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Great Moments In Farm Animals

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

It didn’t work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Photographic Proof Of Alternative Universe

Some people persist in denying the Reality of alternative universes. This is silly. But then, there you go. Humans: silly.

Fact is, as Dr. Che Guevera of the Havana Institute for Theoretical and Applied Physics once observed, there are “one, two, many universes.” Some of not realthese universes are very far from the one occupied in this moment by those here reading red. In such a faraway universe, one might encounter strange and startling phenomena like Dick Cheney moon-walking, or Michael Jackson, heartless, calling down bomb-rain. In such a place, a tank might ride around inside Michael Dukakis, rather than vice versa.

Other universes are much closer. There, most stuff may seem just like it is “here.” But there are subtle differences.

For instance, in a nearby universe, Ron “Rugs” Paul may possess three brain cells. Rather than two.

Occasionally, little windows wink in, through which one may briefly perceive an alternative universe. Actually, sometimes the windows aren’t all that little. Sometimes you can drive a freaking semi through the things. Like, when you eat a damn great dose of LSD.

But never mind that now.

It can sometimes be nonplussing, when an alternative universe winks in. One may, say, while driving, miss a turn. Because the turn is no longer there. Or take those teabaggers who wailed that when they attempted to vote for Captain Underpants, the machine recorded instead a vote for Barack Obama. All that happened there, was that they shifted a couple universes over, into one where they were Sane.

Recently photographic evidence emerged of the sudden wink-in of an alternative universe. It was even broadcast live, on the teevee. It involved a baseball pitcher for the team known as the Boston Red Sox.

For the uninitiated, rudimentaries of the game of baseball (as well as Proof that thought is alien to the male brain) may be found here.

Briefly, a baseball pitcher is expected to hurl a ball over the “plate.” Where a hitter then endeavors to hit it. The ball. Not the plate. Or the pitcher.

As seen in the gif below, Boston pitcher Felix Doubront threw a ball some distance from the plate. A fairly significant distance.


Sports people have been guffawing and heehawing about this for more than a week now. But that is because they are rude, and because they don’t Understand.

You see, Doubront did not suffer a little mini-stroke. And he was not under the influence of psychedelics, as was Dock Ellis, during his fabled no-hitter of 1970.

No, what happened is that, as Doubront prepared to deliver the pitch, a little window into an alternative universe winked in. Doubrant perceived the plate in that alternative universe, which was located some distance from the plate in this one. And thus he, correctly, heaved the ball towards that plate. Because that was the one he saw. In fact, in that alternative universe, the pitch was a strike.

We don’t see it, the alternative universe—complete with plate and batter and umpire and hot dogs and popcorn and everything—there in the gif, because it all winked in and out so quickly.

And because winking alternative universes are not always apparent to everybody. Some see ’em; some don’t.

But they’re Real.

Home For The Holidays

What in the sam hill is going on with Captain Underpants?

What is with this acting Normal, all of a sudden? Shouldn’t he have done this shit before the election? Pumping his own gas, riding a log out at Disneyland—now twitting a holiday photo from the Underpants family kitchen.

Why isn’t he going away, as is usual practice for The Loser? Please don’t tell me he is trying to rehabilitate himself, with an eye towards a political future. Laws no. Maybe he just can’t stand being out of the news.

Whatever the reason, this latest photo I find alarming, on several grounds. First, what happened to his head? When did it get so elongated? Wife Ann appears to have a head normal for a human being, while the Captain’s is twice as long, and half as wide. Did somebody put the thing in a vise? If so, why? We know that Underpants is going in for Moreau-like body modification, from the evidence of his endowed penis, which has, since the election, grown to the size of Missouri. Is this head disability a side effect?

Also, what is with the stainless steel pot? These people have more money than god. So why aren’t they cooking with copper? They could line all the kitchens in each of their 217 homes with copper pots and pans, and also afford to keep on each of these premises a tinsmith, to tend to the things. So why don’t they?

I just don’t get these people.

Out Of Gas

Captain Underpants is still out there, touring the land, his long-suffering family strapped to the roof of the car.

He is traveling the regions of the nation that made him The Loser. Of these there are many.

Unconfirmed reports indicate that he may be considering purchasing all or some of these regions. It is then believed that he will transform these properties into toxic waste dumps, deep-dish communication arrays for maintaining contact with the home world, garment districts for the production of magic underpants, and vast scientific facilities in which it will be determined if and how the bones may be replaced in his arms, and his ass rescrewed so that it is no longer on backwards.

Not long ago he was surrounded at all times by many hyper-alert Secret Service agents, who scrutinized his every move, and who would not even permit him to zip his own fly, in case this presented a Danger.

But these agents have since moved on to worthier pursuits, such as interrogating water lizards, and condemning cannon that have not fired a shot since the Harding administration.

And so today Underpants has been reduced to pumping his own gas, just like that majority of Americans he has bitterly flayed for voting for the black man, in exchange for the black man’s “gifts.”

Here we see him obtaining new fumes at a petrol station in La Jolla, California. One of his 217 homes is located in this community. The snapper of this photograph reports that “I talked to him for a good three minutes while he was filling his tank. I guess he’s moving to one of his houses in the town I live in, La Jolla.”

From the evidence of this encounter, and even in the photograph above, Underpants is not only fueling his vehicle with gas, he is also huffing it.

“At first he seemed happy,” the photog reported. “He was giggling and humming and singing snatches of ‘Puff The Magic Dragon,’ except he called it ‘Huff.’

“But then he began weeping and jabbering, demanding to know why ‘little Jackie Paper’ no longer ‘loved that rascal pup.’ He complained he had been promised a planet called ‘Honalee,” but apparently his ‘White Horse’ broke down before he could get there, and now he has lost his way. He went flapping towards the door of the gas station, crying for a map, but he was blocked from entering by the owner, who said he smelled like an overturned diesel, and should go away at once, before he went off like a bomb.

“He then tightened the straps on his wife Ann, who was attached to the roof of the car, and went roaring off down the boulevard. The nozzle was still in his tank, and he tore it out by the roots, screeching that he was off to ‘frolic in the autumn mist’ and vowing that ‘pirate ships would lower their flag when Huff roared out his name.’

“‘I’m Huff!’ was the last thing I heard him say, as he barreled round the corner. ‘I’m Huff!'”

Slouching Towards Betelgeuse To Be Born

So I was over on google images, searching for rude and abusive representations of noted slave-holder and Hebrew-fearer Ron “Rugs” Paul, when I was presented with a truly horrifying exposure of Captain Underpants.

By the evidence of this photograph, it seems that the man, maddened by his Loserness in the race for the presidency, has gone in for Frankenstonian Moreau-modification technology. And has thereby transformed his endowed penis into a multi-colored glow-in-the-dark thingie approaching the size of a small train.

What he intends to do with it, I shudder to think.

I reprint. You decide.

Song Of Solomon

Draw me, we will run after thee.

—Song of Solomon, 1:4

So far as is known, all was well in the marriage of Holly and Daniel Solomon, denizens of Mesa, Arizona. Indeed, these humans had engaged in reproductive rituals, which, as of last week, had rendered Holly six months pregnant.

Things went sour Saturday morning, though, when Daniel Solomon’s failure to cast a ballot in Tuesday’s presidential sweepstakes caused his wife to run amok. After a bout of full-throated screaming, Holly Solomon boarded the family SUV, and then proceeded to grimly chase her husband around a parking lot, finally running him down and pinning him to a curb.

According to a Gilbert police report, the argument started over her husband’s lack of voter participation in the recent election.

Holly Solomon, 28, apparently believed her family was going to face hardship as a result of President Barack Obama’s re-election.

Solomon’s husband, Daniel Solomon, told police his wife “just hated Obama” and was very angry he was re-elected and blamed the President for problems her family is going through.

Holly Solomon had succumbed to the national pastime: whatever it is, it is Obama’s fault. (As recently noted here, the fact that the hot water ran out before I finished my shower Tuesday: this, clearly, the fault of the black man in the White House.)
Witnesses reported a lot of yelling just before Holly got into a Jeep SUV and began chasing her husband through the parking lot near Gilbert and Elliot roads.
“He got out of the car and she was screaming at him. And he started walking away and she started driving in circles around him and she wouldn’t let him go so finally he took off to try to get away and she ran into him,” a caller told a 911 dispatcher.
Daniel reportedly took refuge behind a light pole while Holly drove around the pole several times while continuing to yell at him.
Police said Daniel tried to run away toward Gilbert Road as Holly pursued him in the vehicle.
She eventually struck her husband and he was pinned underneath, between the vehicle and a curb.

There are no indications that Holly Solomon was controlled by drugs or alcohol. Instead, she was motivated by Hate, Fear, and Weirdness.

As this fellow notes, voters in the state of Arizona Tuesday went for Captain Underpants, awarding the state’s 11 electoral votes to The Loser. Daniel Solomon’s ballot was not required, to accomplish this mission. Arizona was not, this cycle, a swing state (though soon it will be), and Daniel Solomon’s vote could have swung nothing.

Or so it would seem. But perhaps Holly Solomon is an adept, wizened in the ways of the butterfly effect. This is where we learn that all is so connected, that the flap of a butterfly’s wings in the Amazon, can be said to result in a hurricane, thousands of miles away. Perhaps Holly Solomon, she somehow Knows, that if only her husband had voted for Captain Underpants, then All Would Have Been Utterly Changed. In January of 2013, Underpants would have dispatched his people to cart everything out of the White House, onto the lawn, there to be burnt, in preparation for White People once again moving into the White House.

If only . . . Daniel Solomon. Had managed to cast his ballot.

But no. He didn’t. And so: four more years.

Dreaming Of A White Christmas

(Now that he has officially been declared The Loser, the standard-bearer of the National White Male People’s Party, he has angrily strapped his family to the roof of the car, setting out to drive across many states, to the great temple in Utah, there to resume his career of baptizing dead Hebrews and furiously endowing his penis. And in his glum wake I thought I would reprint here that speech of Captain Underpants—a.k.a. Mitt Romney—delivered before the National White Male People’s Party Convention in late August. This version originally appeared in an iPad app that briefly lived and died—sorta like a fruit fly, or Underpants’ hopes for victory—this summer.)

(The following is a full and complete transcript of Willard “Mitt” Romney’s address before the Republican National Convention. This has been verified as the voice of Captain Underpants. Transmission 11; August 30; Sector Zulu King Zulu.)

Mr. Chairman; delegates. I accept your nomination for President of the United States of America.

I do so with humility, deeply moved by the trust you have placed in me. It is a great honor. It is an even greater responsibility.

Tonight I am asking you to join me to walk together to a better future.

True: some of you may decide instead to run, rather than walk, into that future.

And that’s okay.

Or you may choose to fly in personal jets. Or drive fast and expensive cars. Perhaps you’ll hire a private train.

All of that is alright, as well.

Others of you, however, may seek to hobble along on crutches. Or roll sadly along in wheelchairs.

You: you will be left behind. For you are Failures, and Mutants. And I have no time for you.


It Is Accomplished II

(continued from here)

12:53 p.m. The older he gets, the less concerned is “Bob Dylan” with concealing the fact that he is a space alien. Consider the accompanying photograph. Probably soon he will just let his antennae sprout. No one who writes something so precise and exact as “the ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face” could be wholly of this world. Anyway, Dylan has pronounced the black man victorious. Since he is no doubt in tune with the extraterrestrials who assembled this year’s clown car of Republican presidential candidates, we can trust that he knows what he is talking about.

1:03 p.m. Fox Radio News just cannot stop reporting, every hour on the hour, that while Captain Underpants is flapping through Pittsburgh, vainly flailing to assemble his mutant coalition of Three Mile Meltdown survivors and albino Appalachian banjo-pickers, the black man is playing basketball. The glow-in-the-dark racists of Fox need to emphasize this, in an attempt to emphasize his blackness, his otherness, his utter unsuitability to serve as president of this nation founded by and for slave-holders. Founded by and for the people of Fox.

But of course Obama is playing basketball. Anything you want to know about him, can be found in the clip below.

2:02 p.m. Galicia Malone voted this morning at New Life Church precinct in Thornton, Illinois. She was in labor at the time, contractions coming five minutes apart. For most of the lifetime of the United States, Malone would not have been permitted to vote, as she is a woman. She is also black. Which means that for much of the lifetime of America, odds are good that not only would she not have been considered a human being, but she would have been owned by someone like Mitt Romney. Malone voted for Obama.

2:13 p.m. Paul Ryan is on the Sean Klannity radio show. Ryan is what the real live boy version of Pinocchio would look like, if we were a child molester. Ryan is best known for proposing a “fiscal” redesign of America that would result in great gobs of dead people. This doesn’t seem to concern him. For Christmas, he should be visited first by Jacob Marley, and then by the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future. Klannity is dumb as two rocks, and so has been happily blathering all afternoon as if the GOoPers are victoriously marching on a road of bones. Ryan perceives Reality, and so his voice says it all: I am the Loser.

2:37 p.m. The loser cavalcade continues on the Klannity radio show. Now there is George Allen. He was once intended as the GOoPer 2008 presidential nominee, until in his 2006 Virginia US Senate re-election effort he let his racist freak flag fly, and referred to an Indian-American attending one of his rallies as “macaca.” Virginia voters decided they did not wish to be represented by someone with a burning cross tattooed on his forehead, and so threw him out. Today he is trying to retake that Virginia senate seat, but he is a Loser. Allen is dumb as dirt, and a stone racist; he kept a Confederate flag and a noose in his office. He and Klannity are made for each other. They should enter into a same-sex marriage.

5:02 p.m. Both Kentucky and West Virginia have gone for Captain Underpants. No surprise there. The only possible way in this particular universe that either state would have gone for the black man is if all the white people therein had been raptured up to hebbin some time on November 5.

5:13 p.m. The Los Angeles Times surmises that the money people are having a Cry. Four years ago, the financial-services industry supported Destry over Old Man Shouts At Cloud. This year, however, the wheelbarrows rolled instead to the rag doll. Seems some 77% of the monies shoveled forth from Wall Street have gone into the Underpants. This includes funds from Ass Backwards’ number one contributor, Goldman Sachs, which four years ago favored the black man. No longer. Bank of America, Morgan Stanley, JP Morgan, and Credit Suisse also luvs them some Underpants.

Money people are so sad. As Anthony Peyton Porter this week wrote:

The political news that seeps into my awareness makes it clear that money determines the winner, which means that the capitalists will always win because only capitalists are allowed to run. If money isn’t the most important thing in the universe to you, then it’s too bad for you and your delusions. You’re out of touch with reality.

Of course, quite the opposite seems to be the case, that our happiness and satisfaction have nothing to do with money, ours or anybody’s.

Anthony should know. He recently lost his wife.

5:23 p.m. I suppose the Americans could reflect that it could be worse. Shortly after the Roman Empire went in for the emperor thing, whenever the nation needed a new Daddy—the previous one usually having been assassinated—mobs of drunken soldiers would get together to yell and shout and shake their shields, and settle thereby on a successor.

Semper fi.

5:34 p.m. Very soon now, the lights will go out for Captain Underpants. He will be alone in the dark, and he will have a Sad. He will must needs return to a life of baptizing dead Hebrews, strapping the dog to the roof of the car and driving glumly across the land, and tripping his pregnant daughter-in-law in order to win a footrace. Meanwhile, his spawn will have to make their way into the world, where they do not do at all well.

During his approximately one-year tenure with the Dodgers, insiders described [Tagg Romney] as everything from a “very nice guy who was just in way over his head” to a “vacuous-eyed, transparent political appointment.”

His one claim to previous sports marketing was at Reebok, where he was something called vice president for on-field marketing. One Dodgers official said they later learned his primary responsibility was to watch NFL and NBA games, counting how many times Reebok was mentioned or its logo caught on camera.

5:40 p.m. The polls have been closed for about five seconds, but already it is clear that the endowed penis has plowed to victory in Alabama, Arkansas, Georgia, Indiana, Kentucky, Mississippi, Oklahoma, South Carolina, Tennessee, and West Virginia. This is so because the Mormon Member is opposed by a black man, who would be eschewed by the peoples of these states even if his opponent were some sort of fearsome combo of John Wayne Gacy, Wile E. Coyote, and Vlad the Impaler.

Meanwhile, the Normal American takes a look at that list of states, and wonders: what do they have there that is even worthwhile?


Grub Stake

It is Known that the 2012 Republican candidates for the presidency are pseudo-humans, bred and/or assembled by extraterrestrial beings, who have decided that it is fun, for them, to mess with the American electoral process.

Yesterday GOoPer voters in New Hampshire trudged to the polls to cast ballots for one or more of these pseudo-humans. It was expected that Captain Underpants, also known as Mitt Romney, would finish first in the contest. And he did. Of primary interest to those afflicted with a perverse need to follow this extraterrestrially-controlled road show, was the question of whether, when the results were in, The Grub, a.k.a Rick Santorum, would in New Hampshire maintain his position as latest favorite among those GOoPers who cannot bring themselves to vote for Romney.

Probably not.

The nation’s Republicans do not really want to select Romney as their nominee. At last week’s Iowa caucuses, Romney received the same percentage of the vote as he had in 2008. In that year, it was declared that he had been beaten like a gong, as Mike Huckabee finished first, with 34% of the vote; Romney trailed with 25%. This year, also with 25% of the vote, Romney finished first, and was therefore deemed the “winner.” But the sad fact is that Romney actually received fewer votes in 2012 than he did in 2008—30,021 in 2008, to 30,015 in 2012. What this means is that after devoting four years and tens of millions of dollars to wooing Iowa voters, Romney failed utterly to convince any new people to be for him. Several of his former supporters, in fact, drifted away. He is like a boy who spent the entire four years of high school doggedly working to secure a date for the senior prom, and in the end came up empty. He is the very definition of “loser.”

Mitt Romney will never be president. The American people are capable of many things, but not of elevating to the highest office in the land a man whose feet have been screwed on backwards, whose ass is where his crotch should be, and who has had all the bones sucked out of his arms. He is like a rag doll sewn by inebriates. Further, he is petulant, and whiny, and has for decades retained on the payroll an Italian who does nothing but fuss over his hair. He made his fortune robbing people, and, in a nation where vast quantities of humans cannot obtain or maintain a job, he recently pronounced that he feels great joy when firing people. “I like to be able to fire people,” he said, in perhaps the most deranged public utterance from a political figure since Chauncey Gardiner’s immortal “I like to watch.”

There is also the matter of the underwear. Romney refuses absolutely to shed, under any circumstances, special undergarments that he believes his deity decrees that he wear at all times. Many bizarre charges have been leveled against Barack Obama, but never has it been alleged that he is a devotee of Abakua, an all-male Afro-Cuban religious outfit which commands the faithful never to expose their bare behinds to anyone, even when making love. Captain Underpants is basically a milquetoast whitebread variant on these people.


When I Worked

October 2017
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