I'm not sure about you, but I'm pretty embarrassed about the whole American Tea Party events. Conservatives, or federalists, as I prefer to refer to myself, aren't very good at the street mob thing. Here's a good rule of thumb: if you aren't literally burning a man in real time, or at least in effigy, you're just strumming the civic ukelele.
If these dilettantes were serious they'd hire some fucking Muslims to salt their crowds, because no politician born has the guts to stand up to a goddam Mohamedan. A few signs reading Pork is not Halal! and The Stimulus is an Affront to Allah! would put this shit in the bag once and for all.
The Wild Musselman is the 21st century equivalent of the Crazy Nigger. There is no entity in western democracy that can withstand the Affronted Moslem. He is a protected species, and his worldview is always of primary importance.
I'm sure I could put twenty people in burkas on the steps of the Capitol tomorrow, ululating their litany of grievances, and gather far more traction than the button-downs out there low-fiving each other today. In the grand scheme of things, Whitey just doesn't sell.
I spoke to my man Catfish today. He was released from the hospital two days ago after double pneumonia and a collapsed lung. He claims they had to clip off the bottom of a lung, too, and Nancy is having to repack the wound.
Fuck around. That sounds painful. Better he than me, though, as the Quaker says.
I'm confident Cat's doing better because he bitched and bellyached the entire conversation like a scoldish old woman. It was akin to having a chat with your grandmother, when your grandmother is Old Mother Hubbard. In his defense he was still in pain, however, despite the two morphine patches he'd recently slapped on. Then again, he slaps on two morphine patches every day, just to accelerate the half-dozen Lortabs he had for breakfast. The Man is Beast.
I plan to visit Savannah soon, perhaps St. Patrick's Day, just to visit the ancestral stomping grounds and see my brothers, and get properly liquored up. Sobriety is so much less than the sum of its parts, you know. It's very overrated. I learned that cleaning my fingernails in a few AA meetings.
If I do make it to Savannah I'll drive down to McIntosh County and visit my old friend. For one thing, I miss him. For another, I've never done a morphine patch.
Extra bonus: here's Catfish pitching the half-rubber at the Wreckyll in Jekyll, 2005:
Such perfect form. It is a joy to watch someone throw a half rubber with grace and effect. It truly is. I'm fairly certain Catfish struck me out twice that game.
And in those moments, looking on that picture, I came to know a despair that went beyond any puling despair for my miserable self, one that went out and went out from that photograph, like the ripples from a pebble dropped into dark water, until they lapped up against everything in the world, and rendered it all into hacked meat and mute purposeless matter. And I despised the world, and all of humanity, and, indeed, God himself. But most of all, I despised myself.
Jeff Goldstein is crashing the CPAC conference. Given how the Pajamas Media blog row monopoly is pretty much antithetical to everything conservatives/classical liberals/libertarians stand for, I await with great anticipation the raw video footage where he gets the bum's rush while ordering a turkey sammich. And perhaps we'll see some of those fancy catch wrestling moves.
One of the primary, and indeed moral, obligations of the President of the United States is to provide leadership. And in troubling times that means being a captain courageous, and standing tall. It means giving your people that hope you so incessantly promised them as you pandered for their vote, and reassuring them. Not only for the calming effect this has on your nation of individuals, but the calming effect it has on your financial markets and institutions and all of the global institutions interdependent on you.
FDR certainly understood this when he said the only thing we have to fear is fear itself. We can discuss at length the efficacy and wisdom of his subsequent policies, but the man had that first class temperament for which he is justly honored, and would never have spoken to the people in the ass-puckering, spine-chilling, apocalyptic terms we hear from Barack Obama.
As I am constantly reminded by a cacophony of voices both vacuous and vague, Barack Obama is a brilliant man. Therefore I can only conclude that his constant negative harping, his chronic ringing of the death knell, his utterly grave pronouncements that we are in the midst of catastrophe and crisis and disaster, are either the ravings of a brilliant lunatic, or the calculated murmurings of a fucking amoral creep.
If the world belched a sigh of satisfaction and delight upon his election, and all is now right with the universe, then why has the market crashed 2,000 points since his election?
Because he projects no confidence. In himself, in his team, in his country. And why? Because all social engineers require crisis in order to implement unpopular, irrational, or goddam insane fixes. This nutter's fiscal budget equals in excess of $25,000 per taxpayer. If that isn't the definition of insane I'm the fucking Mad Hatter. This fruitstand preacher sold the addlepated masses a huge bill of goods, and yet his forebearance does not even rise to the level of protecting their meager purses from deliberate and egregious harm based on his terrible proclamations.
He's a real fucking pal, this guy.
Again, lest my pursed and foam-flecked lips not translate precisely to the written word: this malevolent bastard is calmly and intentionally sabotaging our livelihoods, our accrued wealth, and our childrens' and grandchildrens' birthrights for the arrogant and selfish purpose of implementing his socialist agenda, and in so doing erecting monuments in his mind to his historical Black Liberation Greatness. Our Alinsky the Lesser has no smaller vision than to tear the fabric of this nation apart if necessary, in order to rebuild it upon the vapid and sophomoric musings of his silly little mentors, so that future generations may marvel at his bold masterstrokes.
Observe: even a cursory reading of the Ayers-ghosted natterings of Barack Obama reveal a quick but insecure mind, readily subsumed by the pontifications of others he presumes to be his superiors. He is a naif stroked by the purrings of his agenda-driven masters. Egoism and self-doubt are a volatile combination, no more so than when the sad pathetic creature is constantly reassured of his own fucking awesomeness, and can without a hint of irony fiddle while his Rome burns.
In essence, Barack Obama would be a far superior leader if he would just shut the fuck up, and allow the gears and cogs and magnetos of capitalism to correct the course, and slowly rebuild the wealth of the nation. Which, if a healthy nation is his desire, he could do most easily.
Of course, this seedy grifter desireth it not. He intends to beat the fucking bongo of bitterness, and will burn the village that is this nation, in order to save it in his own likeness.
Obama would be wise to venture outside of his palace, and eschew the ministrations of his handlers and sycophants: there is a gutswell of opprobrium for this shallow man and his shallow plans. A wellspring among those grassroots the left so loftily took for granted when they were merely the impersonal proletariat. Before this is all over Barack Obama may indeed turn America upside down, but not in the manner he intended. And this will not be brother against brother. This will be the indignant, abused, condescended upon masses of millions turning upon the elite one thousand in the great swamp city. One can only take so much from a person by force, and bequeath to another by fiat, before even the mildest of men will cry enough. Where pools the tar? Where, by God, are the feathers?
I envy the Democrats. I really do. Thier candidate ran on a bipartisan platform, moved to the center to capture the plump, succulent moderate voters, and now, one month into office, they are ramrodding their liberal agenda down the throats of the conservatives and moderates with arrogant amusement, and an occasional reminder that they won. Witness: a trilion dollar spending bill that rewards their supporters in spades, injects the federal bureaucracies with steroids, and raises taxes on the very voters who bought into the "tax cuts for 95% of Americans" spiel. The welfare state is being expanded exponentially, even as welfare reform is being aborted like a Down child. At least one serious gun control bill is winding its way through House committee, and voting rights/statehood for the District of Columbia is in the offing. Dissent is being silenced by resurrecting the Newspeak Fairness Doctrine. The War on Terror is being dismantled, and the administration is cozying up to totalitarian regimes, mullahcracies, and deceitful allies, while pointing at the previous administration and declaiming, in deplorable and unprecedented fashion, They did it!
Just as promised. Man, you have to love a politician, and a party, that just tosses you the red meat without even searing the sides. If I were a Democrat, I'd love these people. The bipartisan talk was merely talk, of course. Any sentient creature knows any politician for national office runs to the middle. It's a lie so hoary and beloved it should be encased in Lucite, and set upon a shelf of honor in the Capitol rotunda.
Now this Bush fellow? Ran as bipartisan, a fencemender, a reacher-across-aisles candidate, true to the form we all expect. Then he won, and the rest is history. Filthy, execrable history.
An education bill that is the epitome of union bureaucracy, enlarging and enriching the do-nothing tail-chasers at the cost of the actual education of children. Any classroom level educator will tell you that No Child Left Behind is such a baroque, bloated, mixed-signal, unattainable mess that one would think a senior Democrat Senator wrote it. Oh, wait. One did.
The prescription drug bill was the largest single entitlement in United States history, pandering to the least distressed cohort of citizens. A cohort, however, with incredibly powerful lobbying interests, and enough expendable cash even before the bill to make the most gluttonous of political fundraisers salivate.
The Chimpanzee-in-Chief also shepherded through his Congress a gargantuan farm bill so replete with subsidies and ameliorations for the disreputable Jeeter Lesters of the world that the ghost of Cesar Chavez disinterred the corpse of Montezuma and began decardiofying unlucky peasants with machetes.
The Bush administration's steel tariff was so protectionist it had our trading partners so enraged and affronted they accused the U.S. of stealing the European Union's playbook with satellite spy cameras, and stealing the Super Bowl with their ill-gotten gains.
Republicans (you know, those recalcitrant, ignorant, costive reactionaries with puritanical sexual hangups) actually reached across the aisle, engaged the loyal opposition, and enacted a string of Socialist Lite laws. For a while there I thought Al Gore had been elected. (Oh, wait! He really was! I saw Recount!) I assumed that as honorable people the Democrats would do likewise, and enact some Conservative Lite proposals. But of course I jest.
Yes, I do envy the Democrats. They play smash mouth, no-holds politics, while the Republicans operate like they are engaged in a Victorian game of whist, wherein it is presumed that as gentlemen they will let the fragile little ladies win a few hands, lest the men be obliged to produce the smelling salts.
The worst part of it? That's what Bush did. Now imagine what McCain would have done. Oftentimes I wonder if there is ever any fun playing for the perpetually losing team.
I share many citizens' concerns and alarm at the dysfunction wrought by the swarms of illegal aliens that permeate our society, especially because the sheer numbers are unknowable, accountability is nil, assimilation is weak or antithetical to their desires, and the potential for criminal activity is especially high among illegal dwellers. We constantly compare the Mexicans and Latin American illegals to the predominantly European immigrants of the 1840's to 1920's, and fulminate about the ability of these earlier immigrants to assimilate while the Mexicans wallow in the dyspeptic squalor they bring from their homeland. The biggest complainers (rightfully) about illegal entry in general and amnesty in particular are those who are attempting to immigrate legally, and have to wait years in some instances to obtain residency, while amnesty moves the illegals to the front of the line.
Here's something to ponder, however:
The immigrants of earlier days arrived with no notice upon our shores on vessels with abysmal conditions. These unknowns were immediately processed through Ellis Island, and, except for those quarantined for health reasons, were given documents (zee papers) and were allowed to establish residency legally and instantaneously. And although we often tell Mexicans to go fix their own failed state instead of illegally emigrating, we didn't tell the Russian Jews to go fix their own pogroms, or the Irish to go fix their own potato famine, or the Poles to tame their expansionist neighbors. We took it at face value that these were the victims, not the instigators, of their failed societies, and welcomed them as the "wretched refuse of their teeming shores".
Why do illegal aliens not assimilate? Two reasons: first, we force them into underground enclaves, where they merely recreate their native societies, and cherry-pick those few aspects of our society that suit their fancy. Second, we foolishly allow them to use Spanish as a first language, engage in reconquista sedition, and undermine our democractic values because our bureaucrats are in thrall to divisive, misanthropic multiculturalism.
We should set up Ellis Island processing stations on the border, and EZ Pass aliens so that they can work in legal status immediately. Fingerprint, photo, run criminal background checks, and issue the papers. Then we can track them, tax them, and deport them without compunction when they break the law.
Those who've been waiting to legally immigrate should come in first, of course. And once there is a humane, quick entry system in place, we can conscionably institute quotas, and only allow in the numbers we can reasonably accommodate. In today's economic climate that number should probably be zero. And when the quota numbers are lowered, then we can rationally force rank applicants by mastery of English, possession of capital and skills, pre-exisiting family and support networks.
The greatest problem has been our broken bureaucracy, which made legal entry so difficult, expensive, and time-consuming the average Mexican fleeing a failed state rife with corruption, violence, drug murders, kidnapping, and extortion simply weighed his options, and determined he was better off sneaking in and plucking chickens for ten dollars a day. I would, too.
Or we could round them all up and shoot them. I prefer my way, which is likely an indication that I'm going soft in the head, or heart, in my dotage. So be it.
And if I'm incorrect about the earlier Ellis Island process, I'm open to correction. My ancestors came over in the 1700's. All I know from Ellis Island is what I saw in The Godfather, Part 2.
Will the latest revelations that liberal saint and icon Bill Moyers assisted the FBI and his own boss LBJ in outing homosexuals both in the opposition party and his own administration finally force PBS and the like to send this hypocrital, sanctimonious twit to the knacker's yard? I've spent decades watching this bilious, nattering scold take conservatives to task for their alleged misdeeds from his lofty little perch. Then observe him preen and bathe, and sharpen his beak upon the cuttlebone.
The Washington Post unearthed the latest on Moyers, exposing FBI files that proved Moyers assisted the FBI in determining the sexual orientation of fellow administration official Jack Valenti, he of the perpetual Oscars tan as long-time head of the MPAA. There is more on Moyers, however.
Andrew Ferguson wrote the ultimate expose of Moyers in 1996, laying the scoundrel to waste, yet still his fellow travelers practically deify this pompous jerk. Even Morley Safer, veteran newsman, and possessor of three spectacular forehead to nose bridge crevasses, had this to say about Moyers in his autobiography:
"I find it hard to believe that Bill Moyers would engage in character assassination over one evening news broadcast — even given the political imperatives of the moment. But I confess, I find it harder not to believe it.
His part in Lyndon Johnson and J. Edgar Hoover's bugging of Martin Luther King's private life, the leaks to the press and diplomatic corps, the surveillance of civil rights groups at the 1964 Democratic Convention, and his request for damaging information from Hoover on members of the Goldwater campaign suggest he was not only a good soldier but a gleeful retainer feeding the appetites of Lyndon Johnson.
It's all too confusing. Bill Moyers, the sometimes overly pious public defender of liberal virtue, the First Amendment, and the rights of miniorities playing the role of Iago."
Only a few weeks before the 1964 election, a powerful presidential assistant, Walter Jenkins, was arrested in a men's room in Washington. Evidently, the president was concerned that Barry Goldwater would use that against him in the election. Another assistant, Bill Moyers, was tasked to direct Hoover to do an investigation of Goldwater's staff to find similar evidence of homosexual activity. Mr. Moyers' memo to the FBI was in one of the files.
When the press reported this, I received a call in my office from Mr. Moyers. Several of my assistants were with me. He was outraged; he claimed that this was another example of the Bureau salting its files with phony CIA memos. I was taken aback. I offered to conduct an investigation, which if his contention was correct, would lead me to publicly exonerate him. There was a pause on the line and then he said, "I was very young. How will I explain this to my children?" And then he rang off. I thought to myself that a number of the Watergate figures, some of whom the department was prosecuting, were very young, too.
Author's note: some language may have been changed to assuage the easily aggrieved.
One wonders if Barack Obama has a master plan to address his myriad concerns as he assays to transform America, or even if he has any plans at all. His approach thus far has been rather scattershot, what one generally calls not thought through. I find this lack of preparation shocking, especially in light of the fact his many supporters were rending their raiments during the transition period, and were lamenting the failure of George Bush to resign his office immediately so that the new Age of Reason could commence forthwith.
Judging by his first month in office I believe Obama could have spent more time actually performing the gritty task of transitioning, and less time enjoying the eucalyptus scent of his foot emollients. It seems the hard slog of screening and vetting spoilees, crafting a viable stimulus package, and bullheading a working pecking order with his comrades in the legislative branch were beneath his Caesarian impulses. One does not appear on the cover of every magazine in the nation without spending considerable time on photo shoots, after all. There seems to have been plenty of time allotted for these preening beefcake sessions, and little or no time or thought given to actual governance.
The charade of unvetted tax criminals offered up as administration rainmakers, coupled with an historic pilferage of the purse of the law-abiding citizens to prop up the rotted timbers of the defaulting classes, is unparalleled in recorded history. Obama's deliberate confiscation of the wealth of this and future generations' financial security to procure the devotion of the self-shattered Morlocks of the Failed Society will reverberate beyond our lifetimes.
The focused determination of this administration to buy off the derelict, the corrupted, and the shameless with the fruits of the honest will create a backlash that will be as horrific as it is avoidable. This is a nation, after all, that went to arms against the might of the beloved George Washington himself, and his federal bayonets, rather than have their fucking whiskey taxed. It's mine, damn it, they reasoned. I'll spill it or spoil it before you tax it.
We've lost a bit of that edge, of course, taxes being something not quite novel to us anymore. But as surely as I speak there will be backlash to the takings by force. We are not Europeans. We do not abide, nor tolerate. We will resort to barter, to cash, to hiding, to offshore, to like kind, to charitable contributions. Ultimately the rage of impotence against strongarming will lead to the kind of brother against brother animus we have mercifully avoided since 1865. And the cruel unnecessity of it all will rest solely upon Barack Obama's narrow, sloped shoulders.
The Laffer Curve and history have proved that lower taxes increase overall revenues. Likewise confiscatory taxes lead inevitably to tax avoidance, and the code of the smuggler. Obama is a smart fellow. He understands this. He likely reckons the proles are a bit too engrossed in their own personal tribulations to muster any defense against his glorious machinations.
We shall see what stern stuff Obama is made of when the remonstrances begin. Is he Ceascescu the Strong, or Bashar the Weak?
We shall see.
In William Faulkner's 1931 novel Sanctuary, the protagonist is a 16 year-old spoiled Mississippi debutante named Temple Drake. At the beginning of the novel she leaves town on an ill-advised date with an alcoholic University of Virginia graduate named Gowan Stephens. Gowan stops outside of town for yet more whiskey at the Old Frenchman Place, a rundown house in the deep woods inhabited by bootleggers. Gowan is soon intoxicated again, leaving Temple vulnerable to the predations of the assorted ruffians.
Despite a warning from a bootlegger's wife to stay out of sight in back of the house, Temple proceeds to brazenly engage the ne'er-do-wells. After Gowan awakens from his stupor and slinks off without finding Temple, she is savagely raped with a corn cob by the impotent gangster Popeye. Popeye subsequently takes Temple to live in a whorehouse in Memphis, where she quickly becomes debauched, having craven sex with Popeye (via his pistol) and a variety of other men.
Temple is eventually rescued by her father and borne away to Paris, both to assuage the author's guilt and to mollify his scandalized publisher's indignation.
Yea, verily, I often think we are all of us Temple Drakes. We've too many of us accumulated easy credit, and too much housing. We pshawed the warnings, and ploughed ahead with wanton disregard in our selection of leaders. Now we find ourselves in Miss Reba's whorehouse, waiting for Popeye to show up.
Oh, occasionally we'll hook up with Red, the other party, the other guy. But when Popeye returns we are ready and willing to succumb to his advances. He's "Daddy", after all.
Actually, I believe we are all of us still at the Old Frenchman Place, chastened by the cob, but still with a choice: do we proceed to Memphis, and further humiliation, which at this point is the easy way out, or do we stand and fight for our dignity?
I, for one, do not want a sugar daddy. Nor do I aspire to a life of indolence, not having to work, devoid of affirmation of life, or meaning. And ever susceptible to the cob, and the barrel. Too many of our brethren have chosen the path of degradation. A trillion dollars is a dangerous thing in the hands of Popeyes. It buys the souls of many, and weakens the resolve of many more.
I shall not be tempted. I will not succumb to the pecunious hand, the proffered fruit. I am rich beyond measure in the luxury of civil disobedience, the wealth of self sustenance, the spoils of family and friend. The siren calls, I heed it not.
It would behoove the entranced to remember that Popeye is impotent, after all. That which satiates for the moment is not true, but borrowed. We all thirst at some level for Popeye's bootleg whiskey, myself included. It is human nature. But beware the hangover of the illicit brew. And the cost.
Find your true sanctuary.
I think if James Wolcott is going to continue insulting me, and selectively editing my posts for gratuitous effect, he should at the very least provide his email address, as comments are not enabled in the rarified, Olympian heights of Vanity Fair, precluding me from defending myself in his forum.
Alternatively, perhaps he could overnight some ambrosia?
I was writing a lengthy screed wherein I posited the Goat Man was the perfect metaphor for the stimulus package, until I realized I'd snarled that metaphor so thoroughly that even I had to admit it resembled nothing more than a colding plate of double-helix vermicelli, smothered in marinara pretentiana.
It puts me in ill temper to admit to myself I'm wrong about something, but don't worry. I'll take that out on you later.
The true, unadulterated fact is that I've struggled to understand the motives of the players in this dilation and curettage of the American purse, and even allowing for the most magnanimous of intent, I find the victors at best reprobate in tactic, at worst debauched in soul. I hate all of these motherfuckers.
When Newsweek magazine, once embarrassed by the obvious fact that they were too liberal, can crow We Are All Socialists Now like the sunrise cocks they are, with no hint of embarrassment, we of the classical liberal and conservative strains are truly screwed. And fuck the libertarians. Too many of them crossed the picket line and voted O! They as a rule only want to support your 1st and 2nd Amendment rights so they can huff more Freon. Every time I meet a libertarian I think I can intellectually engage they end up handing me a Bob "White" Barr pin. And their motto? The Third Largest Party in America! That's like saying you're the third largest testicle in my nutsack, fools. We live in a binary world. Us. Them. With us or agin us.
This stimulus? The inevitable outcome of voting (D). Someone please tell me what is progressive about inculcating the policies of Woodrow "Fuck them darkies" Wilson, or Franklin "Let's round up the slant eyes" Roosevelt, or Barack "I won, honkies" Obama. Because I'm struggling with the Future as laid out in a Revenue Act of 1913 tract, or a National Recovery Act poster, or Obama's Awesome Society.
No, it's much worse than a two year recession, which would be the normative market correction, had our financial institutions not been shanghaied by insane grifters, and our government now run by tomfools with their fingers on the tritium trigger of Mammon. The "Government", if we may use the term without irony, will prolong this malaise for a decade or more. At which point the vast new bureaucracies created by the Covetous Class, compounded by the deconstruction of welfare reform, and augmented by the inevitable tax increases on the middling class just to throw interest payments to the rentseekers in the People's Republic of China, will have neutered the American spirit. We shall be done in by good old Yankee Disingenuity.
Short of violent revolution, with pitchforks supplanted by black rifles, the tide is inexorable. No federal bureaucracy has ever been dismantled, once it has become part of the Machine. The only recourse, sadly, is to await the inevitable collapse of the government under its own weight, like one of those disgusting fat people who have to be chainsawed out of their bedrooms in order to motor their bedsored hides to the hospital to save their fucking asses. The only difference is we are the flagitious enablers of that bloat against our collective will.
The internal devils that exhort us to snipe the rotten bastards from rooftop only exacerbate the problem, for the Machine is already built now, the barn door is agape, and for every melon-shotted autocrat there will arise two to take his place. Greed is no longer a deadly sin, but a factum necessarius upon one's curriculum vitae in the District of Columbia. And until a critical mass is reached, wherein one of every four citizens whacks a public confiscator out of a sense of personal grievance, the Machine will merely round up suspects, punish the perpetrators, and pass even more draconian laws to prevent its reoccurrence.
Lookit: sheep don't bite. The electorate of this once proud nation lack not only the spine, but the historical context to stage a counterrevolution to reclaim the ideals of the Founders.
The military does, of course.
I cannot believe I would ever utter this thought, and I have no desire to live in 1967 Greece (or 1923 Turkey, for that matter), but my sad conclusion is a coup d'etat by the right military officer might just be the only remedy to our slide to socialism. I for one can only postulate that a tribunal headed by a David Petraeus, with a carefully selected praetorian of like-minded colonels, could do far better than the unindicted co-conspirators currently wreaking havoc with our childrens' and grandchildrens' birthrights (it's always colonels and naval captains you have to empower. Too many of the flag grades are politically corrupted by the co-conspirators, and must be cashiered before they can attempt to return things to the status quo ante).
There is precedent: it may have taken 16 years, but Pinochet's junta peacefully turned power over to a democratically elected government, and Chile is now the paradigm of Latin democracy. The Turkish military is constitutionally obliged to step in on occasions, smack heads, and straighten out the messes the Islamists and nihilists inevitably create. In fact, there is only real democracy and liberalism in Turkey when the generals step in and run things, and they take this responsibility quite seriously.
Our greatest misfortune as a nation in this scenario, unfortunately, is our officer corps' duty and willingness to uphold the Constitution unto death. They will neither support nor engender any coup d'etat. For this, of course, they are to be commended. It just means my outcome, my desire to see the malefactors in charge brung low and hung high, is unachievable. As much as Hollywood loves to portray the military as a feral pack of Jack D. Rippers and James Matoon Scotts, that is fantasy born of prejudice and ignorance. And not a small amount of shame.
I won't see my coup, but it would certainly be invigorating to witness the shameless cocksuckers who betray us awaken each morning in fear of just such an outcome.
A boy can still dream, can't he?
And, since this is an
unusually indecent jeremiad, the following disclaimer is in order:
I see where Insty is posting about donating blood again, and lamenting the fact he didn't take a camera this time. I'm pretty sure this takes Bore Blogging to a whole new level. When you have to put up yet another picture of yourself giving blood to prove what a Good Citizen you are, you either have a Christ fixation or a blog addiction. Either disorder being easily corrected by spontaneous grassroots crucifixion.
Query: what the fuck is it about blood donors that makes them so smug and self-righteous? I've donated semen under any number of circumstances, and while I admittedly may have demanded approbation from the other individual involved at the moment, I never felt compelled to brag to the entire universe about it.
I put blood donors in the do-gooder category inhabited by ex-smokers. I don't give a flip fuck if you're in the Ten Gallon Club, or haven't huffed a Pall Mall in seven years. That's your gig, not mine. And, yes, I understand donating blood is a worthwhile endeavor, and saves lives. So does putting seat belts on your kid. Just do it, as the slogan says.
Here's a couple of things about donating blood that pissed me off over the years: when I was seventeen I was attending a United States military academy. I went to a blood drive, because my battalion officer told me to, and the corpsman told me that as I was under eighteen I needed mommy or daddy to approve it. Que? Fuck that, I said. I'll donate for myself iffen I ever need mass quantities. Which hopefully I can plan for that car crash. Plus, nobody needs A negative anyway. It's not a rare type or universal donor. It's mutt blood, common as urine in a gutter on St. Patrick's Day.
Second: at my last "career posting" they had huge blood drives every other month or so. There was a designated woman who harassed everyone to sign up to donate. She was very persistent. It's like a United Way gig. You never give that crap job to a man, because he's busy doing real work. It's good filler for the tokens, though. So she would ask you, on a crowded elevator, if you'd sign up for the blood drive, and thrust the clipboard at you. Now, depending who was on that elevator, refusal could be a career killer. Which is why she did it.
After donating twice and still getting badgered in the elevator I finally told her I couldn't give blood because I'd contracted malaria in '76 in Kampuchea, smuggling Hmongs out of the Killing Fields. I already gave, I said with just the right hint of bitterness. Which was complete bullshit, of course, but it shut her the fuck up for the next six blood drives. She wasn't bad looking, though. I should have offered her one of those under any number of circumstances donations.
One other point: anything called a Bloodmobile should have black lights and Rob Zombie posters inside. And a few pasty Goth chicks with cutting scars on their forearms getting transfusions for skag addiction. Bloodrock's D.O.A. playing in the background. Set the mood, goddammit.
Spare me your gushing story of the day you finally received your plastic 20 gallon club pin. I don't care. As far as I'm concerned they should just hook up netted illegal aliens to blood machines, milk them within an inch of their lives, test the shit for HIV, and let them go after a few weeks, too weakened to cause much trouble before the chicken house job starts. Is it too late to get an earmark for that?
I should lay off the political stuff for a while. My doctor tells me it is making me plasmodic, whatever that means. But I cannot recommend Sikh physicians highly enough. Not only do they overlook one's bad habits with a jocular wink and a nod, they also have byzantine connections in the opium market as the need arises. And mine, at least, occasionally lets me wear one of his turquoise turbans during examinations, to soften the humiliation of being buck naked.
While taking five, here's a pic of Velocidaughter 1 on the job. There are a couple more below the fold. I still think she's the only part of the Jacksonville Jaguars that isn't stamped FAIL.
I mentioned patrons briefly in my last jeremiad, and indeed alluded further to that most callow of relationships further in the post title. Clientelism being that state of social affairs when the rich patrons provide the powerless, but theoretically gifted, clients with the wherewithal to blossom. Or to at least ramp up their diets from cabbages and rutabagas, and perfume themselves for the inevitably poor choices in harlots and grifters they will invariably squander the patron's beneficence upon.
I should have expostulated further on that concept in the original post, however I was either 1) being coy in my own brilliantly obscure way, or 2) half-bent on middling cabernet and couldn't be bothered fleshing out the germ of the idea at the time.
I vote for 2).
Thus it is incumbent upon me to say more precisely what I meant, or mean. Now, I knock the patron-client relationship, of course, because we all look upon it as a sort of prostitution, or whoring of one's talents to please the patron. Yet the thing has given us Michelangelo and Leonardo via the de Medicis, for example. Without the patron many great talents would have died aborning, or never seen light of fame and fortune.
No, the clientelism I speak of is only coming into full flower now: the master-slave relationship one finds in corporatism, wherein the corporation (or industrialist, or software maker) is become beholden to the teat of public monies, as doled out by the government.
The early seeds we saw in the progressive trust-busting of Teddy Roosevelt (Peace Be Upon Him). For although one is hard-pressed not to admire the man, he was no classical liberal. TR's movement to destroy monopolies quickly became an exercise in working with them. Wilson furthered this corporatism in World War I, and FDR during the Depression. Government and Industry sat down and, hand in hand, crafted socio-economic policy. The payoff to government: control of the means of production. The payoff to the corporations: they were able to destroy their competition.
It all has the taint of strange bedfellows to it, however the reality is much starker: this foul union was never a marriage of equals. The corporations were never equals to those who could ultimately legislate or regulate or tax or strong arm them out of existence. They were the bully's henchman, an infinitely better place to be than the victimized, but second fiddle, and fumbling for the sheet music.
Now comes the new administration. Before any of us proletarians even realized the deal was truly going down every government agency, state, city, city-state, town, hamlet, and village had a properly authorized wish list in front of their representative, and 800 pages of filthy garbage was duly issued forth like bubbles from a barnacle. There will be much backslapping over the miniscule revisions made to the stimulus bill, as the legislators congratulate themselves on their obeisance to the vox populi, but this thing will still reek of high heaven, and the patrons will have gifted the clients with that which the clients must have in order to survive in their socially acceptable, echo-chambered barnacle shells.
The Clientelism survives, and is indeed stronger for it. The 70% of the private sector that is small business? You, perhaps? You are fucked. You have no patron. You are the sap, the myrrh, that made this unholy thing possible in the first place. So shut up, por favor.
An aside: I know I will garner no comments or links for this post. It lacks the red meat you crazy fuckers crave. That's okay, sinners. For in the process of writing this screed I created a new drink: tomato juice, unbonded corn liquor, and copious amounts of ground cayenne pepper. It's a hillbilly drink, sure, but I like it, and have dubbed it the Bloody Ebsen.
Given that fact, I reckon I'll be out of pocket for a while.
My unborn grandchildren will in all likelihood look back upon the passage of this so-called stimulus bill as the tipping point when capitalist America became the Plutocratic States of America. That sad moment when the mythological Shining City on a Hill became an economically spastic failed state, with the traditional lines separating bureaucrat from capitalist merged to become an unidentifiable mass of oligarchs.
There is no economic stimulation in this execrable plundering of the public weal. It is, actually, no more or less than what it appears to be: a gargantuan and shameless involuntary transfer of the private assets of John Q. Buttfucked to the sinister Machiavels who bestride the Rogue State, bit barely in its thrashing jaws. It is what the leftists have always dreamed of: the harmonic convergence of crisis, despair, and befuddlement that will allow the muscled arm of l'etat to exercise a great vast mugging of the American people. Control of both houses of Congress, a megalomaniacal president with delusions of grandeur, propped upon his throne like a bollixed Joseph II by a press simultaneously worshipful and perfidious. Abetted by a formerly loyal opposition brought low by their own avaricious weaknesses, and a cohort of instant gratification baby boomer financiers bereft of all decency, reason, and fiduciary constraint.
Let us gaze upon our immediate future: the stimulus package is not an $800 billion jolt meant to defibrillate the heart of the American economy; it is a greasy mafiosi-style payoff to the bequeathers' collective patrons, from community outreach organizers to eco-terrorists to pork barrel profiteers to failure-sodden currency manipulators to public works defalcators. T'would be better in my estimation to give every man, woman, and child (and, yes, morphodite) in the country a check for $2500, and see how quickly the economy was stimulated. Even when a large percentage of the population frittered the money on extravagances like paying off credit card debt, or purchasing mail-order Ukranian brides, the economy would reply like one does after a sweet soft kiss in the ear.
It is a given that printing large bundles of cash by any government will only create massive debt and devalue the currency. We call this the Mugabe Rule. Even the window lickers get that. The truly risible part of the cornholing is the conveyance of this largesse into the hands of the fucking knaves responsible for our misfortune in the first place. There is a term for giving good money after bad: enabling. So, as the fast-buck artists of Wall Street failed and fucked their clientele, so shall we reward them. No issue of remorse or correcting the model. The only issue thus far is the half a million cap on executive salaries, and the wail of the banshee on this point is disgusting. The only thing more putrid than the greed of the boomer elitists is their lack of history. They act as if they are the first people in history to strike a Mephistophilian bargain, only to be impaled by the conditions. The Devil always exacts his due, you fucking twats. And as one devil to another you should consider it professional courtesy betwixt the damned.
And to industry in general: this is truly a case of the producers in manufacturing and processing versus the financiers and speculators and arbitrageurs and private asset manipulators and hedgers and derivateurs. The speculators were able to finesse the traditional corporate geniuses because the genuises were so engrossed in their exponentially increasing worth via bonuses and options lavished by circlejerk board directors that they didn't care how ridiculously valued their debt instruments were. Sure, there were imperious greedheads in the Greatest Generation, but in the last 20 years every swinging dick above middle management came to believe he or she was the current embodiment of the Gilded Age. I despise my generation for that, and for the ready leap to self-aggrandizement one often saw in the mediocre upon the lucky windfall of profit from serendipitous source.
The Senator often told me If it's too good to be true, boy, it probably is. Of course, he'd never seen a trillion dollar bailout bill, either.
Well, it shall all sort itself out. After our government caesars become the majority shareholders in a statistically significant sample of the nation's economy, and Main Street has collapsed due to the benign neglect of their superiors, we'll all sit around eighteen to a hovel and run our fingers around the rim of the expired Nutro can of Soylent Samoyed and utter nervous laughs about our earlier silly fears of a command and control economy.
Did I mention taxes? They'll be going up. Way up. At the pump. At the market. FICA. Payroll. Sales. Ad valorems. Do you think it's cheap destroying and rebuilding, you selfish cocksucker? You print a trillion dollars, you got some fucking overhead, Dick. Interest, mostly. And vigorish. A lotta vig. So get on board. The train is leaving the station, and one would not want to be left behind. With the dead.
A bleak scenario? Possibly. Then again, the glass I envision is half full of single malt Scotch, so that colours me an optimist. It's the other half of the glass, the hemlock, I'll probably hold my nose aswallowing.
Someone mentioned getting high on the old chronic to me the other day in an email or comment, but like my letter of apology to Andrew Sullivan I can't find the damned thing anywhere. This road is down Atlanta Highway from work, and should pop a synapse or two from R.E.M. fans. And, as it is about twenty miles from Athens, I must insist the boys had been down that particular three miles of bad road at some point in their nonage.
Also, I reach a certain tipping point where I refuse to believe in
coincidence serendipity the willing suspension of disbelief. Rankin' Rob would know. I sent him the photo a few weeks back, but, alas, his blog is requesting an unrequited user name, so perhaps I am bestia non grata there in these heady days of tax-evading unicorn hostlers.
I remember now: It was Serr8d's photoskills.