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


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When I Worked

February 2015

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