Search Results for '"serial killers"'

Serial Killers Continue To Cry

The nation’s serial killers continue to weep openly because they are no longer permitted access to the entirety of the federal treasury.

The latest disgusting display occurred Tuesday, when John McHugh, Secretary of the Army division of the American death industry, kicked his high chair and threw his rattle during testimony before the Senate serial killer at workArmed Services Committee, outraged that some 100,000 serial killers may have to be discharged from the army over the next decade.


Although 100,000 is but a start, it is at least that.

The goal, of course, is to reduce the number of the nation’s serial killers to zero.

McHugh blubbered that the Army already planned to reduce its ranks from a current 570,000 serial killers to 490,000 serial killers, due to legislation approved by Congress in 2011.

Now, he wept, the sequester will require kicking loose an additional 100,000 serial killers.

The sequester is an automatic spending-reduction program that the Republicans in Congress refuse to reconsider because the president is black.

As has been observed here before, true anti-war people would embrace the death-industry portion of the sequester as a wondrous and unexpected gift. And, from there, work so that the sequestered funds will never, ever, under any circumstances, be returned to the serial killers. Work until the Already Happened has been achieved: the nation’s serial-killer budget reduced to $0.

However, as has also been observed here before, there do not seem to be any real true anti-war people in the United States.

Certainly I have heard no hosannas sent forth in appreciation of the truly wonderful news that emerged on Friday: that in the first quarter of 2013, “[d]efense spending fell rapidly again, contracting by 11.5 percent as compared with the previous quarter’s 22.1 percent contraction.”

This is nothing but Good. Death-industry spending must decline until it contributes not a cent to the nation’s GDP. For no decent, civilized people would what it iswish to make a single penny off of serial killers and all their worldkilling works.

The McHugh serial killer, though, that ain’t the way he sees it. He wept before Congress that “the budget cuts could threaten readiness levels on the Korean peninsula, where military forces remain on high alert after North Korea threatened to attack the United States and South Korea. Sequestration has forced the cancellation of a series of training exercises intended to help prepare soldiers for possible combat there, he said.”

Good. No sane human being wants American serial killers to be “prepare[d] for possible combat there.” Prepared for possible combat anywhere, but especially not in Korea. For United States serial killers have no business in that nation. They all need to come back to the US. To be discharged. So that they may pursue some truly useful employment. Like, say, manufacturing tinkertoys.

As has been observed here, many times, before, the Founders did not intend this country to maintain even a standing army. Which is why the Constitution specifically prohibits army appropriations of more than two years. And since the US is at peace with its neighbors, Canada and Mexico, it does not need an army. So the army should be eliminated. As the only legitimate use for an air force is in support of ground troops, it should be eliminated as well. The Marines need to be folded back into the Navy, from whence they sprang; they are support troops for ships, that’s all they are; that they are sent to fight in landlocked countries, like Afghanistan, is madness. So: down the loo, they go. Since the US already possesses a Coast Guard, perfectly capable of patrolling the waters of the continental United States (Alaska and Hawaii are imperial possessions, and should be permitted to break free, as should all overseas territories, possessions, protectorates, and the like), Americans can go ahead and get rid of the Navy, too—Marines and all. Make a clean sweep.

No more serial killers. No more death industry.

Unless, devotee of Thanatos, this—hoorah, anchors aweigh, wild blue yonder, semper fi—is what you do like:


Big Darkness, Soon Come

So I guess Charles Manson will not be living in the condo after all. Because he is dead now. And generally the condo associations, they prohibit dead people, from living in the condos.

Mongo, he took the news hard. This morning he ordered the nation’s forks lowered to half-mast, in Manson’s honor.

I lived once, for a while, next door to the Manson family. I wrote about the experience a year or so ago, in another tube. Today, as the forks slide gently into that good night, I thought I might reprint the thing here. It goes on forever. So, be prepared.

So for a while I lived next door to the Manson family. This was after Chuckles, Tex, and the wimmins, they went into the prison. These Mansonoids—the neighbors—they were the remnants. Those left behind. True believers. Bitter clingers. Dead-enders.

The family’s pathetic patriarchy, it was still in place. With a little Manson mini-me, occupying the Chuckles position. In charge of the bloviating, and ordering the women to and fro. The women, they did all the work, both in and around the house, and out in the World, where they gathered in the coin mostly through waitressing. Before they went on shift, they would heavily apply the makeup, to obscure the X carved into their foreheads. Carved in honor, and imitation, of Chuckles.

I listened to the Manson mini-me’s spiel a couple times. It was the usual revised standard version: Chuckles, he was innocent, he had killed no one, ordered no one killed, he was misunderstood, a prophet, without honor, in his own country—he was all about Love. Yes, it was true, soon would commence a race war—Big Darkness, Soon Come—but Chuckles, he didn’t try to spark it or anything, he was just trying to get his people Clear.

Like Chuckles, like the MongoRoids, the Manson mini-me—well, brown people, they gave him the vapors. A black man lived across the street, and the Manson mini-me, he really didn’t like that. He especially didn’t like that the black man, he had a white wife. And that, together, they had produced several lovely children, in various fine shades of brown. Sometimes, when these children would come out to play in the street (nobody really drove on this street), the Manson mini-me, he would get weak, and have to go inside, and lie down.

More interesting to me than the Manson mini-me, were the various Manson family children. I especially vividly remember this one boy, who basically just wore these little shorts, all the time, rain or shine. He had a poochy little brown boy belly, and a big beaming smile. He had great memories of living out in the desert; he made it sound like a kids’ paradise. And, to him, it no doubt was. He found Sonoma County—which is where we then were—considerably less wild. Which it was. But he was okay with that. He seemed okay with pretty much everything. He never evinced any desire to, say, hang a pregnant woman, or stick a fork in a grocer’s stomach. He was just a kid. And, when the Manson mini-me was inside, lying down, having the vapors, this boy would play with the brown children from across the street.


Rapist Can’t Spell

The rapist resident in the Whiter House, having recently returned from two weeks of molesting Asia, where they are now all in therapy, last night chortled in the twitlers:

The Al Frankenstien picture is really bad, speaks a thousand words. Where do his hands go in pictures 2, 3, 4, 5 & 6 while she sleeps? And to think that just last week he was lecturing anyone who would listen about sexual harassment and respect for women. Lesley Stahl tape?

Numberless are the sins of the Americans, that they are condemned to this Mongo, brain smooth as glass, incapable even of correctly spelling his own name.

Mongo has assiduously avoided commenting on the adventures of Roy Moore, the time-tunneling nincompoop from Alabama, who has throughout his life sexually pursued teens, pre-teens, toddlers, infants, and zygotes. He’s in a bind there, is Mongo: he doesn’t want to support Moore, and then have the video come out of Moore masturbating on the stroller, and he doesn’t want to condemn Moore, because then people will say, yes, well, but what about that you yourself, Mongo, are a violent serial sexual predator, a rapist, a man who bones his own daughter? Mongo is hoping Moore can on his own rally the faithful, through embarking on a journey across the state, on foot, bearing the granite Ten Commandments on his back, like Jesus with the cross ascending Golgotha, the yeehawing Roids everywhere running out to weep and throw themselves at his feet, a hideous, mind-numbing Spectacle that would have De Mille rolling over in ecstasy, out there in the boneyard.

“What we need is a diversion!” Mongo yowled into the earhole of The Nazi, recalling how, during the late, lamented presidential campaign of 2016, when came the tape documenting that Mongo’s preferred method of introducing himself to a woman is to “grab ’em by the pussy,” “move on her like a bitch,” his great good friends at Rooskileaks immediately excreted a shitpile of stolen emails referencing the Clinton II woman.


Sunday Mornin’, Goin’ Down

Satan’s sermon this Sunday morning was a sulphurous blast at Tennessee Senator Bob Corker:

Senator Bob Corker “begged” me to endorse him for re-election in Tennessee. I said “NO” and he dropped out (said he could not win without my endorsement). He also wanted to be Secretary of State, I said “NO THANKS.” He is also largely responsible for the horrendous Iran Deal! Hence, I would fully expect Corker to be a negative voice and stand in the way of our great agenda. Didn’t have the guts to run!

Corker is a mainline Republican—that is, a Barney Rubble from out of the Stone Age—who, as is common with such people, bob-corker-donald-trump-vpattained office riding racism, and once there refused to vote for Dodd-Frank, firearm background checks, the automaker-revival act, The Kenyan’s health care legislation, and cap-and-trade, among other pleasantries.

Corker is a tool, but he does possess sentience. Which is why in recent weeks he has publicly observed that Morongo lacks “stability and competence,” does not “understand the character of this nation,” and is basically an agent of chaos.

Corker has declined to seek re-election in 2018, because, like everyone with a functioning cerebrum, he has no interest in participating in the politics of Morongo.

Though once considered for top posts in the Morongo administration, when friendly with both Morongo, and all the other criminals in Morongo’s immediate family—Lolita, Lampshade, Mrs. Mongo Vol. III, Uday & Qusay—Corker has since concluded he would rather set fire to himself in the county square, than continue to pretend that Morongo is a decent human being.

Some new word of Corker’s revulsion must have pulsed out of the Morongo hi-fi TV this morning—presumably on the Frauds and Fiends show, Morongo’s own personal Pravda—thereby causing Morongo to commence the twitler Satanism.


U Bum Proposes NFL “Compromise”

U Bum, the mean, nasty, ignorant old cracker who is president of the American white people, has in recent days sought to deflect attention from the Reality that he is a Rooski by assailing those black athletes, toiling on the plantation of the National Football League, who have chosen to kneel during the pre-game singing of “The Star-Spangled Banner” to protest the fact that in their country the police commonly beat and shoot black people, for No Reason, and Whenever They Feel Like It.

U Bum has convinced his hooting, grunting cultists that these athletes, through this act, are in truth deliberately disrespecting 24-nfl-protests-bills-med.w710.h473serial killers—those deeply disturbed individuals who enlist in the United States military so they can travel the world killing people and breaking things.

Because they are dumber than dirt, neither U Bum, nor any of his Roids, know, or care, that the kneeling was actually suggested as the form of protest by a former serial killer—as that man explains in the Trevor Noah video embedded below. For: “soldiers take a knee before a fallen brother’s grave, to show respect.” (It is true that U Bum, and all of his Roids, will never credit anything that comes from Noah, as Noah is not only a black man, but a foreigner black man.)

U Bum believes publicly fellating some hoary old tuneless ditty, penned by a rich white slaveowner who believed blacks are “a distinct and inferior race of people, which all experience proves to be the greatest evil that afflicts a community,” and which celebrates bombs and killing and slavery and shit, is more important than actual living black people. So too believe his mouth-breathing millions of Roids.

But when U Bum publicly burst his pustule about the uppity black men, hundreds of NFL athletes, as well as coaches, owners, anthem-singers, and the like, responded by kneeling, linking arms, refusing to emerge from the locker room, and other demonstrations that clearly communicated that the mere thought of U Bum makes them projectile vomit, blowing chunks farther than any of them can throw, run, or kick a football.

U Bum, seeking, as ever, to emerge The Winner—and bigly!—has 852946620.0now proposed what he terms a “compromise”: all the players must stand for the old white racist national anthem, but the black players can, and in fact should, kneel for the singing of what U Bum calls “that timeless Negroid national anthem—’Ol’ Man River.’

“We know it is a Negrified national anthem, because it was sung by that famous communist Negro Paul Robeson, who should have been thrown in a dungeon, like all these uppity football players,” U Bum said. “And while the song will be pleasing to the Negroes, because of the Robeson connection, it also has all these wonderful lyrics, that are all about Making America Great Again, that will satisfy the real people. Lyrics like these:”

darkies work while de white folks play
gittin’ no rest till de judgement day

don’t look up
an’ don’t look down
you don’ dast make
de white boss frown
bend your knees
an’ bow your head
an’ pull dat rope
until you dead

o’ man river
dat ol’ man river
he mus’ know sumpin’
but don’t say nuthin’
he jes’ keeps rollin’
he keeps on rollin’ along

U Bum stated that the song must be cut off there, “because some of the rest of it is unholy terrorism about getting out from under the white man, which is not in keeping with Making America Great Again.”

U Bum said the black players can agree to this compromise, “or they can go to Guantanamo.”

“We need to get back to the good old days!” U Bum chundered.

And all his many millions of Roids, they cheered: “Yeah! What he said!”

“U Bum! U Bum! U Bum!”

Villa Rides

Mongo has been into the Panzer Powder so long and so deeply that hallucinations have become his daily bread. Thus, it was no real surprise, when, earlier this week, as daughter Lolita Mongo orally applied her morning ministrations to Mongo’s micromember, he was heard to bellow “Villa rides!”

Yes. Twitler has come to believe that Pancho Villa, riding at the head of many bad hombres, is down there harassing the white people of Texas and New Mexico again, and so US troops must be pancho-villa-largeordered into Mexico, to hunt him down and bring him to heel.

“You have a bunch of bad hombres down there!” Mongo screeched on the phone to the president of Mexico. “You aren’t doing enough to stop them! I think your military is scared. Our military isn’t, so I just might send them down to take care of it.”

“No one complained when Woodrow Wilson sent troops into Mexico,” The Gargoyle barked on a television. “Of course, he was a Democrat, and the press always gives Democrats a pass. But when you are part of Team Twitler, you walk around with these gaping, seeping wounds every day.”

The Gargoyle said that Twitler “admires” Wilson for his “bold initiative” in sending 5000 US troops into Mexico in March of 1916 “to protect the white people.”

She added that Twitler additionally appreciates that Wilson not only found brown people repellent, and so set out to kill them, but “he also knew the Negroes were inferior, and supported the Ku Klux Klan, of which Twitler’s father, Fred, was a proud member.”

In other wars, General Strangelove suddenly burst into the press room Wednesday, elbowed Cabbage Breath aside, and started screaming about Iran. Strangelove is impatient to actually start killing the Muslims, now that they have been thrown off the airplanes.

There exists an international alliance of evil countries and movements that is working to destroy us. The war is on. We face a working coalition that extends from North Korea and China to Russia, Iran, Syria, Cuba, Bolivia, Venezuela and Nicaragua.

Radical Islam is a tribal cult and must be crushed. Critics get buried in the details of sunna, hadiths, the umma and the musings of countless Muslim clerics and imams. These so-called Islamic scholars keep their message so complicated so as to create chaos, to confuse in order to control. Mao, Pol Pot, Stalin and Mussolini were more transparent. Sharia is a violent law that is buried in barbaric convictions.

Supposedly even Mongo and the Mongrels are now flynnmichael_020117getty_leadrecognizing that Strangelove is an unsane animal, and thus he is being subsumed by The Nazi, so who really knew, initially, if this screaming was even authorized.

But then, yes, it became clear that it was, when Mongo himself went to his twit machine, early Thursday morning, and began wildly ejaculating unsound Iranianisms:

Iran has been formally PUT ON NOTICE for firing a ballistic missile.Should have been thankful for the terrible deal the U.S. made with them!

Iran was on its last legs and ready to collapse until the U.S. came along and gave it a life-line in the form of the Iran Deal: $150 billion

But Iran may have to wait a while to receive the Mongo bombs, as The Monster mulls whether first to bring the fire this time to Australia.


Parting Such Sweet Sorrow

Apparently some people are having a Disapproval about the above Saturday Night Live parody ad.

They believe it cruelly and wrongly mocks the below ad from Toyota.

The Toyota ad is pure filth. It encourages fathers to raise daughters to become serial killers. It endorses the global death cult of the United States military. It is vile and disgusting—a wank for Thanatos—and it should be mocked.

The outrage should be directed at Toyota, not at SNL. Whether you raise your daughter to kill for ISIL, or to kill for the US, you have failed. You have produced a killer. Served as an agent of Death.

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.

The Melancholy Of Anatomy: News II

“News” is here to make you afraid. To fill you with Fear.

Ebola eye-bleeding the president on TV ISIL beheading drought policeman truncheon big black buck knife foam-fleckedold-man-laughing Mesicans streaming cross the border anti-abortion vaginal probes even up your anus all the water through climate change gone Chinese descending in parachutes Mongol Russians roll tanks polar bears howl on icebergs there Are No Jobs burger-meat this week $5 a pound Someone Looked At Me Nasty probably They have an ebola or sarin bomb This Means for sure The End Times.

Shut the shit off.

In your own life, away from the “news,” are people trying to kill you? Steal away your domicile? Extinguish all of you and yours? At least even, even mildly, dis you?

Or does the world look mighty much finer, when you just regard what is, around you, rather than get sucked into the “news” room, which is dedicated to gathering up and spewing, non-stop, each day, the very worst that human beings are doing to each other, from and on and atop each four corner of this here earth?

Truth is, here in the real world, everybody is pretty much okay.

Everybody is pretty much this guy:

A man has two legs. He’ll build a house—from cellar to rooftop, with his own hands. He’ll put seeds in the ground. He’ll watch the sun and the rain at work. He’ll take a woman to bed. He’ll find enough tenderness and love to get him through the day. You’d think that man deserved a little something. You’d think that man was worthy of a jot or two of sympathy and consideration. You’d think that maybe someone would say, Let’s just let him alone for a while, and see what he can do.

But what “news” does, is concentrate on the aberrants, the bad mutants, the freakazoids, the let’s-eat-brains people, the serial killers of the various worlds’ armed forces, to try to make you all fear fear fear.

Fuck that.

The world is a nice place. And so are the people in it.

Except the people, you find in the “news.”

Duality is such bullshit: there are, in truth, in reality, so many shades.

But here, in this world, on this planet, at this present time, people want most often to see it, all of what “it” is, in opposing twos.

That is why, in all your finest songs poems literature art etc, you see it—all, the world—in terms of “love” and “fear.”

But hey: dividing it like that: if you have to have twos: into “love” and “fear”: I guess that’s a good start.

I guess. : /

Then you go “furthur,” as the Kesey bus did—always—say.

When we did the show up in Portland—to give you an idea of someone who passed—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 make 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 who he isall 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.”


“The king turns around.”


“Now the king will dance.”

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

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

As have yours.

I see you, as you really are. As you also, when you really look, see yourselves.

All of you are naked. All of you are alive. All of you are awake. All of you are without fear.

And all of you—kings, queens—are dancing. Into the great wide open.

Strange Fruit

for the lady & nancy & ala & robin & grace & denise & joan & conk & mally & adept & time & princess & sephius & radio & for sure certainly for joon, and everybody the least bit dusky, and thereby, in this nation, devalued, dismissed, discarded, doomed: potential targets, alpha and omega, of every white-ass de-evolved un-monolithed knuckledragger extant, unto forever, amen, and again, and amen, and again . . . .

So, I guess, black men, they should just get small.

Remain—at most—maybe two feet tall.

Like, you raheemknow, gnomes.

Maybe, maybe, they might then have a chance to survive.

First: the NYC cop chokes to death the black man. Because he was big and scary. Then: the Missouri cop shoots to death the black man. Because he was big and scary.

Black men: let’s face it: they are fundamentally big and scary.

Fuck it. Let’s just kill them.

People think Spike Lee directs films he just makes up. Films that are “fiction.”


Spike Lee, like all high filmic artists, presents but documentaries.

Lee’s highest work is fact.

“Ecstatic truth,” as Werner Herzog so precisely described it. Work more Real than “reality.”

And so, this July, on the streets of New York City, a knock-kneed pissed-pants yellow-livered never-seen-the-monolith retrovert knuckledragging white racist motherfucker of a cop chokes to death a black man.

Because he can.

Because he wants to.

Because that’s what cops—all cops—are all about.


Lying and thieving—sure, there’s that too.

But mostly killing. Killing and cagekilling and killing and killing and killing.

For if they can’t kill the body, they kill the soul. By locking the body away in a cage.

Your job, if you’re a cop, is to strip people of their liberty, and lock them away in a cage.

What the fuck is wrong with you? That you would do that?

As Lee had seen. As Lee had seen. As Lee had seen. Years before. In Do The Right Thing. And, seeing this, seeing in “reality,” the white motherfucker cop, on the late July streets of New York, choking to death the black man, Lee, now, in real time, takes to the tubes, with a “mashup,” of what is “real,” and what had been his “film.”

Graner. On the street. Raheem. In his film.

Strange fruit.

They are the same.

Art imitates life imitates art imitates life imitates art imitates life.

There is no difference. In high; in high art: they are the same.

Spike needs now—and I know he knows this—to mash another. This time, his Do The Right Thing, with “life” in Ferguson, Missouri. Recent dead-black-man events there, they are tracking his Right Thing, even more closely, than the choking of the black man on the streets of New York. Unto black folk showing up the morning after, to clean up the debris, of the stores vandalized, by their people, the night before.

As far as I can determine, the entire state of Missouri needs to be deported.

First, extract all the brown and black and red people. And then get a big saw. And carve the place out of the United States. Drag the state bodily across Iowa and Wisconsin. Then set it afloat in the Great Lakes. It can there sink. Or, maybe, it can swim.

In the place where once was Missouri, can rise an eternal flame. Burning, eternally, in remembrance, of the millions and millions and millions of black people, killed maimed raped displaced mocked devalued dismissed locked away spindled folded mutilated, the strange fruit, rotted, to make this nation “great.”

There in Ferguson, Missouri is a white-ass loud-mouthed one-legged prosecutor who’s been vengefully and gleefully jailing people for decades in obvious overt explicity-stated revenge for his cop daddy getting killed on duty when the white-ass was but 13 years old. This same prosecutor the white-ass nimrod who orchestrated the Radio Raheem “robbery” press yeehawconference. This, the same prosecutor, the white-ass “official” “officially” in charge of the investigation of Raheem’s death.


And the banjos, over the strange fruit, they do play.

For a while, I thought maybe something would really happen. But I think that no longer. Now—I know—no one will care. Because, Radio Raheem—shot dead, unarmed, brains splashed onto the street—has been successfully smeared as a big black scary ooga-booga “strong arm robber.” Really well-played. All you liars. All you killers. I thought for a while maybe people would care. But no. Because they now can cling to an excuse not to. And, so relieved, are they, to do that. Not care. And they can, be so relieved, because, as always, has been deployed a “reason.” For the killer cop to kill. To pour the boy’s brains out on the pavement. To keep his shrieking heart-over momma away from his body, while they, the lying killing heart-cold cops, swagger back and forth, round the corpse, four hours, in their fat white boy impotent cop pants. Killers. Liars. Killers. Liars. KILLERS. LIARS. Now I know that no one cared in the 1990s when NYC cops stuck a broomstick up black Abner’s ass, and shot black Amadou 41 times because he reached for his wallet. But I figured that’s because everyone knows that NYC is a disgusting animal compound where it is an actual job requirement that a cop be both corrupt and a killer. Thieves. Liars. Killers. THIEVES. LIARS. KILLERS. But this Raheem killing, there in Missouri, was in the “heartland.” So I thought maybe people would care. But they won’t. The killers will continue to lie and kill and lie and kill and lie and kill and lie and kill and kill and kill and kill and kill and kill and kill. Local cops kill hundreds of unarmed people every year, and no one cares. Because there’s always a “reason.” Just like people don’t care when the serial killers go overseas and kill. Because there’s always a “reason” there too. Get yerself into a uniform, overseas or stateside, and you get to kill. Simple as that. Kill and kill and kill and kill. Lie. Kill. Lie. Kill. Lie. Kill. Lie and kill again. And you’ll be worshipped. This Christmas Americans will stream into the theaters and there Thanatos-orgasm continuously as they watch the worshipful biopic of Gomer Kyle, premier serial killer, so universally loved that even the “liberals” of Daily Kos deploy drones to hellfire off their site those killer white-ass mofowho refuse to publicly fellate him. What a country. Every little detail of how Robin Williams took his life is slapped all over the news before his body’s even in the ground, but it basically takes an act of Congress to get the name of Raheem’s killer, and getting an actual police report on the killing is more difficult than landing a man on the moon. Because these killers are worshipped in this country. Lick that uniform, people. That’s what Americans love to do. “Thank you for your service.” Horseshit. Horseshit piled so high, it takes wings, to rise above it. No thanks from me. So sorry. The only thanks you’ll ever get from me, overseas or stateside, is when you put down your gun, forever, and go home.

Strange fruit. Here. There. Everywhere.

Liars. Killers. Thieves. Killers. Liars. Thieves. Thieves. Liars. Killers. Killers. Killers. Kill. Kill. Kill again. That’s what you’re there for. The only only only only reason you put on the uniform. So you can kill. And, in killing, come in your pants. And thereby be praised.

Curfew now, I hear announced, for tonight, by some other worthless white-ass, some governor with the atavist name of Nixon—a name that, thanks to Richard, will give off a foul stench for a thousand years. Just ’cause of the name, this white-ass should resign and go sit in the desert and scrape his flesh with pot-shards. But no. Instead, he gonna make the scary black ooga-booga animals stay indoors. So as to keep the streets safe for the knee-knocking belly-crawling yellow-livered po-lice.

A couple decades or so ago, when I ran across this from Schopenhauer:

Whoever lives two or three generations, feels like the spectator who, during the fair, sees the performances of all kinds of jugglers and, if he remains seated in the booth, sees them repeated two or three times. As the tricks were meant only for one performance, they no longer make any impression after the illusion and novelty have vanished.

I felt kinda smug and superior. Yeah, I see that. That makes me some kinda elect.

Oh, foolish youth.

Today, I feel as dark and dismal as Schopenhauer—clear to me now—obviously was when he wrote it.

I mean: why: why do I have to live to see this? My teeth are failing, my hair is greying, my rod don’t rise like he used to, the corporeal container is clearly nearing its pre-programmed end, but still I don’t die, still I have to wake to witness these fat oafish buzz-cut disgusting white slob cops “controlling” the black people with the snarling straining racist bull reduxBull Conner-style police dogs, there, today, in Missouri, just like they did back in Birmingham in 1963. At the dawn of this particular being’s incarnation’s age.

But it’s like nobody, in all that age, learned anything. Even though all you have to do, is squeeze through even a small portal of the brain, and you’ll be in the great wide open. Where all is possible, and all is Real. Where you’ll know we’re all supposed to go into the Opera House. And all and everything is working and flirting and yearning to take us there.

But no. You’re still with the dogs.

And the firehoses.

I suppose you’ll deploy them next.

‘Cause you gotta have. The strange fruit.

And it’s doubly all so mad because the white-ass motherfuckers are simply over.

As Gore Vidal noted in Virgin Islands, white people constitute but 13% of the human population in this, the 21st Century.

White people had a good 500-year run, but they’re done now. In another 500 years, they won’t even exist.

As was observed in the true-life documentary film Bulworth, when human beings, as they every day pleasurably overachingly are will be do, “just keep fucking each other” they will attain that state described by the unconscious anthropologists U2 as “all the colors/bleed into one.”

And that color, bled into one, is brown.

Brown is soft and creamy and strong and sexy.

White is hard and frigid and failed and frail.

White, it is simply over. Brown, it is all there is. The great wide open.

We are, today, in the last white throes.

With brown brains smeared on the pavement. And every a-feared retrovert white-ass in Christendom working like twelve bastards to make it seem like it is natural that this be so. Brown brains. Strange fruit. Spilled and spoiled. And righteously.

But it ain’t. Righteous. And every conscious being on the planet knows it ain’t. Won’t be long now. Long now. But still. Time required. To get to acknowledgement that it ain’t. In the meantime: brown brains smeared on the pavement. And nothing about that strange fruit done. And, nothing about that done, engendering pain, and ache, and rage. Howl. Howling. Howl.

And Robin. Lord sad God.

Somebody wise, who I can’t remember now, probably because of creeping dementia, observed that all laughter comes from a recognition of pain. So, then, it’s simply the way of it, that somebody like Robin Williams, who instantly found the laughter in any situation, would hurt more than any Eeyore.

As his sister-bipolar sufferer Carrie Fisher observed, “Robin had rampant empathy. Everything would end up on his grid. He’d walk in a room, and all the energy there would impact him. He was the opposite of selfish. Anything would hurt him.”

“It’s fun to be brilliant,” she said of him, “but who are your peers? Who was his peer? It’s incredibly lonely to be that. And he didn’t have a choice.”

He was just too sad. And in the end he didn’t want to be here anymore.

And so, he died, as frenetically as in his act he did live: “this knife’s not working, let’s try the belt.”

But we shouldn’t know these details. It is a violation, that we do. A violation of Williams, of ourselves, of that which is sacred and secret and holy.

What we can and should know, is what he did, in by far his finest public role—and he knew it—in Terry Gilliam’s The Fisher King.

Gilliam said this, of the scene displayed directly below:

“This scene wasn’t a challenge to shoot as far as effects are concerned, but it was very hard from an acting point of view, because Robin was tearing his guts out emotionally. Robin always wanted to do another take. He felt he had even more anguish and pain to spill out of the character. And I had to really stop him. I had to say, ‘Robin, you’ve reached a point here, way beyond what we expected. We’ve got what we needed. Now, you’re just hurting yourself.’

“The most worrisome moment for me was after he’s been chased by the Red Knight, when he’s running through the streets, and then he comes to the river, where the teenage punks arrive and knife him. We had to do other things on that night shoot, too, and things were going very slowly. Suddenly, we realized that we had like an hour until the dawn. The last shot we had to do was Robin running at the end of this scene, in this hysterical state. You can even see the light ever so slightly beginning to come on the river in the background. But Robin was so angry because it was such a crucial moment, and he felt he’d been cheated of his ability to really give this moment his all. So, I had to go up there and tell him, ‘Robin, what we have here is very good. And if we look at the rushes and it isn’t, I promise you I will reshoot it.’ That’s what was so extraordinary about him—how he would commit everything and more to what he had to do. That’s also why I think his character in The Fisher King is in many ways the closest one to Robin, just that range—the madness, the damage, the pain, the sweetness, the outrageousness.”

Williams’ mind was so fine and quick and bubbly and alive—in any situation, he could instantaneously, and precisely, ad lib enunciate that point of maximum humor and pain. (As when, asked in Germany, why that country was not known for comedy, he immediately replied, “well, you killed all your funny people.”)

But, to me, his finest ever ad lib, was not comedic, but instead sad and yearning and sweet.

It came in The Fisher King. In a scene unplanned and unscripted. Cast and crew threw the scene together on a day that it rained and the company couldn’t shoot outdoors. What transpired flowed from the people. Not from the play.

Williams’ character, in this film, is a broken, ruined man. Who, through the course of things, is drawn to a broken, ruined woman. Whose name is Lydia.

And, at what became scene’s end, Williams, unscripted, began, spontaneously, rashly, singing to this woman, Lydia, the goofy song “Lydia The Tattooed Lady.”

And, the more and the deeper that he sang, the softer and more vulnerable he became.

That’s what he really was.

A strange fruit.

As be we all.

Meanwhile. Back on jump street.


Until today, I believed absolutely that a nun invented barbed wire.

Then I was informed, by the intertubes, that this was just some shit made up by James Joyce, in Ulysses.

That was a nice nun there, really sweet face. Wimple suited her small head. Sister? Sister? I am sure she was truecrossed in love by her eyes. Very hard to bargain with that sort of a woman. I disturbed her at her devotions that morning. But glad to communicate with the outside world. Our great day, she said. Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Sweet name too: caramel. She knew I, I think she knew by the way of she. If she had married she would have changed. I suppose they really were short of money. Fried everything in the best butter all the same. No lard for them. My heart’s broke eating dripping. They like buttering themselves in and out. Molly tasting it, her veil up. Sister? Pat Claffey, the pawnbroker’s daughter. It was a nun they say invented barbed wire.

According to the intertubes, barbed wire was actually invented by some farmer in Illinois named Joe.

Sorry. I’m not buying it.

For the intertubes is an ever-roiling snakes’-nest of lies.

Anybody can post any nonsense, balderdash, barking-mad insanity to the thing.

I know. I’ve done it myself.

For just one instance, the intertubes would have me believe that when Lindsay Lohan was sentenced to community service in a morgue, it was a tip-off that she is an MK-ULTRA-like sex/drug slave embroiled in Call to Chaos rites by a Freemasonic conspiracy involving US intelligence agents who also controlled Marilyn Monroe and directed “Manchurian Candidate” assassin Sirhan Sirhan.

So this Illinois farmer Joe guy: he’s a figment. Joyce had it right. It is just too perfect: that a nun i'm sorryinvented barbed wire. So I am going with that. It is Reality.

Then there’s this sadsack over to the left. He is the guy who invented the typewriter. He later disowned the machine, refusing to use it, or even recommend it. He was a newspaper publisher who was an indefatigable advocate of the abolition of the death penalty. This was in the mid-1850s. Clearly, ahead of his time. His typewriter had ivory keys, and ebony keys, like a piano. He lived in Wisconsin, land of cheese. He, in the course of things, sucked in TB, and eventually died of it, some nine years later. He was 71 at the time, which was pretty old for somebody dying in 1890. He may have soured on the typewriter because to test it he kept shipping it to a crazed maniac who delighted in destroying it. The maniac would ship it back in pieces. The maniac kind of like that ape in the old TV commercials who used to jump up and down on the luggage. The eschewer-of-his-own-invention sadsack was the doyen of QWERTY. And though he turned his back on it, QWERTY controls Anglo scribblers to this day.

The internet, of course, was invented by insane people who sought a means by which serial killers in nuclear missile silos could continue to communicate with one another after they had let loose their missiles and incinerated the whole of the globe.
Tom Robbins intuited that “human beings were realinvented by water as a device for transporting itself from one place to another.”
In Sirens of Titan Kurt Vonnegut revealed that the whole of human history was invented and controlled by beings of the planet Tralfamadore, subtly but firmly arranging things so that eventually a small metallic object, something like a can opener, would unknowingly and naturally be brought, in the fullness of time, from Earth to Titan, moon of Saturn, and there would replace a disabled part in the grounded spaceship of a Titan-marooned Tralfamadorian ambassador, allowing this Tralfamadorian-being to then continue his mission into the great wide open, charged with transporting, from one end of the universe to the other, a message that read, simply:
If there is one thing that we know, in the all and every of this universe, it is this: this story, vouchsafed to us by Vonnegut, is Absolutely True.

Sign Of A Local Nigger Unravelin’

Once upon a time, there on the deeply sad, old-and-in-the-way mercy-preserve for crippled, doddering, withered, sick, ancient, and/or feeble white people—known round these parts as The Great White—there was a foam-at-the-mouth, blind pigprojectile-vomiting, glow-in-the-dark racist, who called hisself Uberbah.

Among this man’s many manifest manifold sins, included his inability to inscribe a comment without upchucking either the term “weak tea,” or “hand-waving.”

Well, as it is said, “even a blind pig can find an acorn every once in a while.”

And so, tonight, Uberbah, I bow to you. In all your nightriding, white-hooded, glory.

Because, having heard, and turned round and round in my mind’s hands, like a rubik’s cube of the operative universe, the black man’s speech, in re the serial killers of the NSA, I conclude, but four words.

Weak tea.



Big Darkness, Soon Come

The Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, once upon a time, he served as governor of the spice planet, Arrakis.

But never did he figure out the sandworms.

And so he lost the ring.

When things, there on Arrakis, got very, very dark for him, the pb_harvesterbaron, he stage-managed his own supposed “death”—stabbed and poisoned (so the tale, to this day is told) by his own toddler grand-daughter.

Though, in truth, the baron really escaped hisself, slinking aboard a nearby space-freighter. Which whisked him off Arrakis. And transported him to this here planet. To rudely dump him in New Jersey.

A fate, many would say, actually worse, than death.

The baron, ever adaptable and ambitious, did, in the course of things, emerge from the fetid swamplands of New Jersey. As Chris “Meaty, Beaty, Big, And Bouncy” Christie.

Under which rubric he eventually—through bubble, bubble, toil, and trouble—managed to get himself elected governor of the state.

Next, the baron transformed into Captain LapBand. A persona with which he expected to attain the presidency of the United States. So he could preside over—and jeebus knows why he’d wanna—the further crumbling of a terminally failed nation-state.

But now, in recent days, has come a Problem. The baron has become confronted with Horrors unseen since those dark Arrakis days when the sandworms came a-flowing through the Shield Wall.

For—yea, verily—it has been j’accused, that he, Captain LapBand, and/or his people, deliberately snarled into four-day stasis chaos, traffic on the George Washington Bridge. The busiest, and therefore most insane, bridge, into the busiest, and therefore most insane, city in all North America—New York City.

And all but to punish the mayor of a tiny New Jersey burg. Who wouldn’t endorse the LapBand for re-election to the governorship.

A mayor sprung from long-ago Atreides loins: the same Atreides with which the baron did long-ago war, there on Arrakis.

Confucius, it is said, that once upon a time, he did say: “Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”

And this is why, today, earthmovers, from all over the nation, are steaming avidly to New Jersey. There to dig, somewhere in the stinking poisoned superfund sites which comprise the vast majority of that state, a vast christie must go undergroundand yawning pit, capacious enough in which to lay the bursting bloating remains, of Captain LapBand.

For when you tip the scales at roughly 400 pounds, and you exclusively travel hither and yon in a stretch limo flanked by domestic serial killers on motorbikes with sirens, who blast any and all traffic out of your way, it is daylight madness to get caught lifting your chubby sausage-like fingers to intentionally and terminally fuck with the way mere mortals get about in their automobiles.

For everyone who has ever once been sentenced to living in a city has experienced the Warp 10 impotence and rage of being stuck in a traffic jam.

And, since cities are currently nearing maddened frenzied colony-collapse—see the already-happened non-fiction tome City, which traces the blessed death of cities—said cities are more crowded than ever before.

And, thus, more Americans, than ever before, are thereby daily beset, by said traffic-jam impotence and rage.

Because we have not yet reached. The blessed place. Where the de-evolved colony of the scrambled-brain city collapses.

Where let it be written. Where let it be done.

I’ll try to keep this particular tangent down to the below seven-paragraph minimum.

To wit: the bridge that Captain LapBand fucked, the George Washington, the busiest bridge in the nation, it feeds into the howling fetid terminal insanity-vector known as New York City.

When white people arrived on this continent, not that many years ago, the NYC area was home to some 15,000 native people, the Lanape.

So sorry, but that, then, provably, is the maximum number of humans that the land can support.

The other 8 million or so folks currently living there—they’ll just have to move.

But that’s okay. They’ll sunnily be better off elsewhere. The certifiably crazed and unbelievably twisted mad-scientist BF Skinner experiment of NYC: it’s just over.

So let it go.

To settle, with Captain LapBand, into the grave.

So anyway. Human Americans, sitting there in their cars, in a traffic jam, hearing that the Harkonnen human-zeppelin intentionally let them stew for four days in non-moving traffic—they will pound their fists through their horns, and loudly vow, with spittle spewing from their lips, blood vengeance.

Americans, they will put up with a lot. Slavering murder, random bomb-rain, unsane wars, sniffing through the underpants of their intertubes, literal vaginal and anal probes.

But—jeebus christie—don’t fuck with their cars.

A guy who, like the baron, needs one or more cement-reinforced dollys, to move him merely from this vehicle to that, he simply cannot afford to be seen to slow, even an iota, any of them, his, ‘Mericans, moving mobile.

‘Less he wants to be lynched.

Though, it is true, considering the baron’s poundage, said lynching would probably require at least three, and possibly four, ropes. And, no doubt, moving his blubbery carcass, out of state.

Because I don’t think New Jersey, it, any longer, grows, anywhere, a tree, strong and sturdy enough, to bear his burdensome weight.

Too bad for you, baron: still too suffused with Arrakis-think. For this is ‘Merica. Where all, must always be free, to go, unfettered and free, mobile.

Captain LapBand’s bumbling sausage-fingered thumbs-down on all the vehicular traffic burbling up from the town of the cursed Atreides-spawn: it reminds me of the 1994 foam-flecked frenzy over the “House banking scandal.”

That is when it was learned that legislators in the United States House of Representatives could blissfully and recurrently avail themselves of the round-heeled services of a special House “bank,” one that allowed them to bounce, oh say, 200 or 300 checks a year, for which they would not be expected to pay any penalty fees, checks they could pay off two or three or four years down the line.

Americans, en masse, when once this became news, went insane.

Back in that day, you could turn on your television, at any hour of the day or the night, and see brown South American people who, right before your very eyes, were being viciously and maniacally tortured, killed, and raped, by US serial killers. But all the foam that did fleck from North American lips, it concerned but the fact that their congresscritter had a bank, that would do for him, what a bank wouldn’t do for the Normal North American.

See, the Normal North American, the bank gives s/he, no mercy. And the Normal North American, deals with said merciless bank, every day.

And then, for a Normal North American, to see a congresscritter, lying naked, upon a perfumed couch, being suckled and serviced, by such a very same bank: this made the Normal North American—yea verily—want to Stab, and Shoot.

And the result of this, was that 77 serving members of the House of Representatives were thrown out on their rears. And, as consequence, the Publicans took control of the House. For the first time in 40 years.

And it’s basically been their place, ever since. Unto the dawn of today. When the House of Representatives is dominated by pre-monolith retroverts who would outlaw the human orgasm, and command that all publicly laugh, whenever any poor person dies.

I guess it’s too bad about the baron, really. At heart, he’s just a Jersey fat boy. Who, like just about every Jersey boy of his era—fat or no—wanted nothing more than to be Bruce Springsteen.

And, in this, Barack Obama, shrewdly, gifted the Cap’n. Giving Bruce onto Cap’n Fatband; as close as the Cap’n’ll will ever get, to Bruce.

For when the Cap’n agreed to snuggle up close to the president, in exchange for aid for Hurricane Sandy, The Bruce, The Boss, thereby agreed to come into the presence, of the Cap’n.

And, so it was written, and then it was done. The Bruce, and the Cap’n, they did speak. And, then, they did—yea, verily—embrace.

That, now, it is clear, will stand as the highlight of Meaty, Beaty, Big And Bouncy’s, very life.

He could, then, have settled.

But he did not. He tried to strive higher.

No go.

Too much time spent on Arrakis, my fat not-friend. You never sufficiently absorbed, the human touch.

For a human, a real human, a feeling human, s/he doesn’t let another human, sit, stewing, sweating, swearing, in an unmoving vehicle. For four days. For no Real reason.

But you: you did that.

And so: you’re done.

You’re over.

You’re finished.

You’re gone.

Just think. Baron. Of what you might have had.

Oh well. Too bad. All over now.

Wave That Flag

A number of new laws—national, state, local—took effect January 1.

Many of these laws are Good. Such as the local ordinance that now permits me to deploy mammoth spike strips, both east and west, so that by the time these ludicrous motor wide and highvehicles lumber by The Manor, their tires are totally deflated, the infernally combusting sadsacks shrieking along, slowly, but on the rims, and thereby no longer posing any Menace, at all, to the squirrels.

Others of these laws are, to many people, Unknown.

Such as the Decision by the 60 Cro-Magnons of the United States Senate, back last spring when they were busy not being sane about the nation’s gun laws, to introduce and approve legislation designating American Warrior as the new national icon, and Ordering that he be depicted on both the nation’s money, and its flag.

You see, throughout many regions of this planet, there exists an iconic representation that is said to embody the essential nature and characteristics of a nation’s people.

In Britain, for example, there is John Bull—a stout, middle-aged, stuffy twit, with a Union Jack emblazoned across his ample and protruding midsection.

In France, meanwhile, there is Marianne, a comely, topless, determined lass, most often depicted leading the people against some Outrage or another.

In Bhutan, there is Druk, the dragon who speaks truth in gentle thunder.

In the United States, traditionally, there has been Uncle Sam. A tall, lanky, bewhiskered gent, with a penchant for scowling and pointing his finger at people, commonly as part of a demand that they go enlist in some wing of the death industry, so they can slog off to kill non-Americans somewhere.

But in the 1970s Uncle Sam was appropriated by the extraterrestrial anarchists of the Grateful Dead, transformed into a merry skeleton, and set about dancing and drugging and fornicating and astral-space-traveling and all sorts of other essential wonderfulness.

So, decided the Cro-Magnons of the US Senate, Uncle Sam, he is over. He has been soiled, besmirched,  besmeared. He cannot be redeemed. And, moreover, the new, he is americareal, true, iconic representation, that nails, precisely, the essential nature and characteristics of the American people, these days, decreed they, is American Warrior. That is the fellow shown in the photo to the right.

He is America.

American Warrior, he is ugly, and he is obese. He has guns, and he has ammo. He has a computer, so he can howl, to all and every, on whatever might drag its knuckles through his brain, and without surcease, all of the day, and all of the night. He lives in a hole even a termite or scorpion would spurn. He is without sense. He is without taste. He is without grace. He is without shame.

He is America.

That is why he is going on the flag. The design for the new American flag, the American Warrior flag, the flag Mandated by Congress, it may be seen below.

Expect to see it shining, in the rockets’ red glare, soon, from a flagpole near you.

And the money, henceforth, it shall read: “In God—And American Warrior—We Trust.”

American Warrior patches will also, by law, be sewn on to salutethe uniforms of all the nation’s serial killers. And American Warrior decals will be placed upon all the vehicles employed in the American death industry.

Programs shall be introduced into the nation’s schools, to encourage American children to model themselves—physically, mentally, morally, spiritually—after American Warrior. Those children who do not so model themselves—they shall be Punished.

Hundreds of thousands of Americans costumed like American Warrior shall be dispatched across the land—like a sort of escape of characters from a satanic Disneyland—and those who do not salute American Warrior, as he passes by, shall be guilty of a felony, and will serve five years in the federal prison, after which they shall be deported.

It’s a new dawn.

Santa Claus Is Strafing Your Town

you better watch out, you better not cry
better not pout, i’m telling you why
santa claus is strafing your town
strafing your town
he’s making a list and checking it twice
gonna find out who’s naughty and nice
santa claus is strafing your town

he sees you when you’re sleepin’
he knows when you’re awake
he knows if you’ve been bad or good
so be good for goodness sake

oh! you better watch out, you better not cry
better not pout, i’m telling you why
santa claus is strafing your town

I am still not recovered from the spring PTSD incurred when I learned that the serial killers of the US Navy are staining the nation’s telescreens with the obscenity that they are “a global force for good.”

Now I must contend with the knowledge that these same murdering idjits are assaulting children worldwide with a website wherein Santa Claus makes his rounds accompanied by armed fighter jets.

The horror. The horror.

The popular program, without the jet escort, reached 22 million people last year and generated tens of thousands of phone calls from kids and their parents around the country. The mock mission allows families, either by calling or logging on, to get “real-time” updates on Old St. Nick’s global trip to bring holiday cheer to girls and boys.

This year’s updated segment, now previewing on the military’s website, depicts Santa soaring over snow-capped peaks ride of the valkyrieswith military aircraft keeping pace on either side.

Adding the jets is “part of our effort to give the program more of an operational feel,” says insane deathfuck Navy Captain Jeff A. Davis.

Another video on the NORAD website shows military personnel ostensibly preparing for Santa’s flight[.]

An intelligence officer asserts that “intel can confirm that Jack Frost and the Abominable Snowman will not be a threat.” Ground forces then report that all rooftops have been checked to make sure Santa, whose call sign is “Big Red One,” and his reindeer can land safely. Could Santa’s navigation system be attacked by a computer virus? Another officer in charge of cyberspace chimes in that the “anti-Grinch-viral is up and will continue to monitor threats.”

Lastly, the video trains on the cockpit of a fighter jet flying escort to prevent Santa from straying into restricted air space and “to protect from threats.”

“It’s still cutesy since it’s for kids, but we don’t want people to lose sight of our true mission,” says the insane deathfuck Davis.

Maybe some able hactivists like Anonymous would be willing to get in there and transform this web obscenity into something that ho ho horeally reflects the “true mission” of Davis and all the other unsane deathfucks.

Inscribing the Reality that the US military is not about benignly ensuring that Santa Claus delivers toys to good little girls and boys. But is instead about, all and every, and all over the globe, killing, and maiming, good little girls and boys.

Maybe there would appear images of Ali Ismail Abbas, the 12-year-old Iraqi boy who, one spring day in 2003, lost—via the bombs of the “global force for good”—both arms. As well as his father, his pregnant mother, his brother, and six other relatives. All dead.

Maybe we could hear him weeping: “Can you help me get my arms back? Do you think the doctors can get me another pair of hands? If I don’t get a pair of hands I will commit suicide.”


And maybe this Christmas “global force for good” fighter jets will cheerily accompany Santa Claus through the night skies, to deliver to Ali another pair of hands. As well as his father, his mother, his brother, and his other dead relatives.


Hoo-rah. Semper fi. Anchors aweigh. Aim high. Bomb and shoot and strafe and slit. Kill. Kill again.

If We Cared

Itzcoatl Ocampo wanted to kill. So he joined the semper fis.

That’s certainly the place for it. For according to their own death-cult chant, the Marines are serial killers “in the air, on land, and sea.” Monsters who have slaughtered “in every clime and place/where we could take a gun.” Theirserial killers on patrol anthem of utter poisonous filth even ends with the anathema that those who “ever look on Heaven’s scenes/they will find the streets are guarded/by United States Marines.”

But Ocampo was bummed. Because when he got to Iraq, the semper fis made him drive a water truck. He never got an opportunity to go out and bomb and shoot and strafe and slit, like all the other good ol’ boys.

So, when he returned stateside, Ocampo decided to go freelance. As a serial killer. He determined that southern California homeless people would make good targets. For, as he would later explain, such people are a “blight.” And, in killing them, he would be performing a kind of service. Sort of like, back at the semper fi ranch, shooting to shit Iraqis who ventured out after curfew.

As a form of practice, it is said, Ocampo first took a knife to a childhood friend, and the friend’s mother, there in Yorba Linda. Birthplace of Richard Nixon. One of the premier transnational serial killers of our time. Once those two were dead, Ocampo set about stalking homeless men. Ocampo was suspected of serially killing four, before he was caught.

And, once caught, in his various happy yammerings to law-enforcement officials, it became evident that Ocampo was batshit insane. And had been for many years.

Not that the criminal-justice system, in its supreme unwisdom, would be likely to conclude that.

Ocampo’s batshit insanity was certainly stressing his attorneys. One of them, Randall Longwith, began reporting last year that Ocampo “had been behaving erratically and complained that he heard voices. He said Ocampo suffered from tics and headaches.”

“Behaving erratically” is a nice euphemism for killing people.

Then again, if Ocampo had succeeded in serially killing people for the semper fis, he would have been hailed as a hero, showered with medals, and people would have been expected to bow down, genuflect, and kiss his cock and balls, everywhere he went.

Strange world.

On Thanksgiving Day, Ocampo, 25, was found violently ill in his Santa Ana jail cell. He was transported to a local hospital, where he died soon after. It was determined that he had swallowed Ajax. Not a real pleasant way to go.

A spokesmouth for the district attorney’s office, Susan Schroeder, death chambersubsequently revealed her own serious mental impairment, expressing anger that Ocampo had done away with himself, as “it really deprives the victims and the people of California of the ability to put Mr. Ocampo to death on our terms and get justice for the victims of these crimes.”

Look: the guy is dead. It can’t get any worse than that, for him.

But no. This woman is pissed because the state wasn’t allowed “to put Mr. Ocampo to death on our terms.”

Lady: you are one. sick. mother. fucker.

When the state of California put to death Robert Alton Harris, I journeyed out to San Quentin, for a newspaper, to “cover” the people gathered outside the gates. One red-faced, foam-flecked gentleman kept shouting, “kiiiiiiiiill him! Then dig him up, and kiiiiiiill him again!

Maybe Ms. Schroeder could do that. She could take Ocampo’s corpse, haul it into the death chamber, strap it to a gurney, and shoot death-drugs into its veins. Then, for old time’s sake, she could slap the corpse into an electric chair, and give it a nice fry. Next, prop it up against a wall, and let people fire bullets into it. Finally, the Ocampo corpse could be transported outside, and hung by the neck until it is even more dead. It could be left there, hanging from a tree, for people to throw stones at it, until the birds had devoured it. Then, whatever was left, could be set on fire.

Then maybe Ms. Schroeder might conclude there had occurred sufficient “justice” and “closure.”

Meanwhile, another of Ocampo’s attorneys would like to know how the hey his client was able to accumulate enough Ajax to poison himself to death.

“I’m completely baffled as to how this can happen to a guy who is, if not the most high-profile inmate in jail, one of them,” Michael Molfetta said.

“The temptation by people is to say, ‘Who cares?'” he added. “That is a slippery slope right there because he is presumed innocent.”

“There’s no excuse; this should not have happened,” Molfetta said. “How hard is it to keep poison away from him? The answer is, it isn’t at all, if you cared.”

But nobody cared. For of all the people in all the nation that nobody cares for, prisoners are cared for the least. That’s one of the reasons there are so many of them. Prisoners. Because Americans, as a whole, presume that if you disappear into a jail cell, you belong there, and whatever might happen to you there, you deserve. Doesn’t even matter whether, as with Mr. Ocampo, you had not yet been found guilty. Or, as with Mr. Ocampo, you are batshit insane. Because once you go into the cell, you’re gone. You cease to exist. Your presence is no longer discernible on this planet. And so Americans are free to turn and walk away. Because there’s a Black Friday sale. And if you get in line early enough, you can get a 50-inch flat-screen TV. For but $299.

Semper fi.

March Of The Wooden Soldiers

We now know the genesis of addled actor Clint Eastwood’s “talk to the chair” routine at the 2012 Republican National Convention.

Seems the man was arest in his hotel room, preparing his speech, when some puckish alien-being forcibly piped in over the radio Neil Diamond’s 1971 his faultemu-pop hit “I Am . . . I Said.”

This is the Diamond number that contains the notorious foursome:

i am, i said
to no one there
and no one heard at all
not even the chair

This last line is one of the great clunkers in all of songwriting. People active and practiced in the craft,  to this day they cannot understand why persons and/or sound machines emitting such a travesty are not pelted with tomatoes, squash, eggplant, and other rotting substances.

I mean, yeah, the guy needed a rhyme for “there.” And, in this tune, Diamond is deeply afunk in Bummertude. Because he ain’t being listened to. About the crushing burden of having to live in Los Angeles, rather than New York. In order to earn eleventy-billion dollars in the music business.

So sure, okay, we get it, nobody’s listening to him bleat.

And, among the nobodies, can be counted a chair.

But, like, had the chair ever heard him? When he was moaning about having to earn more money than Midas, out in LA, rather than in New York? Was it normal for the chair to give ear, when he was on about such things? Was this like . . . a magic chair?

Or, since we are talking 1971 here, a drug chair? A chair that, when Mr. Diamond delved into the many fine psychoactive substances of the time, heard and talked and danced and sang and otherwise engaged in all manner of merry wonderful weirdness?

We receive no information about any of this. All we know is that the chair doesn’t hear him.

And this is not surprising. Because a chair—unless it is a drug chair, and/or a quantum physics chair—is not equipped with drug chairaural apparati. Hearing is not what a chair is supposed to be about. The thing is there but to plant your butt on.

No. Sorry to say, what we must here reluctantly conclude, is that Diamond was a lazy-ass mofo. Who just settled on some “chair,” not hearing him, because he was too slothful and/or thickheaded to come up with any other rhyme for “there.”

And it is said that the man spent four months writing that song.

And in all that time the best he could up with was “not even the chair”? The mind: it reels.

Today, while driving, it took me about four minutes to come up with about fourteen alternatives.

For instance, if Diamond had not been suffering from a city-disability, and were singing instead from or about some country place Normal, then various and sundry animals could have been mustered not to hear him. We could have had “not even the bear” or “not even the hare” or “not even the mare.” Who were not hearing the guy.

Or he could have complained “not even Aunt Clare,” which would also have allowed him to go wild with banjos in the break. Or “in all County Klare,” which would have permitted him to pour a thundering wall of bagpipes into the song.

Since Diamond at the time was riding a wave of songs in which he praised unrestrained bibulation—”Cracklin’ Rosie,” “Red, Red Wine,” etc.—he could have referenced his ongoing rednoseness by admitting “and no one heard at all/when I tripped on the stair.”

He could have been all stoic, and defiantly proclaimed: “and I did not care.” He could have gone dada, and pronounced: “so I ate a pear.” Or strayed into Isaac Hayes territory, with “so I porked the au pair.” He could have envisioned the onrushing cult of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and come out as a crossdresser, boasting “so I shaved with Nair.”

And so on.

Anywho. Clint—fast-forward to 2012—is there in his hotel room, when suddenly the extraterrestrials—who, as has previously been documented here on red, owned and controlled the GOoPer portion of the 2012 presidential campaign—bring to him over clint chairthe radio Diamond declaiming about the obdurate chair that will not hear.

And  Clint, he experiences a truly massive brainshower. He will go on stage, with a chair, and pretend it is President Obama. And, like the Diamond chair, the Obama chair, when Clint pours out upon it his complaints, it will just sit there; it will neither hear, nor respond.

This brainshower, it will be remembered, when it was spewed out across the land, was considered a laff riot by that 23% of the American population that occupies what is today the equivalent of Dogpatch.

“Way to put it to the black man, Clint!” the Dogpatchians, they squealed like a pig. “Yeehaw!”

However, those of us who have not married or otherwise had sexual congress with our sisters, and/or other blood relatives, we had quite a different reaction.

Not even the Captain Underpants people, it developed, not even they, could easily stomach the chair scene. Literally, they could not stomach it. Senior Underpants advisor Stuart Stevens, it is said, vomited. While the Neil-inspired Eastwood, he was dying there, on stage, with the chair. Stevens, he wished that, like in the Diamond song, no one would hear Clint. At all. Not even the chair.

It was the astute AvoWoman who first pointed out to me that this speech was not the first time that Eastwood had publicly addressed wood products.

Oh no. For way back in 1969, Eastwood wandered around on screen, “singing,” in the film Paint Your Wagon, “I Talk To The Trees.”

And even back then, the wood gave ol’ Clint the deaf ear.

And it was not only the trees. But every other blessed natural element, as well.

I talk to the trees
But they don’t listen to me
I talk to the stars
But they never hear me
The breeze hasn’t time
To stop and hear what I say
I talk to them all in vain

Be warned. Beyond the furthur, I shall embed Mr. Eastwood. “Singing.” Not only that, I shall also embed, from the same film, Lee Marvin, also “singing.” And this last, some say, is the aural equivalent of the Holocaust.


Eyes Be Closed

This Monday, came a “report,” from a “study,” that US medical doctors, attached to the armed services, they had joined right in, back in the BushCo days, when American serial killers had determined that it was Right And Meet to, in the name of the abu ghraib superstarWar on Terra, torture, or even kill, Bad Brown People.

They had, these docs, at the very least, according to said study, sat on their asses and sucked their thumbs, while their fellow serial killers inflicted “cruel, inhumane and degrading treatment” on human beings never charged with, much less convicted of, a single crime.

Imagine my surprise.

For, back in the day—five, six, seven years ago—on the once and future blog Never In Our Names, folks like Valtin, and Avila, and I, we wrote about this shit all the time.

Not that anyone paid any attention.

And: note: we didn’t merely foam at the mouth. We strived, just as did these newbie “study” people, to source, to soberly express.

Not that anyone gave a damn.

I understand why the right didn’t give no damn. Because, nothing at all ever pursued, by George II and Darth Cheney, could ever possibly be considered, by such people, “torture,” much less “death.”

But I remain puzzled, even unto today, why the “left,” they, during this period, mostly sat on their Cheetos.

Until—Avila was the first to point this out to me—the black man ascended, in 2009, into office. At which time the lefty white dumb racist fuckscrackers, they suddenly came boiling from out of each other’s a-holes, to scream till their lips bled, that the black man, he should be lashed into jail, for not lashing into jail the white men—torture! rendition!—who had come before him.


Today, I feel like such a fool. For spending all those years. There at StormKos. In an alleged “lefty” borough. As riven with racists as any righty sewer on the tubes. Yea, verily: even more so. For, these days, on StormKos, you can even crow you helped kill a black man. And still be lovingly embraced. To the dKos Marky-Markos bosom.

Semper fi.

Anyway. When, on Monday, “reports” of the “study” emerged, there came a great hand-wringing:

“This is a big, big striking horror,” said Dr. Gerald Thomson, professor of medicine emeritus at Columbia University[.]

Why? Why, exactly, is it a horror?

These doctors, all of them, every one, to the fucking core of all that they are, they are serial killers. Because they have sold their souls to the US armed forces. Which is about nothing but killing people. And breaking things.

They, these people, these “doctors,” are wedded to Thanatos. Lined up against life.

They, these alleged doctors, may once upon a time have sworn to some bullshit oath about “first, do no harm.” But that’s all over now. Because they are in the United States armed forces. Where their sworn duty is to kill. Or assist in a kill. Or overlook a kill. Or excuse away a kill.

They are not doctors. They are killers.

They don’t give a goddam fucking shit. They will, these “doctors,” visit whatever harm, upon a human being, they are told to.

And this they did.

We don’t need to go to Germany. We don’t need to go to Japan. We don’t need to go to China. We don’t need to go to the USSR.

For examples. Of doctors as killers.

We have just had more than enough. Right wronghere. In the US of A. Thank you very much.

I try not to write about this stuff anymore. Because It breaks me.

But not completely. Because I’ve looked over.

It’s simple: you don’t want your hoo-rah doctors to be some latter-day riff on Dr. Mengele? Then get them out of the armed forces.

Next, get your country, out of the armed forces.

This last, it is so simple and basic and obvious, that I’m weary tired unto death of expressing it.

But I will, below, again, because I feel that some people—this “feeling” no doubt merely some form of brain damage—are just creeping up on getting it.

And so, once again:

As has been observed here, many times, before, the Founders did not intend this country to maintain even a standing army. Which is why the Constitution specifically prohibits army appropriations of more than two years. And since the US is at peace with its neighbors, Canada and Mexico, it does not need an army. So the army should be eliminated. As the only legitimate use for an air force is in support of ground troops, it should be eliminated as well. The Marines need to be folded back into the Navy, from whence they sprang; they are support troops for ships, that’s all they are; that they are sent to fight in landlocked countries, like Afghanistan, is madness. So: down the loo, they go. Since the US already possesses a Coast Guard, perfectly capable of patrolling the waters of the continental United States (Alaska and Hawaii are imperial possessions, and should be permitted to break free, as should all overseas territories, possessions, protectorates, and the like), Americans can go ahead and get rid of the Navy, too—Marines and all. Make a clean sweep.

No more serial killers. No more death industry.

Unless, devotee of Thanatos, this—hoorah, anchors aweigh, wild blue yonder, semper fi—is what you do like:

Me, I vote no. On Thanatos. In its all and every.

I vote, instead, for this: eros over eros eyes be closed in eros over all:

Oh, Ashley

In one of her most recent meth-mouth ejaculations, Sarah Palin, the tundra termagant, decreed that a number of sitting Republican US senators shall soon have their heads cut off at the ballot box.

This fate they shall suffer because the witless Panzer Powder aficionado, and her confederates, have determined senior senator, south carolinathat said men are insufficiently committed to the complete and total destruction of the United States, in the name of Getting The Black Man.

One of the termagant’s targets was identified as Lindsey Graham, senior senator from the Confederate state of South Carolina.

Graham has long frenzied the nightriders galloping at the outer edges of the GOoPer herd of the unsane. This is first because he is a closeted gay man. And second because he is so often joined at the hip to John McCain. A loose cannon anathema to the nightriders, because he first primary-challenged once and future favorite son George II for the presidency (McCain’s campaign effectively scuttled right there in South Carolina, when Rove & Co let it be known (falsely) that McCain had fathered a black child; though such is a South Carolina tradition, see Strom Thurmond, it is one that is supposed to remain delicately concealed until after the white rapist’s death). And then, when McCain had his own shot at the presidency, he refused to center his campaign around the fact that his opponent was black, and therefore an unacceptable existential threat to all that is Good and Godly.

Graham periodically attempts to woo the nightriders by dragging his knuckles right down to the ground. Such as his July 2013 scratching and hooting that the United States should boycott the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi, Russia, because of “what the Russian government is doing throughout the world.”

And so, within hours of Palin recently mustering the riders, Graham was flapping across all the televisions and tubes in the land, thundering that he shall not allow the black man to appoint anyone to a job in the federal government until he, Graham, “gets some answers on Benghazi.”


Coming In For A Landing

from the dead

The whole thing is so utterly insane that it just sickens me. Eileen and I have decided that if war does come the best thing will be to just stay alive and thus add to the number of sane people.

—George Orwell, September 29, 1938

Ten years ago this March a lawyer in my then-office was arrested for uttering the word “why.”

He had just come back from court, then walked a block from the office to join the rest of the staff. We of the staff were gathered on a street corner supporting several dozen people sitting in our small burg’s nomain street, protesting George II’s lighting the fuse on Operation Iraqi Fiefdom. Shortly before his arrival, state agents had announced that those on the sidewalks needed to leave. Unbeknownst to us, then, even law-enforcement officers in our little town had received the BushCo national memo: the new tactic was to dissolve such assemblies by dispersing first, and, if necessary, arresting, the observers, rather than the observed.

This lawyer had not been present for the dispersal announcement. When he reached the corner, and asked us what was going on, before we could reply, a gendarme brusquely informed him that he needed to leave the sidewalk.

He then asked, as would any reasonable human, “why?”

His arms were immediately pulled behind his back; he was cuffed, arrested, and frog-marched to a waiting cop-bus.

I recall this event often. For the word “why” is the one word that those who promote and pursue war never want uttered. Because following that word to its inevitable conclusion always exposes the Potemkin facade erected to excuse senseless slaughter.

For there is no answer, here, to “why?” Other than: “Madness. Madness.


Friday News Dump

—Yesterday on the Sean Klannity radio show I heard the second generation of the insane Paul clan indicate that not only is he running for president in 2016, but he would like his three nutso teabagger nutbag 2.0mates—fellow Cro-Magnon senators Mike Lee, Ted Cruz, and Marco Rubio, all of whom are also planning to run for president—to get out of the race immediately and endorse him. They are all loons, and seem fated to crash and burn together. People in other countries, and on other planets, are averting their eyes. It is just Too Much.

—Some Chinese mathematician has had a new and intriguing brainshower about prime numbers. People are grumpy about this, not least because he is over 50, and is therefore supposedly “too old” to discover anything important.

—The I-5 bridge that collapsed in Washington when the semi barrelled into it had been classified “fracture critical,” which means the entire structure could be brought down if even one major part failed. There are a lot of bridges like that—like, 18,000—around the country. It would be nice if the Americans would invest money in fixing such things. Would mean a lot of jobs: give the serial killers something constructive to do. But, I suppose not.

—In Los Altos, California, a woman was crabby that her estranged husband had a new girlfriend. So, she “went to the couple’s Redwood City construction business, dressed in a mechanics jumpsuit with bubble wrap underneath. She approached her husband while he sat at a computer, discharged a stun gun into his side, and stabbed him several times in the neck and chest.” He lived; she is on trial. I guess these things happen.

—News is belatedly filtering out of the Mayberrys about the 5.7 earthquake that rocked and rolled mountainous northeastern California last night:

Susan Shephard and her husband Alan Shephard, who run the Quail Lodge at Lake Almanor near Greenville very close to the epicenter, said they were watching The Hunger Games on TV when the whole building started shaking.

“All of a sudden things started falling off the shelves, mirrors fell off the wall, vases fell down to the floor, everything started crashing,” Shephard told the Redding Record-Searchlight. “It felt like the end of our world.”

Apparently crashing dishes and the like was the extent of the mayhem. No reports of deaths or injuries.

It shook the Manor pretty good, that quake. The cats held me responsible. So. Not only are they convinced that I control the weather, but now the earth rumbling and buckling is somehow within my purview.

The last time I felt a quake this seriously was in Stinson Beach, in what turned out to be a pre-shock to that 1989 shake-up that collapsed San Francisco. May this, not be that. Hard to know, though. Because there has not been much study of the faults that run through the mountains up here. That is because there are no rich people around. And, as is well-known, if it won’t affect rich people, it Doesn’t Matter.

—In that strange speech yesterday, President Obama told Congress to repeal the AUMF. Duh. The original sin from bad luckwhich all the War on Terra hath flowed. I used to grouse about that over on StormKos, but nobody wanted to hear about it. Someday the Americans will erect a statue to Barbara Lee, the only person to vote against it. Someday.

—Poor Richard III. Born into a non-ordinary body, his reign brief and tumultuous, whacked to shit in a field by an upstart Tudor. Then, 100 years later, with Tudors still running the Brit-throne show, Shakespeare dutifully transformed Richard into one of the most despicable villains in all Christendom. Nobody knew where the guy’s body lay more than 400 years, until it was unearthed a while back in some parking lot. They dug it up and ran it through a bunch of Science Man tests, and now various moneygrubbers are arguing over where best to reinter it. You see, it is expected that wherever it goes, people will come see it, and, therefore, whoever controls it, will Get Money. The family has now come roaring out to complain that the moneygrubbers should bugger right off, as their behavior is violating the European Convention on Human Rights. Because the guy has the right to have his remains lie in peace. Even if he’s been dead 400 years, and was, or so sayeth Shakespeare, a Meanie.

Money Honey

This is one of those stories that is hilarious, in a projectile-vomit sort of way.

Apparently the nation’s banks have decided they are “too moral” to handle money earned by people involved in the adult entertainment business.

Chanel Preston knows not everyone approves of her chosen profession. That’s one of the risks that go with being one of the biggest stars in porn. But she love moneynever thought it would affect her ability to open a bank account.

Preston recently opened a business account with City National Bank in Los Angeles. When she went to deposit checks into the account days later, however, she was told it had been shut down, due to “compliance issues.”

She found the manager she had originally worked with and asked what had happened. The bank, she was told, was worried about the Webcam shows she had on her site and had revoked the account . . . .

Preston noted she [also] has been denied a loan because of her profession[.]

“[The loan officer] asked me ‘are you affiliated with the adult entertainment industry?’ When I said yes, she said ‘We will not give you a loan,'” she said.

At least one adult-entertainment figure has had enough of this bollocks, and is taking to the courts.

Earlier this week, Marc Greenberg, founder of the soft porn studio MRG Entertainment, filed suit against JPMorgan Chase in Los Angeles Superior Court, alleging the bank violated fair lending laws and its own policy for refusing to underwrite a loan for “moral reasons”.

Greenberg says he was approached by a representative of the bank about refinancing an existing loan. But once he started the process, he says he saw repeated delays for four months. That’s when he said he reached out to mr. potter says noa JPMorgan vice president for an explanation.

The vice president “was evasive in his response to plaintiff’s application status requests and finally informed plaintiff during a telephone conversation that plaintiff’s loan application was refused due to ‘moral reasons,’ because of JPMorgan’s disapproval of plaintiff’s former source of income and occupation as an owner of a television production company that produced television programs that dealt with the subject of human sexuality,” the complaint reads.

Greenberg’s attorneys claim they were told by the vice president that the application was denied because of the potential “reputational risk” to the firm.

Curiously, JPMorgan Chase, back when it was known simply as Chase, perceived no “moral reasons” or “reputational risk” that might prevent it from fondling money employed in Nazi Germany to kill and rob Jews.

Between 1936 and 1941, Chase and other US banks helped the Germans raise over $20 million in dollar exchange, netting over $1.2 million in commission—of which Chase pocketed a cool $500,000. That was a lot of money at the time. The fact that the German marks used to fund the operation came from Jews who had fled Nazi Germany didn’t seem to bother Chase—in fact they upped their business after Kristallnacht (the night Jews throughout Nazi Germany and Austria were systematically attacked by mobs in 1938). Chase also froze the accounts of French Jews in occupied France before the Nazis had even gotten around to asking them to.


Heave Ho

I have not watched what they put on the television for more than 25 years.

As I’ve said here before, when they started using Beethoven’s “Ode To Joy” to push dishwashing detergent, that was it for me.

Cable TV, that I abandoned some years before. Of the broadcast variety, it is true that, from time to time, tee veeover that quarter-century or so, I might now and again tune in the news, national or local. But even that ended, for good, in 2009, when they switched nationwide to digital. My television set—so old it was actually made in the United States—didn’t know from digital. And I didn’t feel like going to Radio Shack for one of those little converter boxes . . . that are anyway no doubt malevolent spy devices.

I do, these days, have a television set that is digital-compatible. But no television comes over it. It is for movies and such, that flow from the intertubes.

I spend enough time chained to the tubes. I don’t need to double my servitude by hooking up with the television programmers.

However, the other day, I did look at a television.

I was in a pizza parlor.

Apparently there has been enacted some Law that requires that pizza parlors be festooned with multiple wall-mounted televisions, all tuned to sports channels.

The sound on these televisions is muted. Presumably because the blaring babeling din from the multiple programming on the multiple sets might induce nervousness and disorientation among the humans. And this would not be wise.

Because too many of them carry guns.


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