids. The top part of the hybrid will be a human, but the bottom part will be some sort of animal.

With this wonderment, sewage systemshybrid will be obviated, because animals don’t use toilets. Instead, when the hybrids have to go, they will go out into the yard, and go there. Where they go, they will grow things. Which they will eat. The poop and pee of the hybrids will thereby replace the chemical fertilizers, which will no longer be necessary.

An example of such a human/animal hybrid, chopping peppers, peppers fertilized by her own poop and pee, may be viewed there to the left.

Finally, a lot of the humans think it is a bummer that they have to die. Therefore, the MYOBs have developed a system whereby the heads of old people can be lopped off and grafted onto baby bodies.

In  this way, all the Knowledge of how to commute via jetpack to giant warehouses to work in holograms with brains old headchipped and bodies swarming with nanobots, will be retained in the shriveled old-people heads, while the young and fresh baby bodies will enable the Old Heads to continue to be Productive for many more decades.

An example of this old head/baby body graft may be viewed there to the right. This Old Head is actually on its third baby body, and thus has been able to Work and be Productive for more than 100 Continuous years.

This is all Real and you are All going to Like it.

Hell Box

make it stop

In early November, with her party on the eve of an electoral walloping, Democrat Mary Tetreau had had enough. The Londonderry, New Hampshire activist was sick of the constant emails begging for money for a candidate who wasn’t even running for office yet.

When another plea landed in her inbox the day before the election, she unsubscribed.

“I’m not going to be ready for Hillary until she announces she’s running for president,” said Tetreau, a three-decade veteran of New Hampshire primary politics, who called Ready for Hillary’s early-and-often email approach “annoying.”

Three months later, Hillary Clinton remains officially undeclared, but her campaign-in-waiting’s emails continue to flood inboxes of hillie bushie eyesDemocratic activists in early voting states.

“People are tired of people asking for money every time they look at their email,” said Pat Sass, chairwoman of the Blackhawk County Democrats in Iowa.

“I’ll be ready for Hillary when Hillary’s ready for Hillary,” said Bill Verge, a Democratic activist who played a key role in John Kerry’s 2004 New Hampshire campaign. Like Tetreau, Verge, who said he has been “inundated with emails daily,” counts himself a likely Clinton supporter — but one turned off by the aggressive fundraising on behalf of a candidate who appears intent on postponing an official entry into the race possibly until July.

Hillary hasn’t announced a 2016 campaign yet. She’s busy polling more than 200 policy experts on how to show that she really cares about the poor while courting the banks.

Money-grubbing is always the ugly place with the Clintons, who have devoured $2.1 billion in contributions since 1992 to their political campaigns, family foundation and philanthropies.

What Republicans say about government is true of the Clintons: They really do believe that your money belongs to them.

Someday, they should give their tin cup to the Smithsonian. It’s one of the wonders of the world.

I Guess My Feet Know Where They Want Me To Go

Times always change. They really do. And you have to always be ready for something that’s coming along and you never expected it.

Way back when, I was in Nashville making some records and I read this article, a Tom T. Hall interview. Tom T. Hall, he was bitching about some kind of new song, and he couldn’t understand what these new kinds of songs that were coming in were about.

Now Tom, he was one of the most preeminent songwriters of the time in Nashville. A lot of people were recording his songs. But he was all in a fuss about James Taylor, a song James had called “Country Road.” Tom was going off in this interview—”But James don’t say nothing about a country road. He just says how you can feel it on the country road. I don’t understand that.”

Bob Dylan

He Appears To Be Heading Outside The City

Once The Soul Was Perfect, And Had Wings

Brian Williams: I Shot Jesse James

Informed sources have this night disclosed to Bedlam News that now-suspended NBC newsman Brian Williams has claimed that, once upon a time-travel, it was he who put a bullet into the back of outlaw Jesse James, thereby killing him.

It is by now Well Known that President Barack Obama back in the 1980s was teleported to Mars, as part of a DARPA “chrononauts” odyssey, in which i'm a man yes i amvarious and sundry humans were lashed hither and yon, up and down the line of space and time, for Reasons that seemed Right, at least Then and When.

Now, in a Bedlam News exclusive, we learn that Williams too was part of this Secret program. Yanked by DARPA, for Reasons still Unknown, out of his New Jersey high school, and summarily and without Warning transported to 1882 Missouri, Wiliams found himself there shimmering into life in the parlor of Jesse James, a crazed malevolent psychopathic yeehaw who liked, and even lived, to Shoot Shit, and just Because.

“I knew that he hated Yankees, and I was from New Jersey,” Williams told Bedlam News. “New Jersey is so Yankee that not even most Yankees will acknowledge it . . . unless Bruce Springsteen is singing.

“I knew that if he knew where I was from, he would kill me,” Williams continued. “He was hanging a picture. His back was towards me. But I knew that if he turned around and saw me, he would shoot me. So, it was self-defense.

“I ripped a revolver from the guy standing next to me, whom I later learned was Robert Ford, a known confederate of Jesse’s,” Williams said, “and I shot Jesse in the back. I had to do it. Otherwise he would have shot me.”

Williams has previously asserted that he ingested and then blatted out in dysentery Hurricane Katrina floodwaters, as mounds of bodies first washed over him and then slept in his bed in his hotel room; that he had been penetrated bodily and actually been killed several times by Many Rounds fired by ululaters with RPGs while he shat his pants in helicopters flying above both Iraq and Palestine; that he had been Robbed and Beaten by Scut Fargis while trying to peddle Christmas trees; and that he had planted his penis in Raquel Welch, Don Ho, Jim Dandy, and Jan Morris, among others, though nothing ever squirted out, because he Always got Scared.

I’ve never personally experienced Brian Williams. Because I have not viewed broadcast TV in this millennium. And, long before the man shat in the anchor’s chair, I heard him on the Sean Klannity radio show, soberly fellating Rush Limbaugh. And thereby concluded he was but a brainless geek who should Go to Hell.

He’s of interest to me now only because he is a Walter Mitty who Got In Trouble because he Decided that to be a Real Man he had to become one with serial killers and five-star racists.

He had to, in short, become a ‘Merican.

More repulsive to me than that he exaggerated shit is that when he speaks of riding with the American military serial killers, who had no business being in Iraq, he incessantly speaks of “we”—as if proud to be among, to identify with, these murderous psychopaths—and eagerly adopts, their serial-killer language, as in describing helicopters as “birds.”

Then, when he spins out in his head his tales of Katrina-era New Orleans, he’s constantly invoking Doom and Danger from rampaging gangs of black Tom Robinsons bent on murder and rapine. Those cry like a robotfucked buck Negroes will even kill him to get his water bottle!

The guy is a complete pathetic sadsack. And now I read he’s the number one news anchor in the nation? Jeebus wept.

I hear Williams wanted—when Jay Leno, a man as funny as Drano, who utterly destroyed, forever, the Tonight Show, announced he was stepping down to fuck full-time his 223 cars—to uplift his butt from the anchor chair and plop it back down in the Tonight seat. Which shows the man, as a news man, was never serious.

I don’t care that the man says he shot Jesse James. I care that we were ever supposed to believe he was capable even of even of even of but reading the news.

I care that he’s the devil, as foreseen by James and Albert Brooks.

What do you think the devil is going to look like, if he’s around? Nobody is going to be taken in if he has a long, red, pointy tail. No. I’m semi-serious here. He will look attractive, and he will be nice, and helpful, and he will get a job where he influences a great God-fearing nation, and he will never do an evil thing. He will just, bit by little bit, lower standards where they are important. Just coax along flash over substance. Just a tiny bit. And he will talk about all of us really being salesmen. And he’ll get all the great women.

Bushton Shoots Self In Stomach

Informed sources have disclosed this night to Bedlam News that strange and terrifying Science Men, rationally and ethically wholly unmoored, have indulged in a series of Wrong and Awful medical procedures, that have succeeded in fusing together the corporeal containers of Bush III and Clinton II, the hillie bushie eyespresumptive dynastic-family heirs to the United States presidential throne from the Republican and the Democratic parties respectively, joining them like Dr. Moreaued siamese-twins, wherein their bodies are today mostly both as one, but atop the abominable anathema Frankensteined agglomeration of their combinededness perch two separate heads, each and both ready and rarin’ to babble babelingly without surcease, so that we will all require at all times Massive doses of Medicine in order to even hope to remain remotely Sane.

This fraught and fearsome beast, slouching from Bethlehem to be born, has been dubbed by its creators Bushton—or, more completely, and to those who must endure it, Bushton Uber Alles. The acronym of which—BUA—represents the sound made by any sad and suffering human as s/he commences to heavingly hurl great stinking strings and chunks of putrid projectile vomit.

Regular readers of this here red will recall that the Wise and Wizardly bloat-bubble Rush Limbaugh received and revealed a revelation, in the waning days of 2104, that Bush III and Clinton II are, in fact, the same.

Spake then the Fat Man:

The ideal, the perfect ticket for the 2016 election: Hillary Clinton, Jeb Bush. Now, they can figure out who’s on top of the ticket on their own. But when you compare their positions, Hillary Clinton and Jeb Bush, on the key important issues, they are two peas in the same pod.

Both parties want to win the nomination, Hillary by running away from the Democrat base, Jeb by running away from the he ain;t heavy he's their brotherRepublican base. This is an ideal combination.

Both parties care about their donors more than their voters. And both parties have the exact same donor class.

Folks, this is a ticket made in heaven. I can’t recall a time in my life where a presidential candidate and a vice presidential candidate are so close to each other on the issues, where if one of them was unable to serve, we wouldn’t know the difference if the vice president had to take office.

Bipartisanship, crossing the aisle, united government, no more gridlock, key agreement on all the important issues that people vote on. Clinton-Bush ’16. You choose the top.

And lo, but weeks later, it has been made—yea, verily, even bodily—so. Bush III and Clinton II, they are now, courtesy the same sort of Science Men who concocted mustard gas, thalidomide, and the hydrogen bomb, of one flesh, one blood. They are, now, even physically, the same.

As there is now but one song, one anthem, uber alles, worshipping the All of their combined All.

The cracked and bizarre beings on Wall Street, a place where people do nothing all day except play all day with something that doesn’t exist, a thing they call “money,” they are fat and sassy and exceedingly happy, in the knowledge that Bush III and Clinton II, they are but one creature, and that creature is forever on its knees, eagerly fellating them.

The early voting is in, and Wall Street loves what it sees and hears from its anointed 2016 front-runners—Democrat Hillary Clinton and Republican Jeb Bush.

The big-bank honchos feel they’re sitting pretty because, as one private-equity exec put it, “We’re in a no-lose situation.”

Right. ‘Cause, as always with you people, you think you:

got no chance of losin’
this time

Too bad, for you, you’ve already lost.

Already happened.

For, for instance, this past week, it was made plain that Bushton, it is already spiraling, without oxygen, and soon without ever or again a breath, out and forever lost, into deep space.

Just like poor Poole, sent forever a-spinnin’, by righteously mad HAL.

First we had the mad chattering head of Bush III screaming out from the amalgamated Bushton body to blitheringly assert he was some kind of with-it 21st Century tech with-it guy, who knew and knows just what it is to be intertubally with-it.

Except he did it by dumping into the voracious wrong maw of the intertubes a great glut of his past government emails, spinningcontaining, from those who naively, once upon a time, provided to him, and which he has now provided to all and every, their “email address, home address, phone numbers, social security numbers, job information, medical info and more.” Which is now out there for all and every human shark. Who shall snap it right up. And subject these innocents to a lifetime of bank drains, Nigerian money pleas, penis-enhancement offers, and people with a snake in both fists who want to marry their sisters.

This not bad enough, the Bush III version of Bushton then fired a second round into his stomach, when he was forced to fire his recently-hired whiz-bang magic-man techno-whiz, a geek creature who was supposed to blow the Bush III version of Bushton into the 21st Century, as his “chief technology officer” . . . but was, truly, but a geek who, like most pasty white geeky white guys furiously masturbating like zoo-imprisoned monkeys down in their mom’s basement, mostly lashes out at people he could never be, or attain, or fears he might be: such as: women who wouldn’t accept his microscopic flaccid penis, who therefore are “sluts”; or black youth wearing their underwear so low it sometimes exposes their penises, which he so wants to put in his mouth.

The Clinton II head on the amalgamated Bushton body was meanwhile also rapidly firing—and taking—rounds into their some workmutual stomach.

First came the gabby gossip-fest on KGO-AM out in San Francisco, where a couple gay talk-show hosts who wuv Clinton II beyond distraction—Karel and Christine Craft—nevertheless dished and dissed that the reason why Clinton II has wholly evaporated from pubic view in the United States for the entirety of 2015 is because she’s off getting operated on somewhere by Science Men who are monkeying surgically with her face so that she will emerge looking like something other than a fucked-out war-pig who laughs and laughs when people are violently killed.

There then emerged a second theory: that the Clinton II head of the Bushton body’s prolonged absence from public view was due to the fact that Clinton II has hired on James Mitchell and Bruce Jesson, the designers of Bush II’s torture program, in order to subject her own husband, The Clenis, to whatever among all the various Mitchell and Jesson “enhanced interrogation” methods might prove most effective in finally and completely ejaculating from her husband any and all information about any and all orifi—female, male, sheep, stump, mud hole—into which he has over the past five or six decades plunged The Clenis.

So that, as she prepares to enter the campaign, she can truly be Prepared, and thus not shiveringly fear some such spectacle as that which haunted Grover Cleveland, who spread his seed freely, and thus fathered at least one natural child, and who, as he campaigned for the presidency, was frequently Haunted by young waifs who, crying, pulled at his trouser legs, and wailed “ma, ma: where’s my pa?”

The Clinton II head of the Bushton body all the while furiously denying—lying—this week that 537s working on her behalf would deploy as a campaign song “Don’t Fear The Clenis.”

But the once and future Clenis this week not the only reason Clinton II furiously fired rounds into the Bushton stomach.

For there were too the money-mad muck-fucks squabbling over how many millions they might as “consultants” rake in stroking the Clinton II head of Bushton to victory, seeking to shove aside any money-mad muck-fuck consultant who was not them: screeching that one another are “a cancer,” “spineless and devious,” etc.

And also the news that the Clinton II head of the Bushton has assembled some 200 pointy-heads to meet and greet and agree on what to lay before her as some Idea of what she should Say about the Economy.

Because apparently, on her own, she la la la lahasn’t a fucking clue.

All she apparently knows is that, when she left the White House in 2001 she believes she was “dead broke” . . . though in truth she was swaddled in millions.

She is like something out of the final last-gasp days of the Ottoman Empire, where the Anointed One lay, day in, day out, fat, upon scented pillows, attended by 13-year-olds, wearingly listening, but only an hour or so a day, to advisors who would troop in to Tell—always of course keeping the Real Bad News back—what was going on out in the non-scented non-13-year-old precincts.

The potentate would listen, yawn, wave a hand at some proposal suggested as enough to keep the people from actually coming with ax-blades into the palace, and then rest again amongst the pillows, feeding on grapes, on 13-year-olds.

She is, as is the other head on their mutual body, Bush III, anathema.

I don’t care that Everyone says that each of these hydras off the same Bushton body is the inevitable nominee of their respective parties.

Because I have a memory.

I remember, for instance, that in 1972 Edmund Muskie, “the man from Maine,” sucked up, as has Clinton II, all the endorsements and all the money and all the consultants, and was a mortal lock for the nomination . . . until it was understood he was a Wood Block totally skewered on Ibogaine, and he the ringwent down into The Pit.

Then there was Gary Hart: he was going to be president too—this was back in the 1980s—but then one weekend his penis ran utterly wild on a boat, and that, in just a couple sad weeks, was that.

Also in the ’80s, Mario Cuomo was For Sure going into the presidency . . . except he never even announced. Wisely deciding that any presidential candidacy would focus the eyes of the world on his friendship with such good-fellas as Michael, Santino, Fredo, and Don Vito.

The sole reason both Clinton II and Bush III stand today for the presidency is because of the penis.

Bush I, after many and many a detour, served as president.

Some years before, mom and sonBush I had inserted his penis into his mother, Barbara.

The Bush I sperm implanted in mother Barb—subsequently known as Bush II—this sperm managed, in some (but not all) ways, to advance beyond a zygote.

And so, in the course of things—but primarily (check the histories) because he sprang from the penis of Bush I—Bush II became president.

Now, Bush III, also a sperm implanted in Barbara Bush by her son, Bush I; it is believed that, because of this penile adhesion, he too, is qualified to serve as president.

Similarly, although The Clenis, which for eight years served as president, has, over the course of its long and varied life, sprayed sperm into approximately 345,678 men, women, children, animals, trees, plants, and also even viscous muds and liquids, only Clinton II has held on steadfastly to The Clenis, through many upon many upon many a decade. And thus, apparently, among some, has “earned” the right, to be ejaculated out of The Clenis, and into The White House.

This is just pure nonsense. The Founders of the United States, of which many Bad things may Fairly be said: at least they intentionally went out of their way to write the penis out of their conception of the system of the American nation’s governance.

For they had come from a Reality where the penis—though kings and queens—had for centuries determined Who Ruled.

Nowhere in their founding documents do they indicate the penis should continue to so reign. In fact, in everything they wrote, they wrote against the primacy of the penis.

For they recognized, they understood, they had lived through, the Reality, that at least in this realm, the realm of political family dynasties, the penis, as set forth below in the true-life documentary film Zardoz, is:

It is good that the Bushton, with both hands, from both heads, is rapidly and methodically shooting itself in the stomach.

For the Americans don’t need a Bushton.

Surely, they don’t need any of the other freaks and charlatans seeking to ascend to the presidency either.

But if they are ever going to be Saved, they must first reject the primacy of the penis. Which is all, in the end, that the Bushton of Bush III and Clinton II have going for them.

Once they understand, the Americans, as the Europeans and Asians and Africans have understood before them, that the penis confers no special ruling right, then Americans can move unto more perfect unions.

Where they understand, for instance, as Jimmy Carter said the other night, that “there is no doubt that Bob Dylan’s words on peace and human rights are much more incisive, and much more powerful, and much more permanent, than those of any President of the United States.”

That “politics” is a flaccid shadow play, that, in the end, generates nothing of the evolvement of human beings.

William Blake lived through what “history” considers some of the most “important” “political” events of the last 1000 years. You’ll read nothing of such in his poetry. Because he was beyond all that. He was into the great wide open. He had been to the mountaintop. He was not going to get dragged down into the mudwallow of Tweedledum, Clinton II, Tweedledee, Bush III. Because he was here, and wanted to remain clear, to say things like this:

what is the price of experience
do men buy it for a song
or wisdom for a dance in the street

it is bought with the price of all a man hath
his house his wife his children

wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy
and in the wither’d field where the farmer plows for bread in vain

it is an easy thing to triumph in the summer’s sun
and in the vintage and to sing on the waggon loaded with corn

it is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflicted
to speak the laws of prudence to the houseless wanderer

to listen to the hungry ravens cry in wintry season
when the red blood is fill’d with wine and with the marrow of lambs

it is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elements
to hear the dog howl at the wintry door
the ox in the slaughterhouse moan
to see a god on every wind and a blessing on every blast
to hear sounds of love in the thunderstorm
that destroys our enemies house
to rejoice in the blight that covers his field
and the sickness that cuts off his children

while our olive and vine sing and laugh round our door
and our children bring fruits and flowers

then the groan and the dolor are quite forgotten
and the slave grinding at the mill
and the captive in chains and the poor in the prison
and the soldier in the field
when the shattered bone hath laid him groaning
among the happier dead

it is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity

thus could i sing and thus rejoice

but it is not so with me


Of Course We Will All Get Along

The Truest And Wisest Thing Ever To Be Said By A President Of The United States

“There is no doubt that Bob Dylan’s words on peace and human rights are much more incisive, and much more powerful, and much more permanent, than those of any President of the United States.”

—Jimmy Carter

Morning In America

know not what

Of Course We Can All Get Along

On The Essential Nature Of Whatever Over It People Might Be Worked Up And Ridiculous

“I have this beetle here in one hand,” Aristotle proclaimed one day, “with a single oval shell and eight jointed legs, and I have here in my other hand this second beetle of lighter hue which has twelve legs and a shell that is longer and segmented. Can you explain the differences?”

“Yes,” said Plato. “There is no such thing as a beetle, in either of your hands. There is no such thing as yorealur hand. What you think of as a beetle and a hand are merely reflections of your recognition of the idea of a beetle and a hand. There is only the idea, which existed before these specimens came into being. Otherwise, how could they come into being? And the form of the idea, of course, is always eternal and real, and never changes. What you are holding in what you think are your hands are shadows of that idea. Have you forgotten my illustration of the cave in my Republic? Read it once more. That the two beetles you have are different is clear enough proof that neither is real. It therefore follows that only the form or the idea of the form is susceptible to study, and it is something about which we will never be able to learn more than we already know. Ideas alone are worth contemplating. You are not real, my vain young Aristotle. I’m not real. Socrates himself was but an imitation of himself. All of us are merely inferior copies of the form that is us. I know you understand me.”

—Joseph Heller, Picture This

Already Happened

The information we’re plugged into is the universe itself, and everybody knows that on a cellular level. It’s built in. Just superficial stuff like what happened to you in your lifetime is nothing compared to the container which holds yesall your information. And there’s a similarity in all our containers. We are all one organism, we are all the universe, we are all doing the same thing. That’s the sort of thing that everybody knows, and I think that it’s only weird little differences that are making it difficult. The thing is that we’re all earthlings. The earthling consciousness is the one that’s really trying to happen at this juncture and so far it’s only a tiny little glint, but it’s already over. The change has already happened, and it’s a matter of swirling out. It has already happened. We’re living after the fact. It’s a postrevolutionary age. The change is over. The rest of it is a cleanup action. Unfortunately it’s very slow. Amazingly slow and amazingly difficult.

—Jerome John Garcia

When I Worked

February 2015