Anyone remember brush arbor revivals? Back in the day, folks would build an arbor by felling saplings, then erecting four poles out of them. They'd lattice smaller saplings across the top, then cover the roof in brush, creating respite from the heat and rain while they held week or two week revivals in the country. In the depiction above they're wrestling with serpents under the arbor, which may or may not have occurred during your typical brush arbor revival.
I remember seeing a few brush arbors as a kid, but I'm reasonably certain my mother never took us to a revival at one. Although she would, at times, lay aside her primmity proper and drag our heathen Episcopal asses to a revival for an hour or two. Later, she would secretly nibble on a pig's foot. Fortunately the Senator ascribed to the theory that the only good snake was a dead one, so there weren't any handlings and rasslings involved in these rare revival moments.
All of which to say, having watched the rage virus permeating the economy, I think I should build a brush arbor in the woods behind the house. Maybe some hard core preaching might make a difference.
I'll need a circuit preacher, I suppose. Do they still ride mules? I hope so. And some local layfolk recently smitten by the Spirit, who'll be champing at the bit for an audience to bellow and cry at. Lemonade would be the drink of the day, with corn liquor down by the creekbed.
I thought about the brush arbor revivals as I watched the gods of Mammon wrestle with the serpents of their own creation these last few days. I don't know whether a government bailout is necessary. Hellfire, I can't even balance my own checkbook. But I do know that for every expert that says we'll be standing in line for moldy bread and selling apples on the streetcorner if we don't pass it, there's another expert who says doing something stupid isn't necessarily better than doing nothing at all.
I see the Treasury Department on the one hand wanting the liberty to buy and sell defaulting assets with zero oversight. Pay what they think is fair, sell when they think it's reasonable. On the other hand you have a Democratic Congressional leadership wanting to siphon off all the revenue from these sales and funnel them to their same old thieving, corrupt, piss-swilling compadres in the community organizing yakuzas. And thirdly, because we have three hands here, you have Republican Congressmen shitting their pants because their constituents are telling them 100-1 that they're tired of bailing out these elite cocksuckers on Wall Street.
Then there's the market itself. These screwheads were so certain they were going to be bailed out they threw a firesale tantrum yesterday. I don't blame them. It's the same sort of pissy reaction I'd have if my best friend promised to buy me lapdances at the Mons Venus, then reneged by way of trying to give me a reacharound in the bathroom of the Marathon station.
Today they decided what the fuck. A reacharound ain't so bad. At least you come.
I guess the best option would be some sort of Resolution Trust setup. Arm's length from the Treasury, just give them the revenues. Oversight from Congress without them earmarking the fucking pelf before it ever sees Treasury. And a sop to the GOP, who can go home and crow Lookee here what I did for you!
Eh, fuck it. I've been on a cash basis for two years anyway. I like it that way. All I miss is waking up and trying to figure out what the hell I put on my credit card drunkbaying the night before.
Two words: Gold. Booze. Bullets. Okay, three words. Better stock up on all three, too.
Because when the revival gets fired up, and I've got the Pentacostals spinning like whirling dervishes in the back yard, there may not be any more reservations in the Circle of Jesus. You'll be outside the talcum powder Ring of Faith, and you'll be needing that gold and them bullets and some sweet sweet booze as coping mechanisms for the Sawbuck Tribulation that's coming.
Not a threat. Nor a prediction. Just a humble opinion from a guy who can't even balance his own fucking checkbook.
That was ugly.
Alabama bitch slapped Georgia with the fuck stick tonight. The Dawgs got beat like a pecker in a peepshow.
Oh, well. USC and Florida got beaten by chumps. There's no shame in losing to a Top 10 team. Plus, with any luck Georgia can meet Bama in the SEC championship and get
payback beaten by the Alabama Fuck Stick again.
Cracker Ball. It ain't for the faint of heart.
Although I have to wonder how long Richt will put up with the goddam retarded playcalling of Mike Bobo. What a douche. I have a $5 bet with Key that Bobo loses his playcalling privileges this week. He'll get to draw up cartoon plays and sech the rest of the year, but he's going to be barking "What'll ya have?" at The Varsity next year. And I'll be right in line, repeating what I yelled at him from 30 feet away at Ole Miss in '96 when he was hobbling on crutches with an obviously broken leg: Walk it off, you pussy. Walk it off.
Next: How I Finally Unstopped My Colon And Found Inner Peace: A Personal Journey (I'm Nonetheless Going To Share).
Kee-rist. Jane's looking just like the old man these days. Except for, you know, the big ole tittays.
Although those hoots are probably a good approximation of Hank's ass circa Golden Pond.
Now go fantasize about boinkin' Jane and see if she doesn't morph into Henry about two minutes in. Go on. I dare you.
House was wearing a replica of Peter Fonda's leather jacket from Easy Rider in a scene tonight. Now, I've been known to grasp for my youth upon occasion, but that was just fucking pathetic.
By the by, why do they say the abysmal Happy Days went tits up when Fonzie jumped the shark on water skis? Didn't it actually go tits up when Robin Williams showed up as Mork from Fucking Ork? I don't remember the early '60's too well, but I don't remember no fucking cokeblow needledicks dressed up as hirsute aliens. Anal probes? Yes. Red spandex and Tourette's Syndrome? No way. You could say the suspension of my disbelief was actually, ah, unsuspended after that episode.
And, yes, I realize how pathetic it is that I recognized that jacket right away.
The singular Bane has passed away. He was probably the only blogger I was a little bit afraid to meet. Which made him a keeper. I always wanted to go meet him, and peel that onion back. Alas, 3,000 miles, I never did.
Go pay your respects, Intrepids, for a true gentleman. I'd say RIP, but his ethereal spirit would probably go looking for some miscreant's heart to rip out. Bane was like that. Yes, he was.
I shall miss him much.
There are some strange-assed roads where I work. I can't fathom where these names come from. I suppose these peoples were somebodies once upon a time. Lookit:
See what I mean? The best I can
figure make up out of thin air is, Rat Kinney was the mayor once. He married Pickle Simon, so named because of her promiscuous use of Massengil's.
As for Chicken Lyle, wasn't he the house slave in Roots? Or was that Chicken Mel? Perhaps Chicken Lyle toiled for the Kinney-Simons, who rewarded him with a road name after years of faithful service. Along with posthumous emancipation.
Crazy, this place. There's also a Punkin Junction Road, and a Cronictown Road. I swear. I'm agoing to Cronictown tomorrow, and see whaddup. Might even get some insight into this.
To coin a phrase. Barring the full hell carnage of the Civil War, is there any era of American history more tumultuous than Reconstruction? Or more studiously ignored by historians? I doubt it. Fourteen years, Insipids. Fourteen years.
Martial law, brutally administered.
Occupying forces from distant lands enforcing whim at the end of a bayonet, ensconced in quarters of their choosing in violation of the Third Amendment.
Racist vigilantes, shrouded in white, terrorizing the landscape, murdering by caprice.
Chattel slaves freed with a promise of 40 acres and a mule, horribly neglected and ignored by their ostensible saviors.
Yeomen, peasants really, disenfranchised and punished for the sins of their elites.
Rapage and pillage.
Good times, good times.
I've wanted to write about this for a long time. And it really needs to be properly explored from the historical perspective. But I'll probably go the fiction route.
I know me. My good and just instincts will be corrupted eventually by the bad me anyway. How can you start this voyage and not eventually devolve into bareback chocolate and vanilla scenarios? Bring me the Mandingo? String 'em up, boys?
I'll have to follow my heart, in other words.
It's a black thing, to be sure, my heart. But this topic cries for poetic license, and abuse. This is of course going to get pretty depraved before it gets better.
En passant: The whiskey of choice for the excrutiating task of writing will have to be Rebel Yell. Half of this will be written while I'm in my cups. The word nigger will probably get used more than you're accustomed to. Mulatto babies with French names like Charles Etienne de St. Valery Bon might crop up now and then. There will be good guys and bad guys of all pigmelanization. Every female will have awesome pert tits with nipples symbolically pointing heavenward (unless God forfend the Rebel Yell run dry).
Also, there will NOT be a Numinous Negro, like Whoopi in Ghost, that big black guy in The Green Mile, Morgan Freeman in Driving Miss Shawshank Almighty, Bagger Vance, Scatman Crothers in The Shining... you know: magical golly-gee nigras with extree-special powers who only exist to help whitey out, created by guilt-besoaked white liberal Hollywood screenwriters who've never actually had a conversation with a black person to expiate their guilt that they never had a soul-releasing, sexually explosive relationship with a black person, like their sister did at Stanford.
Because whores, of course, don't count.
I'm pretty sure I have a raw template to work with here.
Wish me luck.
The hamlet of Hoschton, down the road, is having their annual fall festival in two weeks. With a twist.
They're having a Scarecrow Stampede. (!) Yes (!) They want to set a Guiness world record for the most scarecrows in an area. In this case, ZIP code 30548. They want to have 4,000, but by anecdotal observation I predict it will be somewhere in the neighborhood of a girthzillion. Here's the Publix supermarket by the house:
Creepy shit, that. They're like zombies, Eric. Only they move so slow you'll never even see them sneak up on you. Like the topiary in The Shining. Every time you turn around in these parts zombiecrows are everywhere. Riding broncos, sitting on toilets,
performing Deliverance-style buttfucking scenarios. Okay, that last one may be made up. I haven't made my scarecrows yet.
Anyway, I figure I'll have to make this festival. The Canon Rebel digital, a liter of George Dickel No. 12 sour mash (motto, as always: "Put a Little Dick in Your Mouth!"), the .45 automatic, perhaps the bullwhip. Sort this damned thing out. I will, of course, be wearing my favorite scarecrow outfit:
Lest they think I'm a poseur, or anti-McGoohan, or something. Perhaps some of the Atlanta bloggers will join me. As honorary bailbondsmen.
Hellspike, Curlew, damn it!
This explains a lot of things. Like why that Meursault player refuses to kick the ball between the uprights.
Pretty fucking disturbing, too. Bruce McGill and Tyne Daly. I can't even tell 'em apart anymore. Except for the sagging, pendulous, vein breasts. But I understand Bruce is getting those fixed real soon.
Key noticed it first, then it wormed its way into my psyche.
Lest anyone think differently, however, I bow before no one in my respect for the incredible
D Day Walter Hagen Bruce McGill. Veiny old tits and all.
The DNC finally posted the highlights from the Democratic National Convention:
Now I understand why they keep calling Obama "Prince Randian".
Really nice work from Bluefairy.
If Democrats think Palin is so gobsmackingly horrible and worthless, why are they trying so fucking hard to get her off the ticket? I'd think they'd want someone so unqualified, ignorant, and clueless on the ticket to drag McCain down.
For instance, I think Joe Biden is a hack's hack, a joke among his colleagues, a blowhard plagiarist who hasn't accomplished dick in 36 years in the Senate, a bully, and a gasbag. And I'm absolutely delighted he's on Obama's ticket. Hell, I've seen freighter anchors with less drag than that guy.
Now, see how much more sense that makes?
Some people will recognize that phrase from The Right Stuff. It's Tom Wolfe's term for the top of the fighter jock/test pilot pecking order. I filch that phrase from time to time, to suit my own needs. If you're going to plagiarize, plagiarize something worthy, then give credit in penance, I say. As opposed to the greasy Joe Biden. Who just rips you the fuck off.
I was going to say I'm at the top of the ziggurat. Which I am, of course, but then I never define the particular pyramid I'm atop. Ususally one of mine own creation, frankly.
Which gets me to politics. Obviously. I seldom post about politics, because as immersed as I stay in it, it's preaching to the choir. I can find 500 blogs on both sides of the spectrum linking and quoting the same storylines. So fucking what?
Worse, I can find 3 dozen highly compensated pundits doing the same thing. That's the only thing that's ever enticed me about writing about politics. Editorial writing is 95% harumphing the writer's biases, as written by someone else. Hell, any fucking moron can do that. All you need to do is regurgitate the disgustingly quotidian narrative. What an easy pussy way to make money. Or should I say What an easy pussy way to make money, Creators Syndicate!
Which brings me to Palin. Few will remember, but I called her as the natural Veep choice at The Troll in Helen last year. Regardless of the eventual presidential nominee. I'd been checking out her bona fides, and liked what I saw. Key remembers, but I was actually telling Cat and, I think, Richard the Shallowhead, so no, my sources may lack credibility. Also, I believe I was referring to Palin as "Tits". For that I apologize. My bad, Tits.
My point is, I don't know whether Sarah Palin is the right person for the job. I honestly believe she was an inspired choice to put the paddles to the thorax of McCain's campaign. Can she withstand the scrutiny? Can she speak with authority? Can she go nose-to-nose with Biden in debate? Does she have the chops?
I don't know. But why can't she stand or fall on her own merits, without the left resorting to filthy smears and character assassination? I am outraged at the despicable libels and slanders hurled at her by the left, to wit:
1. Her Down Syndrome child is actually her daughter's.
2. She should be home with her children instead of being on the hustings.
3. She had an affair with her husband's best friend.
Just to name the latest. Oh, and when the media realized this shit was going sour they changed the meme to McCain didn't vet her! What horseshit. She was vetted for 5 months. And it was funny to see Alan Colmes still plying that crap, because he goes on at 9 PM, and the talking points change so fast he always ends up with the stale shit. Holding fetid talking points memos from DailyKos that virtually drip with obsolescence. The rage virus moves fast, Alan.
This type of attack is tolerated by the Obama campaign, if not sourced by it. It's a goddam sin against the American body politic, to me.
I don't even think I'm from the same species as today's leftist in general, and Democrat in particular. These people will employ any lie, any slander, any dissonance to their own professed beliefs to win. There is no excuse for these slimy fucking worms to behave this way. Except to win in Engels fashion.
My family ties to the Democratic Party run deep. The Senator did win his state senate seat as an Independent, but his subsequent races were of course as a Democrat in the Solid South of the 1950's and 1960's. He could pull the lever for Barry Goldwater with impunity, but he had to run as a Democrat. And he was still proud of that legacy.
That party is gone. It was hijacked in 1972, and the last vestiges walked away with Zell Miller and Joe Lieberman. These people are cunts of the most craven order. I'll tell you something else: corporate media (the so-called MSM, but I hate that term almost as much as blog) is dying of its own volition due to its inability to rein in its biases. They're dying of autoerotic asphyxia. They're choking their own chickens. While their shareholders shrug.
I wish Palin well, just as a person. I hope McCain doesn't collapse and drop her because of lie and innuendo. His campaign was reborn with conservatives with this choice. He better dance the last dance with the one he brung. If McCain throws her under the bus, like Obama does every inconvenient associate, his money, his support, and his shot at history will vanish in a fucking nanosecond. He'd better understand that, and fight hard. Sarah Palin, for better or worse, has struck a chord in the average American. If he shitcans her he'll be a footnote in history. He may stick with her and lose, but without her he'll be thrashed.
This is why I don't write about politics. I'm at the top of the ziggurat. My ziggurat. I'm right, and you're wrong, asshole. I could laboriously prove it, with facts and data and shit, but this will go a lot better if you just understand you're wrong, fuckface. That's better.
Anyway, Sarah Palin is at the top of her ziggurat. The other guys are smelly cowardly fucking pimps, for lack of a better word(s). Identity politicians who actually fear diversity. People who are, ultimately, I hope, ashamed of their own reflections.
Go get 'em,
Tits. Sarah. I got your sweet heart-shaped ass six.