Velociworld

MY TWO CENTS

So I was sitting in a parking lot today, in my car, savoring the sweet smell of actually being unavailable, nibbling my lunch. Listening to the unpalatable Diane Rehm Show on PBS, because I had no flea bites to scratch. Diane actually has a decent show when she is off politics, and this was a discussion with some wanker attuned to William Golding's Lord of the Flies. Perhaps he had written a bio of Golding. Dunno. Came in late.

Anyhoo, Flies is bitching, of course, and yet they kept talking about how Bad Things Happen when there is lack of supervision, and they kept referencing Abu Ghraib (sp? don't give a fuck). Now, I was screaming at my radio I think the lack of supervision was more apparent when Daniel Pearl was laid upon the turf, and his throat slit, you cunts! Alas, my radio is a receiver. No transmitter. Those callow whores. Those callow whores.

Flies is an apt metaphor for our time, of course, but not because of Gitmo, or Abu Ghraib. The sinister message of Flies is that, given lack of governance, man reverts to his beastlike state.

Fucking A! I don't smell Gitmo. I smell the Superdome, the looters, that fucking damnable fundraiser in Madison Square Garden last night. There are screwheads on the loose, all right, but they aren't National Guardsmen under FEMA watch. They are card-toting whores of the Democratic party. The race baiters, the apologists, the scumsuckers. Fuck them. FUCK THEM! And give me Piggy's glasses back, you vermin.