Archive for March, 2015

Work It Out

Turn It Up

I Hear You’re Feeling Down

Every Little Kiss

In kindergarten I just one day rushed up and kissed Susan Anderson. Because she was098b692d4f744fea83bfa76cd6b50fb5 just so bright and so pretty, and just so everything, everything that always was, is, and could be.

And so I just couldn’t not.

I kiss her, now, Susan Anderson, in all her every many forms, in these times, still.

Lips. Still so sweet.

Everything that was, is, ever could: be.

Andreas “You Can Go Now” Lubitz Was Not Building A Playhouse For The Children

for the children

Fun With Problems

There occur many Problems in life. Three that come immediately to mind: (1) Why does the dryer eat socks?; (2) Why, if one resolves on Wednesday to outdoor-grill on Sunday, does Sunday check in at 175 degrees?; and (3) Where the freak are the keys?

I believe that this last irritant may now be obviated. You see, the boy pictured down there below, David Petrovic of Serbia, apparently moves along a worldtrack in which metal unaccountably bolts out from come to mewherever it as, as he passes, and adheres itself to his body.

David’s mother said she first noticed the trait “about a month ago,” when he came walking out of the kitchen with forks and spoons sticking to his chest.

“I asked him to fetch me a spoon so I could feed his little brother, and he yelled back: ‘Mom, it sticks!’”

“I doubt very much that someone is magnetic,” said Patrick Regan, a [party-pooping] physics professor in England. “Humans are made of the wrong material to be magnetic.”

“It would be pretty unsafe to have metal objects sticking to you against the force of gravity,” he said. “You couldn’t switch something like that off.”

David’s mom said the magnetic attraction appears to wane when the boys sleep but switches back on when they are awake and moving around.

The family says they were alarmed at first but have gotten used to the unusual phenomenon and all the attention surrounding it.

“It was a shock at first, but now we just try to keep the knives away from them,” Petrovic says.

So. What needs to be done is for Science Men to produce many, many clones of this boy. These will then be made available to those with a penchant for misplacing their keys. A key-less sufferer can then move a cloned Petrovic through the premises, until the misplaced keys shoot out from wherever they’re hiding, to cling to the child’s chest.

As long as we’re cloning people, the socks-in-the-dryer problem can be solved by first breeding and then cloning extremely small humans who can survive—maybe even thrive—in the environment of a clothes dryer. Then, whenever one does a load of wash, one of these wee dryer-humans can be placed inside the machine, to tumble around in there and keep on eye on the socks, so none of them go off to wherever they go, when they’re in there.

The grill irritant may be avoided by purchasing one of these geegaws, powerful lasers that, when aimed at the sky, cause the heavens to open up, and produce rain. The night before one wishes to grill, one can simply turn one of these babies on, thereby soaking the schnitt out of the surrounding area; shortly before grilling, the rainmaker can be de-activated. I figure the frustrated toaster up there in the sky won’t be able to break through with full broil until after the grilling has been completed.

Okay. Any other problems plaguing anybody?

Games People Play

Film School

Lou Lombardo edited for Sam Peckinpah as well as Robert Altman, and once, when he was being interviewed by a pert, fresh-faced young entertainment reporter who asked him to compare the two directors, he leaned back as if to deliver a profundity, and said, “Sam Peckinpah is a prick, and Robert Altman is a cunt.”

Peter Biskind

Reality Theater

Humans who travel to faraway cities seem these days compelled to snap photographs documenting the fact that they personally have Been There.

Thus, Andreas “You Can Go Now” Lubitz, go nowwhen he journeyed to San Francisco, posed hisself in front of the Golden Gate Bridge.

A problem with such photographs is that they rarely accurately evince the Reality of the landmarks depicted.

For instance, the Golden Gate Bridge, upon anyone sentenced to actually driving the thing, has in recent decades imprinted itself as a horrifying hell-ride. As Hunter S. Thompson once expressed it:

Driving the bridge has never been safe, but in recent years—ever since it became a sort of low-tech Rube Goldberg experiment for traffic-flow specialists—it has become a maze of ever-changing uncertain lanes and a truly fearful experience to drive. At least half of the lanes are always blocked off by flashing lights, fireballs and huge generator trucks full of boiling asphalt and crews of wild-eyed men wearing hard hats and carrying picks and shovels.

They are never gone, and the few lanes they leave open for what they call “civilian traffic” are often littered with huge red Lane Markers that look like heavy iron spittoons and cause terror in the heart of any unwitting driver who doesn’t know theyreal are rubber . . . . Nobody wants to run over one of those things, except on purpose, and in that case you want to take out a whole stretch of them, maybe 15 or 18 in a single crazed pass at top speed with the door hanging open.

Thus, a photograph revealing the True nature of the bridge, would look something more like that seen above.

Meanwhile, can anyone explain to me why Germans are allowed to pilot aircraft? It seems to me that after their behavior in airplanes from 1936-1945, Germans would be prevented from flying planes for, oh, the next thousand years or so.

In China too, humans want the folks back home to know they’ve Been There. And so they would pose against a city skyline, as photographic Proof.

Problem is, in China, these days, cities don’t have skylines.

This is because, Mao long flushed down the memory hole, the nation now run by capitalist roaders who live and breathe but to fellate money, there is no longer any sky over China’s cities. All the air there, it has been replaced by filth.

But, not to worry. For enterprising entrepreneurs now make it possible for visitors to China’s cities to pose against photographs of China’s cities. Photographs that depict the cities with actual air in the sky, rather than shit. Photos portraying, like, the Ideal city, rather than the Real one.

So, like, let a thousand photos bloom.

Sunday Services

Arrow On The Doorpost

To Love Somebody

The Science Men, they are getting all in our brains. Now they say they can tell when we are in love.

By scanning the brains of men and women who said they were in love, and comparing them with yep wellpeople who had fallen out of love or never been in love, researchers say they have been able to piece together the first map of the changes that occur in the brain.

The use of a functional magnetic resonance imaging scan (fMRI), which measures brain activity by detecting changes in blood flow, showed that love involves a dozen areas of the brain, with one area—the caudate nucleus—dealing with the ending of a love affair. A cocktail of chemicals also carries messages from one region to another.

“Our study provides the first evidence of love-related alterations in the underlying architecture of the brain and the results shed new light on the mechanisms of romantic love,” said Professor Xiaochu Zhang of the yep wellUniversity of Science and Technology of China in Hefei, who led the study, which is published in Frontiers in Human Neuroscience.

The researchers, who showed romantic lovers photographs of their partners while scanning their brains, say that the study has demonstrated the “possibility of applying a resting-state fMRI approach” for testing for romantic love, opening the way for fMRI tests to diagnose love.

Horseshit. They don’t know what love is.

Never Seen

My daughter’s award-winning poem, which can be read here, and which I mentioned here, reminds me, to this day, some nearly five years later, still, of Eugene Field’s wistful little fable, “The Robin And The Violet.”

I published Field’s fable once before. In 2010. So what. Five years ago. And no one read it then.

I dedicated the fable then to my daughter. And I do so here again.

Appended, here, to “The Robin And The Violet” is, again, a Chris Isaak song, “Fade Away,” what it isrelating to both the poem of my daughter, and Field’s fable, and to other things as well. Like all the best songs, it is more Real than any words.

Once upon a time a robin lived in the greenwood. Of all the birds his breast was the brightest, his music was the sweetest, and his life was the merriest. Every morning and evening he perched himself among the berries of the linden-tree, and carolled a song that made the whole forest joyous; and all day long he fluttered among the flowers and shrubbery of the wild-wood, and twittered gayly to the brooks, the ferns, and the lichens.

A violet grew among the mosses at the foot of the linden-tree where lived the robin. She was so very tiny and so very modest that few knew there was such a pretty little creature in the world. Withal she was so beautiful and so gentle that those who knew the violet loved her very dearly.

The south wind came wooing the violet. He danced through the shrubbery and ferns, and lingered on the velvet moss where the little flower grew. But when he kissed her pretty face and whispered to her, she hung her head and said, “No, no; it cannot be.”

“Nay, little violet, do not be so cruel,” pleaded the south wind; “let me bear you as my bride away to my splendid home in the south, where all is warmth and sunshine always.”

But the violet kept repeating, “No, it cannot outtabe; no, it cannot be,” till at last the south wind stole away with a very heavy heart.

And the rose exclaimed, in an outburst of disgustful indignation: “What a foolish violet! How silly of her to refuse such a wooer as the south wind, who has a beautiful home and a patrimony of eternal warmth and sunshine!”

But the violet, as soon as the south wind had gone, looked up at the robin perched in the linden-tree and singing his clear song; and it seemed as if she blushed and as if she were thrilled with a great emotion as she beheld him. But the robin did not see the violet. His eyes were turned the other way, and he sang to the clouds in the sky.

The brook o’erleaped its banks one day, and straying toward the linden-tree, it was amazed at the loveliness of the violet. Never had it seen any flower half so beautiful.

“Oh, come and be my bride,” cried the brook. “I am young and small now, but presently you shall see me grow to a mighty river whose course no human power can direct, and whose force nothing can resist. Cast thyself upon my bosom, sweet violet, and let us float together to that great destiny which awaits me.”

But the violet shuddered and recoiled and said: “Nay, nay, impetuous brook, I will not be your bride.” So, with many murmurs and complaints, the brook crept back to its jealous banks and resumed its devious and prattling way to the sea.

“Bless me!” cried the daisy, “only to think of that silly violet’s refusing the brook! Was there ever another such piece of folly! Where else is there a flower that would not have been glad to go upon such a wonderful career? Oh, how short-sighted some folks are!”

But the violet paid no heed to these words; she looked steadfastly up into the foliage of the linden-tree where the robin was carolling. The robin did not see the violet; he was singing to the tops of the fir-trees over yonder.

The days came and went. The robin sang and fluttered in the greenwood, and the violet bided among the mosses at the foot of the linden; and although the violet’s face was turned always upward to where the robin perched and sang, the robin never saw the tender little flower.

One day a huntsman came through the greenwood, and an arrow from his cruel bow struck the robin and pierced sadhis heart. The robin was carolling in the linden, but his song was ended suddenly, and the innocent bird fell dying from the tree. “Oh, it is only a robin,” said the huntsman, and with a careless laugh he went on his way.

The robin lay upon the mosses at the foot of the linden, close beside the violet. But he neither saw nor heard anything, for his life was nearly gone. The violet tried to bind his wound and stay the flow of his heart’s blood, but her tender services were vain. The robin died without having seen her sweet face or heard her gentle voice.

Then the other birds of the greenwood came to mourn over their dead friend. The moles and the mice dug a little grave and laid the robin in it, after which the birds brought lichens and leaves, and covered the dead body, and heaped earth over all, and made a great lamentation. But when they went away, the violet remained; and after the sun had set, and the greenwood all was dark, the violet bent over the robin’s grave and kissed it, and sang to the dead robin. And the violet watched by the robin’s grave for weeks and months, her face pressed forward toward that tiny mound, and her gentle voice always singing softly and sweetly about the love she never had dared to tell.

Often after that the south wind and the brook came wooing her, but she never heard them, or, if she heard them, she did not answer. The vine that lived near the chestnut yonder said the violet was greatly changed; that from being a merry, happy thing, she had grown sad and reticent; she used to hold up her head as proudly as the others, but now she seemed broken and weary. The shrubs and flowers talked it all over many and many a time, but none of them could explain the violet’s strange conduct.

It was autumn now, and the greenwood was not what it had been. The birds had flown elsewhere to be the guests of the storks during the winter months, the rose had run away to be the bride of the south wind, and the daisy had wedded the brook and was taking a bridal tour to the seaside watering-places. But the violet still lingered in the greenwood, and kept her vigil at the grave of the robin. She was pale and drooping, but still she watched and sang over the spot where her love lay buried. Each day she grew weaker and paler. The oak begged her to come and live among the warm lichens that protected him from the icy breath of the storm-king, but the violet chose to watch and sing over the robin’s grave.

One morning, after a night of exceeding darkness and frost, the boisterous north wind came trampling through the greenwood. “I have come for the violet,” he cried; “she would not have my fair brother, but she must go with me, whether it pleases her or not!”

But when he came to the foot of the linden-tree his anger was changed to compassion. The violet was dead, and she lay upon the robin’s grave. Her gentle face rested close to the little mound, as if, in her last moment, the faithful flower had stretched forth her lips to kiss the dust that covered her beloved.

a lot of flowers in this world are never seen
i want to hold your love
i want to win your love for me

for me there was no sunshine
for me there was no rain
for me until i met you
every day was the same

Jubilee

The above what I was hearing, live, meandering, high, many years ago, in that moment when I understood, beyond anything so very limited as understanding, in every cell that I am, that is also every cell that you are, exactly what it is that these Dead people were working so hard to be playing, which is that all that is all is all, is one unhoused fused wide-open diffused unlimited cable skien twine vein, unfettered unwashed boundless, consciousness without physical boundaries and without limit, into every and all and forever and every all forever, forever, and forever into the great wide open, and i am you and you are me and see how together we fly and how we fly all together and fly how we all fly forever . . . .

shapeimage_8-1

1035488425

I Read The News Today Oh Boy

what it is

Wanted: A Salamander The Size Of A Car, With A Head Shaped Like A Toilet Seat, And A Mouth Bristling With Hundreds of Sharp Little Teeth

Many are the animals who once walked this earth, but walk it no longer, which is Wrong.

Take these salamander people that Science Men recently unearthed from a dry lakebed in Portugal. Their bones are all over the place there.

Bones of the bring mesalamanders. Not of the Science Men.

From these Bones, the Science Men are learning many things. Such as:

“It’s basically a salamander that’s the size of a car,” said Dr. Steve Brusatte, a palaeontologist at the University of Edinburgh, who led the research.

“It’s one of those creatures from the distant past that looks like an alien.”

“[It] had hundreds of sharp teeth in its big flat head, which kind of looks like a toilet seat when the jaws snap shut,” Dr. Brusatte said.

In the late Triassic period, when dinosaurs and mammals were still small and marginal, it was monsters like this which were “the big dogs,” he told BBC News.

Other, related species were even bigger, stretching up to 10m in length—more like a bus than car.

Together these species dominated the supercontinent Pangaea, which was only beginning to split into today’s land masses.

Why are these people not around today? For I need a couple to roam around here on the grounds of the Manor.

Because the Manor is besieged, seasonally, by raccoons. Who rip up the earth and toss plants hither and yon, for No Reason. Other than that are they are Imps of Satan.

A couple of these toilet-seat-headed, car-sized salamanders, I figure, would encourage all raccoons to stay well away.

There is also the matter of dogs. The Manor, blessedly, has never come under assault from dogs. But dogs, it must be recognized, are—everywhere—a constant threat.

The feed store across the street offers many and manifold animals, and in adverting each, offers little signs that provide such information as to where-from each beast do hail.

Today, for instance, I noted that the sign denoting the origin of their rats for sale, read: “everywhere.”

This too is true of dogs. They come from everywhere, and they seek to go to everywhere.

But if there were salamanders the size of a Buick in my yard, with heads like toilet seats, and many hundreds of sharp little teeth, dogs would not come here. And this would be Good.

For “dog,” spelled backwards, is “god.” And you know what that means.

Satan.

Raccoons, like so many of the things that in this world are Wrong, are the fault of white people.

Here the voice of the tubes:

There is evidence that in pre-Columbian times raccoons were numerous only along rivers and in the woodlands of the Southeastern United States. As raccoons were not mentioned in earlier reports of pioneers exploring the central and north-central parts of the United States, their initial spread may have begun a few decades before the 20th century. Since the 1950s, raccoons have expanded their range from Vancouver Island—formerly the northernmost limit of their range—far into the northern portions of the four south-central Canadian provinces. New habitats which have recently been occupied by raccoons (aside from urban areas) include mountain ranges, such as the Western Rocky Mountains, prairies and coastal bad prayi8ngmarshes. After a population explosion starting in the 1940s, the estimated number of raccoons in North America in the late 1980s was 15 to 20 times higher than in the 1930s, when raccoons were comparatively rare. Urbanization, the expansion of agriculture, deliberate introductions, and the extermination of natural predators of the raccoon have probably caused this increase in abundance and distribution.

Because of white people, raccoons are today totally out of control. And soon they shall not only be breaking into our homes and opening our refrigerators—this I have personally witnessed—but also manning our missile launchers.

Raccoons, I mean. Not white people. They already do that.

Before the advent of white people, raccoons were delimited to a small part of the North American continent. But now they are Going Everywhere. And thus, nowhere is safe.

For instance, Dumb People imported raccoons into Japan in the late 1970s. Today, they have taken over the entire country. You can be praying in some shrine in some Japan-land way-back-of-beyond, and a raccoon, totally Satan-controlled, will suddenly roar through the paper wall, and start gnawing on your knees.

Not even the Germans can stop them. Some raccoons got loose from a demented private zoo in Germany during a WWII air-raid, and today they are running totally wild. The population grew from 185 in 1956, to more than 400,000 in 2008. Not even German-style mass extermination programs have proven successful. Soon they will be in the government.

So I need the salamanders big as a car with the toilet heads and all the teeth. Roaming upon the grounds of The Manor. So that My Land can remain raccoon-free. There is enough Satan whenever I go to Google News. I do not also need Him too, whenever, at night, I look out the window.

The Chipmunks Genuflect To Me

put up yer dukes

Dance

When we did the show up in Portland, some businessman, just walkin’ around on the street, came in; we charged a buck, and for a buck you got to see us make all our noise, and the Dead floatmake all their noise, and anything else that happened.

This guy was in a suit, and he had an umbrella. He got the customary cup of stuff. And about midnight, you could see him really get ripped. Somebody who’d probably never been anything but drunk on beer. But he looked around, and he saw all these strange people, and he looked down, and the spotlight was showing down on him, and he saw his shadow.

And he stands up straight, puts that umbrella over his shoulder, and he says:

“The king walks.”

And:

“The king turns around.”

And:

“Now the king will dance.”

—Ken Kesey

All Of You

Take heart.

Well, yeah, sure. I know what it looks like. Bleak. Here on this Terra.

But—understand—all this stuff, the all and every, allof all and every, that is Wrong—it’s just, really, a sort of historical document. A hearthurt, heartburst, recording of last throes.

Because: the wars, the killing, the hurt, the pain, all the fucking madness—it’s over.

Like the cities. And the money. And the jobs. And all the other sad, silly, folderol.

Blake, wandering in his garden, nodding to the angels, he did say, that the problem was that the doors of perception, they have not been cleansed.

Yeah, well, mine, today: they’ve been cleansed.

And so, today, I see you, as you really are.

All of you are naked. All of you are awake. And all of you are into the great wide open.

Nature Is Usually More Imaginative Than We Are

A direct search for life in Europa’s ocean would today be prohibitively expensive. Impacts on Europa give us an easier way to look for evidence of life there. Every time a major the fish is out thereimpact occurs on Europa, a vast quantity of water is splashed from the ocean into the space around Jupiter. Some of the water evaporates, and some condenses into snow. Creatures living in the water far enough from the impact have a chance of being splashed intact into space and quickly freeze-dried. Therefore, an easy way to look for evidence of life in Europa’s ocean is to look for freeze-dried fish in the ring of space debris orbiting Jupiter.

Freeze-dried fish orbiting Jupiter is a fanciful notion, but nature in the biological realm has a tendency to be fanciful. Nature is usually more imaginative than we are.

Freeman Dyson

Don’t You Think

Forever

Florentino Ariza listened to him without blinking. Then he looked through the windows at the complete circle of the quadrant on the mariner’s compass, the clear horizon, the December sky without a single forevercloud, the waters that could be navigated forever, and he said:

“Let us keep going, going, going, to La Dorada.”

Fermina Daza shuddered because she recognized his former voice, illuminated by the grace of the Holy Spirit, and she looked at the Captain: he was their destiny. But the Captain did not see her because he was stupefied by Florentino Ariza’s tremendous powers of inspiration.

“Do you mean what you say?” he asked.

“From the moment I was born,” said Florentino Ariza, “I have never said anything I did not mean.”

The Captain looked at Fermina Daza and saw on her eyelashes the first glimmer of wintry frost. Then he looked at Florentino Ariza, his invincible power, his intrepid love, and he was overwhelmed by the belated suspicion that it is life, more than death, that has no limits.

“And how long do you think we can keep up this goddam coming and going?” he asked.

Florentino Ariza had kept his answer ready for fifty-three years, seven months, and eleven days and nights.

“Forever,” he said.

—Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Love In The Time Of Cholera

Disqualified Death’s Head Commences Vomit Launch

His mind is clear, but his soul is mad.

—Apocalypse Now

The Clintons—Clinton I, Clinton II, and now even Clinton III, for, yea, verily, Chelsea too has recently announced she, yes, will seek public office—are not mad, exactly.

At least not until recently.

But there has always been something deeply Wrong about them. They are yahoos, okies, nutbagnobodies, who always felt they were as good as everybody else—which is fine—but the way that has manifested is by them trying to clamber into the Midsummer Night’s nest of Titania.

That, it has never really worked. For, even through Pucked Oberon’s enchantment, Titania—and, by extension, all we awake and aware rest—have always perceived the Clintons for what, at root, they are. Asses. Humans with heads of donkeys. Shitting in the nest. Braying. Trying to run off with some jewel or other.

Just as Eric Hothem, whom the disqualified death’s-head of Clinton II nicked, under the name “Eric Hoteham,” to mask her bunker email kerfuhrer, served the Clinton Royals as once and future bagman and madthief, paying hush-money to a Clinton I brother, to keep his mouth shut, and wheeling onto the Ryder trucks White House furniture the Clinton Royals had decided was really Theirs, and not the American people’s.

Maybe once upon a time, way back there, Clinton I, and Clinton II, they wanted to do something for The People. But all and every that they have every demonstrably done, has been for themselves.

Anyone who has become even glancingly subsumed in history will instantly recognize such people: dynastic families, richly interested only in nutsperpetuating each other. Moving kin, from throne to throne.

The Clintons are shit-kicking ur-humans who at the county fair somehow or other fantastically grabbed the brass ring and then through bad twisted magic rode that right into the castle.

And never will they let that go.

For this piece I gathered for weeks numberless articles about Clinton II’s “fuck you” email system at the Department of State, but I no longer feel inclined to go anywhere near such, for such but plays only into these people’s hands.

For they love to get you all lawyerly, all factorly, all newsily, where they can forever lose you, in a fog of dancing (naked, in Bill’s case), around about what “is” is. That is what they do.

Speak as example this piece from the veteran Clinton-fellator Laurence Lewis (like all Clinton-loyalists, nutsLewis is a deeply dishonest man: in 2007-2008, on Daily Kos, he consistently and repeatedly lied he had that year no preferred presidential candidate [this because Clinton II was not on that site “kool,” and it is so desperately important to Lewis, as it is to anyone who, like he, has no centered soul, to be “kool”]; then in February of 2008, when the Kos site had clearly swung to Obama, Lewis flounced off to peddle his flaccid wares to other sites, where he belatedly admitted his allegiance to Clinton II; then, past January 2009, once Obama had been inaugurated, Herr Lewis immediately returned to Daily Kos, to indefatigably and repeatedly thrust knives into The Black Man’s back).

In the above-linked “Clinton II Is Totawwy Innocent!” piece Lewis twists and turns and swallows and upchucks and cites ceaselessly to fellow true-believer vomit-launchers like David “I Once Made Money From Hating Clinton II But Now Make Money Loving Her, In This I Am The Opposite Of The Toe-Sucker Dick Morris, Who Once Made Money Loving Her, But Now Makes Money Hating Her; Basically ha haWe are Both The Same” Brock, and ineffably boring pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floor of sunless seas blogger “Woman! Woman! President! Woman! Woman!” Heather Parton.

These people cannot write; they are all asleep. In their fitful, febrile dreams, they are Crowned, as Clinton II is Crowned, swept into the castle, to serve there as perfect bleating sheep.

Being asleep, they are not awake to the fact that Clinton II is, these days, stone mad.

That the plain truth barking mad fact of the matter transcends all the lawyerly, newsily, factorly “is” is pinhead dancing: the woman has quite simply drifted loose of her moorings, is out of her gourd.

Which is the Purpose and Meaning of the photographs of the disqualified death’s head Clinton II scattered in this piece up and down the line.

Look at the eyes.

Woman needs to be in a white house. But not that on Pennsylvania Avenue. More like that on Alabama Avenue.

In psychic world, one learns that living humans, especially those consumed of ambition, are easy prey for “beings”—disincarnated souls disinclined to move on out into the great wide open, but instead intent on occupying living bodies, to there fuck up all and every.

The photographs reproduced in this piece, the first four taken from Clinton rightII’s “fuck you email” press conference, display to anyone with discernment that this woman is packed with beings.

She is these days but a shell, transporting a load of dead and dead-bent fuckwads. Ready to rumble.

Her twin, Bush III, who is combined with Clinton II in the strange and unusual Bushton body, he is the same. Angry, the beings in this paunchy motherfucker. Ready to bomb some shit. Just Because.

Fortunately, neither one of these bad-sperm stone-mad dynastic rejects is going to move into the White House.

Lord knows what sort of freak or geek the American people will select in their stead. But that they shall select neither Clinton II, nor Bush III: for this, we may get down on our knees, and pray.


When I Worked

March 2015
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