Ummm, so I gotta ask, how many “let them eat cake” moments do we need?
This is my roundabout, ranting Leftie armchair quarterback way to look at the Invasion of the Maniacs in Washington, D.C. this past week. I’m hoping for the best (round up all the Fascist and bring back the firing squad—
said the man complaining about fascists), but not expecting much of anything.
And Damn it! Don’t they know they’re fucking up the stock market! That makes me pissed!
To apocryphally quote Judge Roy Bean, “I know the Law, because I have spent my entire life in its flagrant disregard!”
I understand the country because the country is like me: an immature mess who’s too smart for its own good, has too many bad habits to count, who’s been so damn lucky so damn often that we’ve started thinking that maybe we’re charmed and that the Really Big Break is just around the next corner, and who should really, really, really know better.
I really want to be impressed, I want to see politicos acting like they mean it, I want to see asses get kicked and names taken, I want the forces of good to overcome, I want redemption for my goddamn patience!
There’s so much I want to see in the wake of this Grand Shriek of the Batshit Crazies…but I’m not holding my breath….
Adam Warlock is almost
as freaked out
as I am.
Keeping a semi-mystical, para-psychedelic, cool-calm-collected, above-it-all attitude towards Contemporary Life in These United Hates is TOUGH as a motherfucker these days!
And don’t you fuckers know you’re interfering with my warlock studies?!?
The telepathic pressure from the Normals (on all sides of the fence) is enough to give you the bends, and then the natural, abhorrent fear of the oozing Lizard-Brain Barbarian Hordes? It’s enough to make you plunge into the abyss of addiction….and there are no AA meetings you can attend because of COVID-19, and who the fuck attends an online 12-step meeting? Not Me, the invisible gremlin….
Absolutely too many problems with U.S. policy both home and abroad boomerang back around (blowback?) to the uncontrollable desire (psychotic need? Violent urge? Dreadful addiction?) to believe with unholy conviction easy baby-food-smooth cowboy myths rather than to pursue the genuine examination of problems—that often we ourselves started (Hello? Iran? Syria?).
Too hard! Brain hurts! Doesn’t fit easily achievable goals that can be
successfully stage-managed for smooth media consumption on our heavily-slanted
“news”/infotainment networks! Dilute, dilute, OK!
We were a big enough country in landmass to let that exceptional/rugged individualism nonsense fester and metastasize for far too long—back then we were lucky enough that the loons kept moving into the wilderness (often “taming” it through wholesale slaughter),
but now there's no more room, neither physical, metaphorical, or in the media.
Fuck this individualism bullshit. Let’s start working towards a common goal, a purpose. Stop being such a selfish pigfucker, USA.
Just as the Japanese learned hundreds of years ago to deal with a crowded, unruly nation, so will we—and in probably the same blood-soaked, stratifying fashion, leading to militaristic authoritarianism and borderline feudalism, but that’s for the then to come, not the now NOW—
and that also might mean learning some politeness, conscientiousness, and manners.
Somebody here has got to learn to eat at the grown-ups’ table. Knowing which one is a salad fork doesn’t make you less of a man, you Rough Tough Cream Puff.
(The WILD thing about all the Rough Tough Cream Puff Trumpanistas is how so many of them are so very FAR from being genuine lower-income. Some of them might be able to call themselves “working class,” but that construction job or trucking gig helps them pull down $200K/year, and the rest? Aside from economic roadkill that all other sides have given up on except for the cynical nihilists who have already shown how they intend to USE AND THROW AWAY said economic roadkill, there’s a bugfuck ton of whhiiiiiiiiite collars.
I’m jealous of them, really, I am. To have lived an entire life in such an
impenetrable bubble that the election of a black man brought you to this….
Well, I am impressed. Yes, it is impressive how quickly your personality
rearranged itself from parasitical office drone to Mad Max of the Neu-Amerikkka
Damn, when I see you, I see someone who’s never really had to get their hands dirty, really had to eat shit, really had to say, “yessir!” with the biggest shit-eating grin possible—because if you had done those things, then you would know that the enemy isn’t your coworker but your boss. Apocryphally attributed to Steinbeck: “Every American thinks they’re a millionaire that’s only temporarily down on their luck.”
So you suck up to the boss because it’s easier, because maybe a crumb will fall from the table, maybe when I get to be a millionaire, he’ll treat me like an equal even if I didn’t go to Andover and don’t know the secret handshake…
To quote Gene Wilder in Blazing Saddles, “These are people of the land. The common clay of the New West. You know… Morons.”)
On the flipside: It always amuses me how my kind, loving, rational, empathetic, and decent friends (who honestly swing from liberal to conservative depending on the issue—which means they’re thoughtful: they examine issues and try and understand them from varying viewpoints, depending on their status as a parent, homeowner, gun owner, veteran, wealth or lack of, and so on)—These friends can never understand that the folks that horrify them, like the recent Seditionists, Hitlerites, Insurrectionists, Terrorists (and yes, that’s what they are, terrorists—and dammit! The FBI better start treating them like the threat they are; and I hope ’Mericuh’s business leaders continue to exert the pressure they wield as the U.S.’s true masters and force the dumbfucks—both the Feebs and the Rebels Without a Decent Cause into the 20th century (at least!))
[At least treat the KKK and the Proud Boys to a decade of the treatment the FBI and COINTELPRO gave to the Black Panthers and other leftist activist groups—no, wait, just one year. None of these Rough Tough Cream Puff crybabies couldn’t stand even one damn year of top-notch Fed counterintelligence, I betcha…]
As I was trying to say before routinely interrupting myself, the SHITs are stupid.
\ ˈstü-pəd , ˈstyü- \
Definition of Stupid
1a: slow of mind: OBTUSE
b: given to unintelligent decisions or acts: acting in an unintelligent or careless manner
c: lacking intelligence or reason: BRUTISH
2: dulled in feeling or sensation: TORPID
ex. “still stupid from the sedative”
3: marked by or resulting from unreasoned thinking or acting: SENSELESS
ex. “a stupid decision”
4a: lacking interest or point
ex. “a stupid event”
b: VEXATIOUS, EXASPERATING
ex. “the stupid car won't start”
My friends (many of whom are teachers) are just too nice. They treat these ogres, orcs, and gollums like equals—like reasoning, thoughtful, and considerate individuals who have examined their beliefs, and may have an understanding of historical events. Hahahahahaha!
Nah, the SHITs are just stupid.
You chastise me, saying it’s easier for me to call the SHITs stupid than go through the mental gymnastics required to convince myself that someone so willfully ignorant, racist, and mean and who hates me “just because,” is my mental, moral, and spiritual equal?
Okay, then it is easier for me to call the SHITs stupid. I’d rather spend the mental energy on how to trick them, or the proper way to build a zip gun (for just in case…).
What’s the old saying? “Never wrestle with a pig: You end up covered in mud and shit, and the pig likes it.”
Unlike my well-meaning but blinded-by-over-optimism friends, Those Who Really Run The Show know how to deal with piggies: you slaughter them. You turn them into bacon, yummy bacon. It’s an idea Stalin had, too, for better or worse.
The Dems MUST STOP appeasement. The Dems MUST go on the offensive.
And put on the boxing gloves!
No, wait, fuck that.
Not boxing gloves, but James Ellroy-style sap gloves, the ones with lead shot sewn in, the kind old-school law enforcement would use for digging out confessions—or that the modern-day Barney Fife wears regularly with impunity—or that many of the Traitorous Weekend (weakened?) Warriors wore on their hands as the “stormed” the Capitol.
We, as supposed humans living in the U.S. don’t look at our psychic/spiritual effects, do we? Animals can't be more than they are; humans are supposed to be.
"...how like angels," Shakespeare wrote. But there it is, we're not. It's the dilemma of morality, having to choose between right and wrong, where life is not simply "fight or flight," where we choose to make life NOT "nasty, brutish and short."
We never suffered that pain and shame of invasion and (at least short-term) being conquered.
We never had to rebuild from scratch.
And our body count was utterly minimal compared to others, and never included the massive civilian casualties others had inflicted upon them.
We WON, and the cost was relatively minimal. What American cities were burned to the ground? Which American towns became mass graveyards? How many American families had several entire generations wiped out by the horrors of WWII?
We never had to dwell on the cost. Everything we did was right, and worked! Even crazy science stuff like the A-bomb! (And then we gobbled up all that juicy and delicious Nazi supersonic rocket tech via Operation Paperclip! USA! USA!)
Meanwhile the best were sent off to war, and the schemers, plotters, and More Important Things To Do folk stayed at home, and reimagined the world into their super-capitalistic fever dreams, then forced conformity and “stability” on the returning vets tosilence them.
We all think the same! We're all individuals! How does anyone survive that sort of imposed cognitive dissonance? Whew...
Some never had to develop introspection, and others were never allowed to express what they’d learned from it.
Or maybe it’s all the revenge of the ghosts of the Native and Indigenous people who lived here before your forefathers (hey man, on both sides of the family we only got here until the 20th century, so guilt trip someone else!) showed up.
Nah, it’s our own fault. Mine, as well. We could have all done more to stop this.
Maybe we should have listened to Dr. Oliver Sacks’ autistics when we had the chance?
Matthew Rozsa wrote in Salon in 2015: “In “The President’s Speech,” [a chapter in Sacks’ classic collection The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat] he described the “roar of laughter” that emerged from a hospital ward that was housing patients with aphasia -- a collection of language disorders generally characterized by a severe difficulty or downright inability to understand words -- as they listened to a speech being delivered by Ronald Reagan. "Some looked bewildered, some looked outraged, one or two looked apprehensive, but most looked amused," Sacks wrote.
Although the patients struggled to comprehend the verbal content of the president’s oratory, “natural speech," as Sacks explained, "does not consist of words alone. It consists of utterance – an uttering-forth of one’s whole meaning with one’s whole being – the understanding of which involves infinitely more than mere word-recognition.” Because the aphasia patients weren’t distracted by the rhetoric and theatricality of Reagan’s address, the subtle nonverbal information that eluded most of his listeners was particularly pronounced among the aphasiacs.
"Thus, the feeling I sometimes have," Sacks wrote, "that one cannot lie to an aphasiac. He cannot grasp your words, and so cannot be deceived by them; but what he grasps he grasps with infallible precision, namely the expression that goes with the words, that total, spontaneous, involuntary expressiveness which can never be simulated or faked, as words alone can, all too easily."
In Reagan's case, the patients were not impressed.”
“We normals -- aided, doubtless, by our wish to be fooled, were indeed well and truly fooled… And so cunningly was deceptive word-use combined with deceptive tone, that only the brain-damaged remained intact, undeceived.”—Dr. Oliver Sacks, from “The President’s Speech” in his The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat (1985).
this column’s headline is a parody/bastardization of the opening line of Allen Ginsberg’s poem “Howl.” No apologies from me, as I feel Mr. Ginsberg’s ghost would approve of my appropriating his work to make fun of these creeps.
“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix”
Howl by Allen Ginsberg (1956)
Speaking of poets, in October 2020, Wallace Shawn wrote what I've posted below, and is very much worth your time.
May the Lord forgive and bless us.