Archive for February 3rd, 2015

Counting The Cars On The New Jersey Turnpike

There are many reasons why America doesn’t attract me. It’s too big. There are too many people. Everybody runs around too quickly. There’s too much commotion, too much uproar. Everybody pretends too hard that they’re happy there. But I don’t believe in their happiness, I think they’re just as unhappy as we are, except that we still talk about it sometimes but they only say that everything’s fine, that it’s fantastic. It gets on my nerves.

When Americans asked me “how are you,” I said “so-so.” They probably thought somebody in my family had get awaydied. But I simply had jet lag because I’d been flying for seven hours and didn’t feel particularly well. But it was enough for me to say “so-so” and then they immediately thought that something tragic had happened. You can’t say “so-so.” You have to say “well” or “very well.” The most optimistic thing I can say is “I’m still alive.” So I’m not cut out for America for that reason.

I’m afraid of America. Whenever I’m in New York I always have the feeling that it’s going to cave in and all I can think about is how to avoid being there when that happens. The same goes for other places in America. You don’t get all those people and that noise in the streets of California as you do in New York but, in turn, there’s a huge number of cars going to and fro and I always have serious doubts as to whether there are any Americans inside. You know, who’s inside? I’ve always got the impression that those cars drive themselves.

I had this adventure. It was silly really. I was hurrying to some screening I had at the New York Festival. I was in a terrible hurry. I got into a taxi. It was raining. The taxi-driver hit a cyclist. My journey took me through Central Park. In Central Park the roads are lower down, not in a tunnel but a sort of gully. Well, that’s where my taxi-driver knocked over a cyclist. It was dusk. Raining. And he simply hit him. The cyclist jumped off and fell and the taxi-driver ran over the bike. The road’s narrow there; that is, one line of cars can go in one direction and one line in the other, no more. The cars there are terribly big and wide so maybe two French cars would fit but only one American. Well, when he knocked over the cyclist, he stopped, and got out. We started to help the cyclist up. I also helped, because he was laying there with his leg bleeding. Well, car horns started beeping. An enormous river of cars had stopped behind us. A gigantic traffic jam, a couple of miles long, had formed. And they started to beep their horns and flash their lights and himshout and beep and so on and so on.

Since it was literally five minutes before the time I was to appear at the Lincoln Center, I gave the guy what I owed him, and I started to run. You can guess what the taxi-drivers coming up in the opposite direction thought. A taxi’s standing and some guy is running away from it. Of course they thought I’d done something to the driver. Mugged him, robbed him, killed him or something. I ran like hell because, on top of that, it was raining and I wanted to save my suit from becoming soaked before I reached the Lincoln Center. So I pelted along. I saw the taxis coming to a halt in the opposite direction, and they started signaling. Guys jumped out of the taxis. I simply started to run away, I started to run away from them, not to the Lincoln Center any more but away from them. I started to climb up the side of the gully, jumped into the park but it turned out that there were taxi-drivers standing in front of the gully too, and they’d also noticed a taxi and this guy running away. So they simply started chasing me through Central Park with these great big baseball bats. You know, those huge, long sticks. You get it with one of those and your skull’s cracked open. And I saw the guys waving these sticks above the cars and chasing me across Central Park in their cars. I barely escaped. The trees were pretty dense there and they couldn’t get through with their cars; that’s the only reason why I escaped. Covered in mud, I went and explained at the Lincoln Center why I was late—I was five or ten minutes late. But that’s not why I don’t like America. That was just an amusing adventure.

—Krzysztof Kieslowski


What The Hog Wants

When the groundhog pokes his nose out of the hole on February 2—and he does tend to do that, on that day, bizarre human traditions or no—he ain’t in search of his shadow, to determine whether winter shall six weeks more last.

Instead, he’s doing what human where the women atmales most do, when they poke their noses out of their holes.

He’s looking for a woman.

Many male groundhogs do come out of their burrow on Groundhog Day, but not to see their shadow, said Stam Zervanos, an emeritus professor of biology at Penn State Berks, in Reading.

“At this time of year, males emerge from their burrows to start searching for the females,” he explained. “The females come out probably seven days later and stay just outside of their burrow or maybe just inside their burrow.” After the males determine where the females are, both sexes “go back to their winter burrows and spend a little more time in hibernation.

“In March, they all emerge together, and that’s when mating occurs,” he said. “The males know exactly where the females are, [so] mating can occur very rapidly.”

As for why Americans have a holiday called Groundhog Day, where they yank groundhogs out of the earth and pretend to commune with them, to receive their wisdom as to whether they perceived their shadow—which, if they did, means winter shall howl for six weeks more—apparently this is the fault of the Germans.

Back on the Olde Sod, Germans have their Candlemas, a mid-winter holiday featuring a hedgehog as a weather forecaster. However, when Germans streamed into Pennsylvania, they found no hedgehogs. They did find groundhogs. So they decided groundhogs would be the New World wizards in predicting the duration of winter.

As German diversions go, I guess, this is not a particularly bad one. Certainly beats serving meals consisting of blood, hooves, and pickled cabbage. Or killing half the people in Europe.

Damselflies Duke It Out Over Dirt Clods

The inaptly named Shebaa Farms is a seven-mile-long by two-mile-wide strip of land that consists of stones, dirt clods, and thistles. Though it barely exists, it is furiously claimed as “MINE!” by the the dirt patchscreeching baboons running Syria, and Israel, and Lebanon. Occasionally the baboons send out hapless minions to die for the greater glory of Wanting this land. Because, don’t cha know, everyone wants to go under the ground having died for stones, thistles, dirt clods.

The most recent madness involving this disputed dust-wallow commenced when Israeli planes killed six Lebanese soldiers and an Iranian general in Qunaitra, a town in the Syrian sliver of the Golan Heights (the Heights are where the Shebaa thistle-expanse is located).

The Hezbollah version of Lebanon then sent anti-tank missiles into an Israeli military convoy patrolling the stones of Shebaa, killing two and wounding seven.

Israel next fired into Lebanon, a Three Stooges-like strike that succeeded only in killing a Spanish peacekeeper deployed by the United Nations.

All the baboons were by this time in full shriek.

Sayyed Hasan Nasrallah of Hezbollah bellowed: “After what happened in Qunaitra and in the Shebaa Farms Wednesday, you have tried us. Don’t try us again. If the Israeli enemy thinks that the resistance fears war, I tell them today in the commemoration of the Qunaitra martyrs and after the Shebaa qualitative operation that we don’t fear war and we are not reluctant to face it, and we will face it if it is imposed on us, and we will win it, God willing.”

Could he stop there? No.

“Following the Qunaitra operation and the response in the Shebaa Farms, I want to be clear: We in the Islamic Resistance [Hezbollah] in Lebanon are no longer concerned with any such thing as the rules of engagement. We don’t recognize the rules of engagement that have ended,” a seemingly yeehawdefiant and relaxed Nasrallah said.

“It is our religious, moral, humanitarian and legal right to face aggression, wherever and whenever it may occur. The story that you hit me here and you retaliate here is finished,” he added, speaking through a huge screen via a video link. “We have the right to respond in any place and at any time and in the way we deem as appropriate.”

The Hezbollah chief said the Israeli attack in Qunaitra revealed the unity between Beirut, Damascus and Tehran.

“The martyrs who fell in Qunaitra reflected a fusion of Lebanese-Iranian blood on Syrian territory, and also reflected the unity of the cause and the unity of the fate and the battle of these countries [against Israel],” he said. “When blood unites Palestine, Lebanon, Syria and Iran, then we will enter an era of victory.”


Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu meanwhile loudly hallucinated that the Hezbollah attack on the Shebaa thistle-patch was the work of Iran. Because this deludo believes everything Wrong the work of Iran. When the man experiences an unsatisfactory bowel movement, he gets on the horn and screams into the earhole of some Republican in the US Congress that Iran must be showered with bombs.

“For some time, Iran—via Hezbollah—has been trying to establish an additional terrorist yahoo yippityfront against us from the Golan Heights,” said Netanyahu. “We are taking strong and responsible action against this attempt.”

Hezbollah took responsibility for Wednesday’s attack on two IDF vehicles on Israel’s northern border. But a source in the Prime Minister’s Office bluntly accused Iran of helping Hezbollah behind the scenes.

“Iran is behind this heinous terrorist attack—the same Iran that the world powers are forming an agreement with, that would allow it to maintain its ability to acquire nuclear weapons capacity,” the source said.

A baboon in Iran also felt it necessary to stick his oar in:

“We told the Americans that the leaders of the Zionist regime should await the consequences of their act,” Iran’s Deputy Foreign Minister Hossein Amir Abdollahian said.

People waited several days to see whether these idjits would engage in a full-out war over the thistles and stones and dirt clods, as they did in 2006. But apparently this latest outburst of madness is now “over.” Looks like some of the saner apes have, for the nonce, prevailed.

Israel said it had received a message from UNIFIL, the U.N. peacekeeping force in Lebanon, that Hezbollah was not interested in further escalation.

In Beirut, a Lebanese source briefed on the situation told Reuters that Israel informed Hezbollah via UNIFIL “that it will make do with what happened yesterday and it does not want the battle to expand”.

Okay then.

All that needs to be known about this nonsensical nuttery over the thistles is expressed below by the wise man Ruben Bolling. In truth, it perfectly expresses dirt-conflict not only in the Middle East, but in all and everywhere.


The Needle And The Damage Done

So long as Rick Perry, the farm animal, is in the race, Ayn Rand Paul will not be the stupidest person running for president in 2016.

He is, however, clearly the candidate who most believes the American people are stupid.

For with his penchant for making and then unmaking scarypolicy statements, and with the dizzying speed and randomness of the neutrinos disappearing into the supermassive black hole in the farm animal’s cabeza, Ayn Rand Paul apparently believes Americans are clueless simpletons who cannot remember a single thing from one day to the next. In short, he believes they are all Fox viewers.

Take his fabled dronathon. In March of 2013 Paul took to the floor of the Senate for a 13-hour “filibuster” opposing the nomination of John Brennan to head the CIA. During which he several times wept and moaned and rended his garments about drones.

It was farcical, to anyone who had ever paid any real attention to the man, to believe that Ayn Rand Paul actually opposed drones. And indeed he does not. As his subsequent comments made very plain. For, like his father, Ron “Rugs” Paul, Ayn Rand Paul is a noted hater of black people. And drones could prove very useful in killing such people. As Paul acknowledged, less than a month later, in April:

“I’ve never argued against any technology being used when you have an imminent threat, an active crime going on,” Paul said. “If someone comes out of a liquor store with a weapon and fifty dollars in cash, I don’t care if a drone kills him or a policeman kills him.”

You see, the Ayn Rand Paul “filibuster” was never about drones. It was not even about Brennan. It was about hating the black man. This was clear through Paul’s many giggling references—three in less than five minutes on the Sean Klannity radio show—to the fact that his “filibuster” was the longest one to occupy the Senate since black-killer Strom Thurmond’s ass24-hour jihad against the Civil Rights Act of 1957. The Civil Rights Act that black-hater Ayn Rand Paul opposes to this day.

Having succeeded in such breathtaking wonderments as embracing and then eschewing drones in less than a month, Ayn Rand Paul has now greatly accelerated his mendacity, so that he feels perfectly free to say one thing, and then the opposite other, in less than 24 hours.

On Monday, he told CNBC that vaccines can turn children into vegetables. “I have heard,” he warned darkly, “of many tragic cases of walking, talking normal children who wound up with profound mental disorders after vaccines.”

Today—Tuesday—he towed a New York Times reporter into a doctor’s office, and there received a booster shot for Hepatitis A.

“I did not say vaccines caused disorders, just that they were temporally related—I did not allege causation,” Paul lied.

Ayn Rand Paul’s father, the crackpot slave-holder and Hebrew-fearer Pawn Rawl, is a sincerely demented nutbag, who truly believes the screaming meemies that bubble up into his brain and then burble out of his mouth.

His son, however, is a craven, shameless, cowardly hack, who will say anything, do anything, so long as he believes it may place him in the White House. And who believes the American people are just stupid enough to put him there.

And now, for old time’s sake, some true high art, a short video that perfectly and precisely captures all that Pawn Rawl is:

When I Worked

February 2015
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