North Korea's successful launch of a sixth ballistic missile the other day, close on the heels of their atomic bomb test, beggars the question: why does the left hate American anti-ballistic missile defense so? Or, as Barack Obama disingenuously calls it, unproven missile defense systems. This despite a long series of successful anti-missile tests. In fact, the left has screeched like Marburg-infected macaque monkeys for over two decades, even as the technology, and the umbrella of protection it provides, has expanded. Obama is of a sort: a shameful liar for the Cause.
It Won't Work!
There are several reasons. First, the seeds of the technology began in the early eighties during Reagan's first term, even as the Nuclear Freeze movement was gaining ground. This threat to marginalize the unilateral disarmers maddened that particular cohort of useful idiots so busily marching in the capitals of the West. Second, the left is quite keen on the concept of "equal outcomes". The fact that one side could neutralize the opposition incensed their sense of equality. "It's Not Fair!" being the cri de coeur of the leftist social engineer. Third, why, a ballistic defense umbrella simply meant to the left that the wrong fucking side would win. And that fact was too bitter a pill to swallow.
In the early days of the Strategic Defense Initiative the useful idiots in the nonproliferation movement, heady on funding from the KGB, sensibly proclaimed that SDI was a violation of the ABM Treaty of 1972. Well, yes. And so? Reagan rightly ascertained, as did any truly sentient creature, that the Mighty Soviet Integral honored no treaty it could successfully circumvent. There was no honor among those thieves, therefore any treaty signed by Richard Nixon was regrettable, but non-binding on anyone. To be honest, the 108,000 Russian troops then deployed in Afghanistan rendered moot any reason to honor a pact with those filthy hegemonists. We were dealing with the roguest of states.
The well-funded useful idiots followed the KGB playbook carefully, in that they harped incessantly on the space-based initiatives of SDI, rather than the land and sea based platforms. This allowed them to halloo, like so many yokel yodelers, that "It won't work!" and "It's too expensive!" Perhaps it wouldn't work. but the very existence of the space-based platform, whether feasible or not, and the large dollars thrown at it, was the monetary gauntlet that caused the USSR to implode. They were so busy trying to keep up with fricking lasers in space that we were able to develop Aegis and other ground/sea platforms.
It was a beautiful thing, really.
As for those Nuclear Freeze morons? They were never about nuclear disarmament. They never marched in front of the Kremlin demanding destruction of SS-20's. They were well-funded shitheels whose mission was unilateral disarmament for the West. I'm sure even they didn't bother to ask where the funds came from that paid for those protest excursions, and papier-mâché heads (yes, that gimmick is that old). But just as the left loves to invoke Vietnam without taking credit for the boat people, the killing fields, and the millions dead in
indoctrination slave-labor camps across Indochina in the wake of their folly, so they never (and to this day) wonder where that sweet fucking money for them protests came from.
It's Not Fair!
Every pissant leftist decries the notion of equality of opportunity. Equality of outcomes is the Holy Grail of the progressive re-engineer. One cannot achieve an Eden of enchanted Eloi when some folks do better than others. The progressive income tax, affirmative action, a safety net so broad it would drown every dolphin in the Atlantic, such are the tools of the equal outcomers. So when a Ronald Reagan or a George W. Bush brings an assault rifle to a knife fight, the left is horrified by the most-assuredly unequal outcome of that fight. In fact, the unsteady balance of power wrought by Mutual Assured Destruction actually had a perverse calming effect upon the left. So long as the Soviets were able to make incremental gains in places like Angola, Nicaraugua, and Grenada, of course. That balance of power served the dual purpose of providing a Potemkin Village for the viability of the Soviet model. If the USSR was a superpower, why, that proved their model worked!
The left grudgingly accepted an America that was demonstrably equal to the Russkies. They really had no choice, despite their most concerted efforts to betray it. Just as the progressive educator thinks all playground activity should end in a tie, so it was unacceptable for America to damage the communists' sense of self-worth by kicking thier fucking asses in the high ground of space.
Our Side Will Lose!
With the success of a missile defense system comes the awful truth to the leftists that their side would lose. Forget the fact that missile defense is just that, defensive by nature. There is nothing aggressive or bellicose about it. Hell, Bush wanted to share the technology. One could of course make the claim that deploying missile defense in the near past in Poland or the Czech Republic was a provocation to the Russian sphere of influence, however Putin's pushback was cheap vitriol aimed at the nationalistic impulses of the eternally moribund and defeatist Russian psyche. He knew full well the missiles were aimed at Iran, not Russia. Regardless, the operant component for the leftist then, and now was and is the horrifying specter of the failure of international socialism, and victory in the West.
The left gravitated, and gravitates, to socialism and communism as the mule rises to the gratuitous kick: even when all outcomes are equal, especially when all outcomes are supposedly equal, there remains the role for the elite. The leftist, nursed upon the sugar tit of academia, or the coffeehouse, is a ready and willing accomplice to any manner of atrocity for a place at the table with the upright pigs. Being an apparatchik is, verily, in the DNA of the leftist. Every leftist believes in the rule of the elite. Even Karl Marx didn't believe in the withering of the state. That was a sop thrown to the prole to entice compliance and obeisance. For the major personality trait of the leftist is to be the fucking scold, the preening moralist. To punish the successful (the quarterback, the prom queen). The success of missile defense over the last decade, in test after test, has been one of the reasons the left has become so unhinged. Our side is losing. We must stop that at any cost.
It takes a truly miserable, wretched, and disgusting individual to look at a defensive measure that would protect 300 million fellow citizens from the horror of nuclear holocaust and think that's just a bad idea. No: by any lucid or sane measure that is an incredibly outrageous, awesome, insanely fantastic idea. A fucking five year old could decipher that. But in the rarified atmosphere of the dilettantchik, we must hold ourselves open to nuclear strike, to terrible one-off Persian or Korean terrorist attack, if we are to maintain our morality.
Today it is North Korea giddily test firing ICBMs and atomic bombs. Tomorrow it will be Iran, and after that whomsoever the evildoers in Pyongyang, Islamabad, or Tehran feel like empowering with tincan dirty technology. My bet's on Indonesia, but it could just as easily be Somalia. Whoever it is will most likely be Islamist, of course. The leftist cares not, so long as it is an enemy of the U.S. It would be interesting to see how many of the proud liberals in the academy unfurl the prayer rug, or don the burkha, once the evil be done. To paraphrase Gertrude Stein, an apparatchik is an apparatchik is a weasily martinet.
As long as we're discussing rewards, what passes for a dacha these days, anyway? Probably the estates of Chrysler and GM executives, wrested by fiat and awarded to the same leftists who are counseling the elimination of funding for missile defense. I hope they understand the true nature of what they seek. An Islamist theocracy isn't quite the same thing as a sweet commie party gig. After all, buffing to high sheen the poor quality pigskin leather shoes of a Muscovite overlord would likely get one beheaded for a touching of the swines in the New World.
The assassination of partial-birth abortionist George Tiller today, while Tiller was attending church services, is a crime so despicable as to evoke the greatest of outrage and disgust in any rational soul. The culprit is a monster of the first order, deserving of the highest punishment. Fortunately Kansas has recently reaffirmed the death penalty.
The suspect, in custody, is apparently active in Operation Rescue.
Thanks a lot, asshole. I suppose it's too much to hope you have an uncashed check from Moveon.org in your wallet. Which, of course, is an egregious and unfounded accusation, but conspiracy theories do get me hard. Perhaps I should rename this post Give Me Enough Rope. That was decidedly un-Christian of me.
Wasn't I recently discussing the likelihood of a national sales tax or VAT being shoved down our throats? Why yes. Yes I was.
Well, here come the opening shots. In this instance courtesy of the Obama public relations office, AKA The Washington Post. The current spin is it will replace income taxes for those making under $100,000. And we all know how those promises are graven in stone.
They shoot looters, don't they?
UPDATE: Ace is calling it a "trial balloon". Yep. This meme will start popping up all over the MSM over the next week or two. Opening shot, trial balloon, what I want to know is what Journolist is calling their strategy.
UPDATE: More from Stacy McCain, who reacts with the time-honored "Rage Against the Machine" shouting of obscenities at the computer screen.
Fuckin' Ada, bro.
So how did I spend my Memorial Day? First, with private acknowledgement of the Senator, his big brother Bob, who died in a B-24 crash in 1944, and myriad others who made the ultimate sacrifice. Velociworld is a rather caustic and impertinent site, long on blasphemy, short on superego. I choose to honor some things offsite rather than pollute them here.
So: a field trip with Key Monroe to the Georgia Guidestones. There's always something interesting in the near world, and the guidestones are a mere 60 miles away. Compelling tale, as well: a mysterious man calling himself "R C Christian" appeared in Elberton, Georgia in 1979. He and his fellow anonymous friends wished to erect a monument to what they fancied to be the guides to a peaceful, spiritual, healthy planet. They chose Elbert County because of the quality of granite, it being the granite capital of the world, and the ready availability of master stone masons. Elberton is the "Granite Capital of the World", and the billboards proclaim they produce something in excess of 60% of the nation's monuments, including, I presume, so many of the memorials so honorably decorated this weekend. It was like being in the birth canal of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Very humbling.
Back to the story: after obtaining the necessary guarantees of anonymity, and the deposit of a large sum of monies, work commenced. The first pillar was erected in 1980, the others shortly thereafter. It was a Stonehenge type thing, with three astronomical devices, and a message in eight modern languages, with a shorter message in four ancient languages. H'yar it is:
The message, which I repeat below, is New Age claptrap, of course, the gooey soft one-worlder tripe that still has traction today:
THE MESSAGE OF THE GEORGIA GUIDESTONES
1. Maintain humanity under 500,000,000 in perpetual balance with nature.
2. Guide reproduction wisely - improving fitness and diversity.
3. Unite humanity with a living new language.
4. Rule passion - faith - tradition - and all things with tempered reason.
5. Protect people and nations with fair laws and just courts.
6. Let all nations rule internally resolving external disputes in a world court.
7. Avoid petty laws and useless officials.
8. Balance personal rights with social duties.
9. Prize truth - beauty - love - seeking harmony with the infinite.
10.Be not a cancer on the earth - Leave room for nature - Leave room for nature.
Here's some perspective:
That's Your Handsome Boy, of course. Fedora
stolded wrested from Elisson.
And Watson Mill State Park, just down the road:
I've never seen so many chicken-fried neckbones have so much fun with a $3 parking pass and some slippery shoals. It sort of gives you faith in the simple pleasures of life, don't it?
Of course, at least two or three of these brush arbor revivalists are probably responsible for defacing the guidestones last winter. No sweat off my ass, of course. Not my message, not my money. I mention it only in passing.
Sobbing kindergarteners snubbed by White House after arriving late.
"We were going to the White House, but we couldn’t get in so I felt sad..."
Key often asks me (well, before she fell head over heels for the Free Credit Report Guy. Memo to self: Take that cocksucker out!):
"How come you never link other bloggers?"
To which I reply, casually:
"Baby, because I am the Fucking Man!"
"Baby, I'm the Man!"
What were we talking about? Ah, yes. The Man:
Now it's dark.
Sometimes, when confronted with this level of competition for the affections of a lady, a fellow can do naught but the gentlemanly thing. That would be strapping barbed wire around his torso, placing shards of broken glass in his shoes, and driving thumbtacks into his eyeballs, just to take his mind off the hideosity of the thing.
As an aside, I'm forced to type this with one hand, as my other hand is methodically scourging my bare back with a homemade cat o' nine tails. I didn't have any proper components handy for the construction of this device, therefore I was forced to use a pair of vise grips, some strands of weed trimmer filament, and a handful of fence post staples. It's not elegant, but it's very effective.
Please overlook any typos in this message, as my QWERTY skills are constrained by the missing pinky, and the thumbtacks are making my eyes tear up dreadfully. Of course, they could be tears of sorrow.
She's the 47 million-year-old fossil the
Quislings Norwegians purchased on the black market that reknowned scientists worldwide are avidly proclaiming to be the apocryphal missing link between man and ape.
Now before I begin my splenetic diatribe please note I do believe in evolution. Why, I'm positive it accounts for a solid 11 to 12 percent of life as we know it. I'm just a little fuzzy with the logic here.
This "lemur monkey", as it's being called, is a slam dunk missing link? It's 47 fucking million years old. The oldest previous ape fossil, australopithecus Lucy, is a mere 3 million years old, and there is no direct ascertainable link between she and thee. So why would Richard Attenborough attest:
"This is the one that connects us directly with them.
The link they would have said up to now is missing - well it's no longer missing."
I've previously mentioned my distaste for the History Channel, or rather the fantasist circle jerk it has become. Oh, you can still find "historical" shows on now and then, but the lion's share of programming has morphed into fodder for the ecospastic, the misanthropic, and the plain old batshit crazy.
The reality shows are extremely vexing. Ice Road Truckers and Ax Men are vain attempts to capitalize on the nominal success of Discovery's Deadliest Catch. Unfortunately, long-haul driving across frozen tundra and Pacific Northwest logging are perhaps the most boring professions in existence. No amount of editing, splicing, scripting, or faux controversy can escape this fact. I suppose I could toss south Georgia turpentine collection and dirt farming out there as more quotidian, but I don't see these on the fall line up.
Far worse are tripe like Gangland and Life After People. Fucking bilge, this stuff. Gangland is just a foray into the putrid world of born losers, from biker gangs to Crips and Bloods to Latin Kings to every other assemblage of human detritus that operates a goddam meth lab from the trunk of a car. In my opinion providing a forum to this garbage is a crime in itself. While the show does not overtly attempt to glorify these subhuman vermin, it does allow them to vent about just how motherfucking bad ass they are in an endless loop. Disgusting shit. No normal person can possibly find this interesting, therefore the demographic they seek must be the wannbe gangbangers.
I don't begrudge the channel a one of two hour special on gangs, but a fucking series? What numbnut executive vice president of programming not only didn't pound the scrota of the imbeciles who pitched this with a rubber mallet, but actually greenlighted it? I'd love to see the Neilsens on this excrement. And that EVP's salary and bonus.
The worst, of course, is Life After People. This is nothing more than a thrill ride for the Earth Firsters and other ecoterrorists of the Voluntary Human Extinction Movement who think mankind should be eliminated from the biosphere. Whereas the History Channel formerly had erudite scholars discussing serious issues they now have burned out, ponytailed hippie cocksuckers with titles such as "urban ecologist" rubbing their hands together, barely able to contain their glee, as they recount what will happen when humans disappear, and the traces of humanity from buildings to monuments to sacred texts and documents to the lowliest footprint are wiped clean from Gaia's mons pubis. It's a singularly disgusting bit of theater. Everyone involved in this putrescent spectacle should be ashamed.
Here's the other thing: these avuncular evolutionists, who decry the way in which we humans imperil the spotted owl or snail darter, refuse to accept habitat loss when embracing evolution. Whether the destruction of habitat occurs through logging or development or meteorite impact or volcano, loss is inevitable. Extinction is part of evolution. Those creatures that adapt and overcome flourish in the post-apocalypse. Others do not. It's been that way for eons. It's Gaia's way. In a sense, the environmentalist should embrace the extinction of the snail darter, for it portends the rise of a newer, more adapted, stronger species. Huzzah.
Of course, the only extinction these self-loathing dilettantes cheer is the eventual one of us. Which makes the urban ecologist's statement that he would LOVE to see the hawks take over the canopies of the crumbling skyscrapers of the post-human world as uber raptors just so much filth. Because you won't, will you, boy? It's really pornographic, this obsession with and hatred of one's own species. In hardier days I suspect these insipid pipesmokers would have been detected as the runts of the litter, and kicked aside, away from the suckling teat.
Ah, well. From the channel guide comes great jeremiads, I suppose. But I refuse to watch some life sciences professor from the University of New Mexico-Trinity Site lecture me on how fucking awesummus this indifferent orb will be without me. IFC's been showcasing Blue Velvet, for one thing. Frank and the boys may hate people, but at least they like to have them around. Being a victim at least still allows you to be.
Update: Cripplanche! As I've said, a link from Denny is worth 10 links from Wolcott plus a Matt Yglesias.
Update II: Vanderlink! Somehow Gerard always manages to find a sentence fragment in my post that doesn't expose me for the tail-chasing frothmonger I am. Or not.
Jeff Goldstein on Barack Obama's "Empathy Standard" for judges and justices:
What Obama is after is a logical extension of who gets to determine meaning and, importantly, how they are able to justify their right to do so — in this case, pretending that the law extends beyond what the law is supposed to address, allowing its newly freed interpreters to do as they please with all the penumbras and emanations they will suddenly discover.
Judges who look beyond the intent or scope of a law for ways to make special pleadings fit are no longer acting as jurists. They are acting as unelected legislators who presume to circumvent the will of the people based on their own subjective sense of right and wrong. They have become philosopher kings, and worse, they are acting in a way that is transparently political.
It is fine for a judge to be empathetic. It is disastrous, however, for a judge to rule based on what his heart tells him. In fact, it is the ability to make the correct legal ruling despite what your heart is telling you that should be the standard by which we gauge our jurists.
Comes the news today from my younger daughter that my old cat Fosse has shed his mortal coil. Found dead in the mulch, outside the front door. How ignominious a retreat from life. I can only hope for the same dramatic exit.
Truth be told, I'd seldom seen the old boy of late, he residing in Florida with the girls. And they weren't crazy about him, he being fat, slothful, and temperamental to the point of ankle biting if the mood struck him, which was often. They had other cats, girly cats, to dote upon.
I always loved him, though, and missed him. Hopefully, somewhere in Pet Heaven, there is a blue jay with his thorax rent open, and a glassy-eyed mouse with his lower half missing.
Do I have a picture? No. Not handy. He was fat, and black. With tuxedo markings. Ten or twelve years old, I guess. I was never one for birthday parties for non-sentient companions. He was a fucking Hoss, though.
So there you have it. Godspeed, my feral friend.
And also the unfunniest. Although Margaret Cho is still alive, right? I mean, in the vital signs way. Not the banished to Molokai way.
And I'm just talking about Sykes's soul. Or lack thereof. Imagine: a black woman with no soul. Who'd a thunk it?
Makeup: Max Factor
Hair: Baron Henry von Frankenstein
Nostrils: Pratt & Whitney
So Oprah Winfrey is pimping John Bircher vaccination opponent and notorious flake and fuck junkie Jenny McCarthy. I'm not sure why. I'm even more unsure why I care. Here's all I know from Jenny McCarthy:
And I will admit that was only the third time in my life I'd wanted to make love to a woman while she was taking a dump. The other two times? Let's just say the tables were nefariously turned upon me. The grunter became the grunted, as it were. And leave it at that.
Actually, I'm not a big fan of vaccinations, either. Oh, sure. I made my kids get them. But moi? Let's just say I don't cotton to needles of government provenance being jabbed in my veins. Ever been to a county health clinic? It ain't all pellagra and the rickets anymore, Pollyanna.
Am I in a parallel universe? Because things sure looked a whole hell of a lot different when I was exiting the ole birth canal. Well, except for that Jenny McCarthy pose. That scene I recognized.
As I continue to take the measure of our president I've become convinced that he is nothing more than the ultimate manifestation of the gaffler, the swindler. He is the urbane confidence man, exploiting both our weaknesses and our virtues. His immeasurable genius is in his ability to employ the tactics of the carnival barker to hustle us, yet leave us feeling somehow noble afterwards (videlicet Michael Caine in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels).
The tactics are classic:
1) The false sense of urgency: they don't call them hustlers for nothing. Everything with President O'Bunko had to be done yesterday! Crises impel us to act rashly, lest we miss out on a supposedly fleeting window of opportunity. One doesn't really have to have their weight guessed that very moment at the Coastal Empire Fair, but one is often impelled by the exhortation to act Now!Now!Now! Just as we were told the stimulus bill had to be passed immediately. The economy was melting before our eyes, like an ice cream cone in the sun.
Why, they didn't even have time to read it first. That urgent.
2) Misdirection: Just as the carny misdirects your attention in the shell game, so President O'Flimflam misdirects us with assaults upon Rush Limbaugh, or AIG employees, or "speculators", or whatever other daemon he can summon, in case our attentions are drawn to his disastrous economic policies. Staff support is key here.
3) The "inside man": The next level up from the shell game is three-card monte, wherein the grifter uses an inside man to "conspire" with the mark to take the game. This is misdirection taken to a new level. The inside man boosts the confidence of the mark, and convinces the mark he can win. Psychic hucksters and televangelists are reknowned masters of the inside man. President O'Barker is very fortunate in this area, as he has an entire media-industrial complex proactively fomenting false issues in order to misdirect the public. They also pen slippery tributes intended to instill in us, the marks, confidence in the Grifter-In-Chief.
The true measure of a confidence artist is his ability to play upon our greed if we are so inclined, or our virtue if we are not. Hence the greedy amongst us are warned to take the deal now. Before the others. The pie is only so big. The TARP recipients are the greedy marks here. Of course, it's like any deal with the devil. Trying to renege is blasphemy. And verboten. Nein!
For the virtuous? We are entertained with visions of a greener earth through cap and trade, clearer skies through higher fuel taxes, and a helping hand to the ever present, yet anomalous "poor" through universal health care, mortgage subsidies, and those ephemeral jobs President O'Barnum claims to create, which in a different, more honest time were referred to as "patronage", "graft", and the "spoils system".
When I was nineteen years old I nuzzled up to a hot young thing at a bar on River Street in Savannah for an hour. After much kissing on her part and frottage on my part she eventually coaxed twenty dollars out of me to score some supposed "love drug" from a girl she knew across the street. Two hours later I realized the carnival was in town, and I was a dumb cracker mark. I never made that mistake again, but it was a cheap lesson, and I'm sure a damned hard twenty dollars an hour for her. In fact, I salute her industry. And her hot lips.
I've never felt that vulnerable or bushwhacked again in my life. Until inauguration day. And I really don't like President O'Frottage metaphysically nuzzling up against me. I know this game. I don't like this game. And I don't want to play this game. I'm told, however, that not participating in this confidence game makes me a dangerous soul, and an enemy of the State.
Ah. Well. At least I can hold out for some "love drug". And perhaps a subsidy for happy endings at the local massage therapist (Buenos noches, Marisol!).
ET: The Extraterrestrial: Didn't see it until 1996. It was horribly dated by then. Childish depiction of brainless government agents who only want to dissect ET. Sucks.
Star Wars: Saw it in the theater with a smuggled pint of vodka. Childish kiddie flick. Sucks.
Titanic: Never saw it. Knew the ending, no need to see it, therefore it sucks.
The Matrix: Yawn. Sucks.
Blade Runner: Overhyped, overblown. Sucks.
Casablanca: Bogart's pants are hiked over the nipples of his collapsed chest. He's no stud. Sucks.
Caddyshack: This film is so shitty on so many levels I may proceed forthwith to: SUCKS.
Star Treks 3-9: 1 and 2 were so bad I never saw the rest of them. Therefore they must suck.
Brazil: Sucks. Just sucks.
Fried Green Tomatoes/Ya-Ya Sisterhood/Joy Luck Club/Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants/Thelma and Louise/A League of Their Own/Terms of Endearment etc/etc/etc: Suck. All of them.
Pretty Woman: Hooker with a heart of gold plot foisted off as new and daring: Sucks.
The All Time Suck Film? The Concert for Bangladesh: No one should have to sit through 45 minutes of Ravi Shankar to see Bob Dylan on an off day. Sucked.
Tomorrow: Women behind bars in cinema: a roundtable discussion on the state of the art.
Here's an interesting story. The gist is that warp speed travel is not impossible:
One reason this idea seems credible is that scientists think it may already have happened. Some models suggest that space-time expanded at a rate faster than light speed during a period of rapid inflation shortly after the Big Bang.
As Key had professional obligations tonight I started to walk down the road to see what my Mexican neighbors were up to for 050509. Perhaps imbibe some tequila and listen to some of that kick ass tejano-polka-zydeco they relentlessly play. I was also curious to see if my Mexican Pi Car theory was correct: by my calculations one can multiply the number of vehicles in a Mexican driveway by 3.14 and get an approximation of the number of inhabitants in said domicile. In this case that would be about 22 people.
Alas, like all other Mexicans, these folks don't celebrate Cinque de Mayo. It is a ridiculously minor event on their calendars, celebrating a mere victory over French forces. This would be the equivalent of a Mexican confusing Victory In Grenada Day (which I still petition Congress for annually) with our Fourth of July. Cinquo de Mayo is a marketing ploy created by beer distributors to hype "pub crawls", which in themselves are hyped by local law enforcement as revenue enhancers via the vigorous and robust application of the DUI statutes. Although normally the only people nabbed for DUI on these occasions are the disc jockeys deployed to cover the events. DJ's fall into two categories: alcoholics, who eventually get busted on event nights, and former alcoholics, who thereafter endlessly declaim upon their DUI's, and Come to Jesus moments. Most disc jockeys don't have anything interesting to converse about until they complete rehab. Then they won't shut the fuck up about it.
So unfortunately the Latinos' house was quiet, and I didn't want to intrude. They really are nice people, who wave frantically and grin furiously as they drive by the house, exhaust smog engulfing our bucolic piece of hilltop like a malathion mosquito sprayer, or a Chinese coal factory. If I could work the abacus I'd wager I could eventually get a head count. Just to satisfy my own perverse curiosity. But they are good neighbors, and keep their two acres well-groomed and heavily wooded, as the rest of we proud few do.
I did leave a small handwritten note in the mailbox, requesting dingleberry fringe balls and a plastic madonna, in the rare instance Mexicans would actually receive anything via the Postal Service as opposed to the Tijuana Bark. I commute in a county vehicle, a deplorable old beater of a Lumina with chipped white paint and fungus stains attached to it like the Shroud of Turin impressions. I could drive a better vehicle but I took a shine to the Lumina, as one of my mechanics has taken it as a personal mission to keep it running like a cat with turpentine on its ass. It was missing a hubcap on one side, and I liked that look so much I pulled one off the other side as well. It is now brutally declassé, and I'm very proud of it. Although it does lack a little something. That would be dingleberry fringe balls, and a plastic madonna. I signed the note "Dude in Lumina" lest they be confused.
If the party cranks up later after the second shift at the chicken plant releases, I'll mosey on down. I believe I have a coonskin cap somewhere, and I'll take an old piece of 2x2, which I shall label Santa Ana's Leg. That should crack them up.
...of low expectations.
Isn't all of this media preoccupation with Michelle's chiseled triceps and Barack's pecs rather grotesque? And, incidentally, evocative of the slave auction block? They wouldn't engage in this type of physical scrutiny over a white political couple. The way these MSM types keep going on about these two's bodies, I'm expecting them to pull their gums back and inspect their teeth. Then measure Michelle's cervix and Barry's thrill hammer with an eye to future breeding.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things..."
You know the drill: never make eye contact with a streetcorner crazy, a homeless person, or the 800 pound
gorilla walrus in your living room with the blood-flecked tusks. Because they all invariably want to engage.
However, my Ouija board (I have the Kate Planchette edition) has been hovering over "O" for no good reason of late, so engage the beast I must.
I can't believe I bought into the construct that the Walrus was Capitalism for thirty years, by the way. Professors are strict constructionists, too, they just don't have much use for the Constitution. More of a "What Would Cassady Do?" I mean, besides literally sucking Allen Ginsburg's cock for twenty years.
No, I think the Walrus was government. No capitalist would gobble up all his oysters, and leave himself nothing. But a government, now, there you have something. "Capital", in the sense of dollars, is always forthcoming to a government. The people will cough up more oysters every year. And governments will consume this year's oysters, and lay claim to 90% of the next two generations' oysters, too. Because a government knows it will be hungry. Famished, even.
So how to pay for all of these oysters? There has been much rumbling and grumbling about imposing sales taxes on internet purchases, of course. But these forebodings are always accompanied by much ballyhooing about how impossible it would be for the mom and pops to manage 50 different state sales taxes, and the issues surrounding origin of purchase. Never happen, we're told.
Of course, people seldom mention that 800 pound walrus, the VAT. Why the fuck would the federal government, famished, allow all those little 50 bull pups to get first crack at all of those sweet oysters? Just because they happen to be walruses, too? Walruses are alpha territorial bastards, with choleric dispositions where dinner is concerned. No, the feds will specifically exempt internet sales from state sales taxes, and then levy a value-added tax, like our Eurotrash brethren. Probably not a real VAT, however, as that taxes each entity in the process incrementally down the pipeline. Far simpler to just make it an end user consumption tax. The end user being us poor schlubs wearing naught but rain barrels held up by suspenders, having no powerful agents in the hallowed halls of the capital, like the
corporations polar bears. Polar bears have K Street sea lions feeding the Walrus a steady diet of popcorn oyster fritters for appetizers. Just enough to keep things whetted, of course. We are the fucking main course.
The VAT will probably be in the 18-23% range, and it will be sold as the lesser of two evils, the larger evil being
Michelle Obama's forehead those clusterfuck state sales taxes. One stop shopping for your internet taxes. I believe this is what Obama meant when he recently proposed "simplifying the tax code". Just give it all to me, you stupid cracker pudknockers.
Of course, I may be wrong. It's happened before. But to be fair to myself, I'd never heard of such a thing as a morphodite before that disastrous encounter. I was lucky to get away with only lipstick smears, and Winky intact.
Oysters VAT. The other Red Ink. This one is coming. Mark your calendars. He'll probably make it effective next May Day. Who says that fellow doesn't have a sense of humor? Why, he's absolutely droll.