Phat City News

My take on an old joke...

noreply@blogger.com (Uncle Dave) — Wed, 29 Dec 2010 16:29:00 +0000

You'll recognize the punch line:

Joey the midget was having a bad night. He was part of the regular crew at Flannery's, an old-school bar that was the sort of place that would have been called a gin joint years ago. There was a TV that no one really watched, and a dusty jukebox that still had 45's, a real antique. Maybe it still worked, but no one was interested. Flannery's was the last stop before that long walk home, a place for drink and smoke. My kind of place, where you could learn real lessons about the American Dream.

Joey was drinking whiskey, always a bad sign, since whiskey took him to the dark places inside, places no man should have to go alone. It was still early, so I decided to pull up a stool next to his, see where his ride was taking him tonight.

"I see you're still a house brand sort of guy," I said, offering him a cigarette.

"The top shelf stuff is for fools," he said, taking the smoke. "Cheap stuff takes me where I'm going just the same. What once was taste is now economics."

"You're a cheap bastard, Joey." I lit my own smoke, looking around the bar. Slow weeknight, too early for the strippers who came in for nightcaps after their shifts at Alley Cat's and The Carousel up the street. Just the regulars in a place where everyone knew your name, but never really spoke it aloud.

"I am the very model of a modern major drunkard," he said, a little more bitter than usual, and I could see that the whiskey already had him well down that path, another long, dark night.

Lou the Bartender wandered up, freshened the midget's drink without a word. I admired his efficiency.

We sat and smoked, listening to the clink of glasses, murmurs of conversation coming from the dimly-lit booths against the far wall. Joey then looked up. "Doc? I ever tell you I used to be in show business?"

"Maybe. Talking about when you used to work at the adult arcade, selling stroke books and peep show tokens?"

"Not that shit. I'm talking about when I was a kid. The whole family was in the business. We had an act."

"What kind of act? Singing, dancing, that sort of thing?"

He knocked back his drink in one gulp, turned to face me a little. "Nothing like that. It was something else." He shook his head. "I didn't know how fuckin' sick it was at the time. I was a kid, you know. The old man had some weird ideas about entertainment."

"Your folks were immigrants, weren't they?"

"Grandparents were from the old country. That's where the act started, back in one of those old Communist bloc shitholes." He signaled to Lou for another round. "Want that Chivas freshened?"

"Yeah." I motioned for the barkeep to make it two. "So what was this act?"

"Let's wait for the drinks."

The drinks came, then another round. More cigarettes. Joey was hunkered down now, sitting low over his glass and ashtray, gathering his thoughts. I was starting to lose a little patience, but I wanted to hear about The Act.

Finally, he looked up again. "The family left the old country...fled the old country...hit the United States with the clothes they were wearing. Only other thing they had, only other thing they knew, was The Act."

"Pop was just a kid then, him and his sister, my Aunt Sofia. Gramps and Nana used them in The Act. Barely knew any English, but they traveled all over, performing for anyone who'd give them a few feet of space and access to some farm animals."

"Farm animals?" This sounded like it might be taking a weird turn.

"When they were lucky. If there were no animals, it was up to the kids. After me and Silvio, and later Annie, were born, it was up to us."

"What kind of twisted shit are you talking about, Joey? I'm a Doctor of Divinity, you evil troll..."

"I'm getting to it," he growled. "I'm telling you about The Act. Gimme another smoke."

"Okay, but no more drinks for you. You're losing grip."

"I lost my grip a long time ago, you fucking hillbilly. Anyway...Gramps and Nana got too old to do The Act anymore, so Pop and Mom and Aunt Sofia got us kids into the biz. And since I was born like this..." He gestured to himself, wobbling a little on his stool. "Well, our little freak show had a real freak. I was a fuckin' meal ticket, the star of The Act."

"Enough," I said, turning to face the drunk midget. "This Act...are you gonna tell me what it was?"

Eyes watery, barely focused. "Yeah. I'll tell you what it was..."

Joey told me the whole story, a tale of depravity I couldn't have prepared for. The children, the animals, all those bodily fluids...it was a nightmare of sickness, an American Dream gone terribly wrong. And it starred Joey the midget, the young King Hell freak who barely understood the things he was doing to his baby brother, later a baby sister, and all those chickens. I thought the monkey was a cruel, but inventive, touch. He found out years later that he and his siblings were all inbred, born to his father and his Aunt Sofia. The woman he believed to be his mother was left unable to bear children after the nasty plate-spinning routine was added to The Act.

The Act broke up for good after Joey's father added a horse to the show. The beast was a natural performer, but Joey's old man just wasn't as ready as he thought he was. By then, Gramps was dead and Nana too far gone in senility to take stage direction, and everyone simply drifted away.

I lit a fresh smoke, motioned to Lou for my tab. Joey was quiet now, staring at the bottom of his empty glass as he dug in his pocket for a few bills. I stopped him. "This one's on me."

"Appreciate it," he mumbled as he slid from his stool.

We stood there for a moment. The strippers from up the street were starting to filter in, tough and tired-looking women with almost as many issues as Joey. No one really noticed them anymore.

I slid on my coat. "Need a ride?" I asked.

"Naw. Think I'll hoof it, Doc."

"Up to you," I said, taking my cigarettes from the bar. "You know, I got one more question."

"Sure. What the fuck, eh?"

"This act...what was it called?"

He smiled a little, the smile of a man who has seen things that would peel apart the strongest dream, strip it bare and reveal the ugly inside that we all have and try to hide. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out an old business card, placed it on his barstool as he walked away. I picked it up.

In fancy cursive script, the card read simply "The Aristocrats." I didn't get it.

I shook my head as Joey walked out the door without looking back.

Slipping the card into a jacket pocket, I followed him out.

###

noreply@blogger.com (Colonel Kurtz) — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 14:53:00 +0000

August Rant
Life is hard; it's a whole lot harder if your
stupid. Drink seems like a haven, a comforting
place to shelter from the contretemps... only
to awaken hung over again, eyes puffy, head
pounding, mouth nasty, wallet empty, regrets
aplenty.

Not yet 11 am yet, Detroit is already sticky,
sweaty and horrid. What an ugly summer this
has been. And no end in sight. My girl's
worthless dope addict son is a plague. My bat
shit crazy mother is more bat shit crazy than
ever. Michigan remains mired in economic
depression, and it's not going to get better.
The ugly, ugly political season is here, again.

The one bright spot was the brief visit from
Sparks and his lovely companion. We dragged
them downtown to the notorious Cass Corridor
to the infamous Jumbo's Bar, formerly the
home of pimps and hos and dope dealers, now
just a little dive in the heart of a desolate
wasteland. Our conversation mainly centered
on the devastation suffered by the American
Midwest and American society in general. We're
shell shocked, stunned, our heads ringing in
the aftermath of the great silent Bomb blast
that has left us wandering amid the ruins and
wondering what happened. We look about us and
see rubble and destruction everywhere around
us, but it's not clear what caused it.
Lil Hint:
it was class warfare practiced against us by
the top predators in the food chain, the Wolves
at the top.

Geez I'm broke, sore, tired and have difficulty
focusing. My guts are churning, my head too.
Dumbfuck dimwit doofus dickwad asshole squats
on my couch, not about to apologize for his
latest bullshit scumbag manuever ripping his
mom off and fucking with me. Now he's in my
house, the piece of shit. I think it's time
to close this out and get the hell out of here.
I don't even want his apology, I want him to
vanish. Die. Go To Hell. Fucker. Get your
junker car out of my driveway so I can leave,
since you won't.

God I feel bad. Physically, mentally, morally
sick. An unsound mind in an unsound body.
Something broke in me long ago and I've never
been right. The world is a twisted sick place
and I'm in it.

The State O'Michigan got a couple things right
yesterday. Carolyn Butt-Cheeks Kilpatrick, Kwame's
corrupt Beast of a Momma, is going to be out
of the US House of Representatives following her
defeat in the primary election. That and we've
chosen Virg Bernero as the Democratic candidate
for Governor. He's the only guy I heard talking
about the working man and standing up for the
middle class. Everyone else is concerned with
Corporate Profits and how those poor downtrodden
gigantic undead Frankenstein monsters are in
need of our help.

Of course no one can really help Michigan or
any of us because the Corporations want GATT
and NAFTA and want the US deindustrialized and
want the American Middle Class liquidated, and
there is no one to stop them. Government was
supposed to do that but it's been bought and
sold by the same monsters they were supposed to
restrain. Until we end Corporate Personhood
and make all elections publicly funded
and make it a crime to make a campaign
contribution and kill all the lobbyists... we
don't have a country. We have a satrapy ruled
by Corporate Lawyers.

Here's something a guy said that mirrors exactly
what I feel: "the current incarnation of the
Republican Party [has] fallen in with the “family
values” crowd, and now a lot of big Republican
talking points are things like outlawing gay
marriage and abortion, which doesn’t make a lot
of sense to me, seeing as the government dictating
who can and can’t get married and what women can
and can’t do with their bodies is hella intervention
in day to day life. It’s this sort of hypocrisy
that gets me: I didn’t see an awful lot of fiscal
responsibility during the last eight years
of Republican rule, as evidenced by the war over
nonexistent weapons and the fact that Wall Street
did burn down, fall over, and sink into the swamp.
Furthermore, a lot of the same senators who are
so up on family values are the ones who usually
get caught in airport bathrooms or are flying to
Argentina for booty calls on the state’s dime."

Where were you all when Mister George W. Bush was
wiping his ass with our Constitution, and only
NOW do you suddenly get worried about it. The
USA Patriot Act was an abomination, last
I heard you were cheering for it. You were
willing to give up every Right you ever had going
all the way back to the Magna Carta for some kind
of bullshit fake "security" handed to you by a
Nazi Jackbooted Police State just so you could
wallow in your "Patriotism" and wrap yourself in
the flag and bleat about how great America is
and it's the Land of the Free Home of the Brave
only it ain't anymore while you weren't looking
the Creeps stole it out from under you and
turned it into their own little privately owned
third world shit hole and co-opted the only thing
that was standing between you and getting
eaten up by the bigger meaner sharks in the pond.

Libertarianism is great; I was a Libertarian most
of my life. Small government is good, fiscal
responsibility is great. But Libertarianism isn't
supposed to be anarchy and under anarchy the
strong take the weak and that's exactly what's
been going on here. Small Government is supposed
to be big enough to do what it legitamately exists
to do: keep the Wolf from the door. Last I looked
the wolf ate your job, your pension, your home,
your medical insurance, your wife and your kids
and is shitting on your chest at night. You
were too busy worrying about the supposed Muslim
Threat, the bill of goods you were sold by these
scumbag elite shyster rip offs as the looted the
whole damned country and made off with their ill
gotten gains to their privately guarded gated
communities in the Cayman Islands where they live
like pampered dolphins, utterly free of any
responsibility or care existing off the backs
of you and me and leaving us to suffer in
this bombed out hell hole they've created. It's
sick. I'm sick. I'm not right. This entire
misshapen bent deformed Scenario makes me ill,
I can't even freaking look at it any longer or
I'm gonna wanna go start drinking again and I'm
crushing my liver and beating my head it and it's
barely noon and I've got things to do, I think.
I can't even think straight. I'm so pissed off
and disgusted and finished with the whole damned
thing.

Tea Party Candidate my ass.
I was a god damned Tea Party person twenty years
ago when nobody would fucking listen and nobody
cared and the whole damned thing was going down the
toilet and now we find ourselves Here and it was
always so damned predictable but you didn't want
to think about it or try to understand because it
made your little head hurt and you were perfectly
happy to let the banksters and the nazis and
the mob and the blue-blood Eastern Establishment
Swells and their CIA Cowboy lackeys trash the
whole damned place and stomp the World making it
safe for Corporate Profits and making us hated
everywhere because the horrible crimes they
perpetrated in Our names, and you let it happen
because you were too damned silly to actually
look what was being done and it couldn't happen
here and we're America we're good and we would
never do anything wrong and we're just fighting
Communism or Narco-Terrorists of Islamo-Fascists
or whatever other bullshit false flag boogy man
they waved in front of you...

An Ayn Rand/Ragnar Benson/Anto LaVey-style
rugged individualist totally free society without
any government at all is great, if you're
the biggest meanest Shark in the pond.

But try not to grow old, or get feeble, or
lose your teeth, because there's always younger
hungrier up and comers who will have you for
lunch. That's why I prefer to live in a world
where there is a government, where the strong
can't just take the weak, where Cowboy Capitalists
can't turn the whole place into the Wild West
with no law except Brute Force and Robber Barons
and Moguls and Cowboy gunslingers for hire to
the highest bidder and the rest of us get to play
the role of the helpless townspeople at the
mercy of the Combine. The archetype of the
Libertarian in the world today is Dick Cheney.
Evil Dick is the model for the Cowboy-Capitalist
Free-Market lassie faire Buccaneer, a Land
Pirate who never retired, taking no prisoners
and sparing no one.

Welcome to The Road;
Welcome to the world Dick Cheney wrought.
The Carlyle Group Halliburton Plutonium poisoning
cadmium lead arsenic. A mother rat eats her babies
rather than let another predator get all that good
protein. A dead dying gray world; oil spewing into
pristine waters befouling beaches, killing wildlife.

A hellbrew, a vast gigantic brownfield.
Things fall apart you cannot receive treatment here
The endless dirty war grinds on.
A mostly illiterate lumpen-serfdom squats blithely amid
the ruins sexting pictures of each others genitals back
and forth, oblivious to the poisons in the almost-food
they ingest, in perfect ignorance of the toxins in the air,
the water, the soil, coursing through their blood streams
or how it all happened, that it was done to them on
purpose by Republican scum bags. An Apocalypto-style
Acapulco; vacation on Lord of the Flies Island, trading
trinkets, worthless lumps of slag and base metal,
pieces of cloth with arcane symbols, While in the
guarded gated communities the elite frolic like
dolphins never touching the bottom or sides of the
pool unable to find anything to restrain them and
driven mad with ennui and boredom tired of the
Sport of watching the unwashed masses procreate or
kill each other in games designed to entertain
the patrician klass.

The Third Horseman was Black for Capitalism, his
cohorts were Green for the Pestilence Pollution and
Red for War... Last came Death.

A devolved humanity in a spoilt world the eloi frolic
while the morlocks toil but the sirens will wail and
the roundup will begin until the all clear is sounded
and the whole world groans for the return of the gods
with some kind of cleansing fire to end this hideous
nightmare child’s science experiment gone wrong...

Stephanie Miller

noreply@blogger.com (Colonel Kurtz) — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 14:54:00 +0000

How Stephanie Miller's wonderful understanding became known to her father Bill Miller, by the invention of a bum-wiper. (With Apologies to François Rabelais)

About the end of her fourth year, Bill Miller was returning from the Presidential Campaign, went to see his daughter Stephanie Miller. There was he filled with joy, as such a father might be at the sight of such a uni-browed, gray-fanged, webbed-toed wolf-child, and whilst he kissed and hugged her, he asked about many suitably childish matters, and drank very freely with her and with her governesses, the Saintly Nuns of the Sisterhood of the Holy Blessed Bloody Suffering Christ of whom in great earnest he asked, amongst other things, whether they had been careful to keep her clean and sweet. To this Stephanie Miller answered, that she had taken such a course for that herself, that in all the country there was not to be found a cleanlier girl than she.
“How is that?” said Bill Miller.
“I have,” answered Stephanie Miller, “by a long and careful experiment, found a means to wipe my bum, the most lordly, the most excellent, and the most convenient that ever was seen.“
“What is that?” said Bill Miller, “how is it?”
“I will tell you by-and-by,” said Stephanie Miller. “Once I did wipe me with a gentle-woman's velvet mask, and found it to be good; for the softness of the silk was very voluptuous and pleasant to my fundament. Another time with one of their hoods, and in like manner that was comfortable. At another time with a lady's neckerchief, and after that I wiped me with some ear-pieces of hers made of crimson satin, but there was such a number of golden spangles in them (turdy round things, a pox take them) that they fetched away all the skin of my tail with a vengeance. Now I wish St. Antony's fire burn the bum-gut of the goldsmith that made them, and of her that wore them! This hurt I cured by wiping myself with a page's cap, garnished with a feather after the Swiss fashion.
Then, this one time at band-camp, when I was cacking behind some bushes, I found a March-cat, and I wiped myself, but her claws were so sharp that they scratched and exulcerated all my perinee. Of this I recovered the next morning thereafter, by wiping myself with my mother's gloves, of a most excellent perfume. After that I wiped me with sage, with fennel, with anise, with marjoram, with roses, with gourd-leaves, with beets, with colewort, with leaves of the vine-tree, with mallows, wool-blade, which is a tail-scarlet, with lettuce, and with spinach leaves. All this did very great good to my bum. Then with mercury, with parsley, with nettles, with comfrey, but that gave me the bloody flux of Lombardy, which I healed by wiping me with a baguette.
Then I wiped my tail in the sheets, in the coverlet, in the curtains, with a cushion, with the wall-hanging, with a green carpet, with a table-cloth, with a napkin, with a handkerchief, with a dressin gown; in all which I found more pleasure than do the mangy dogs when you rub them.”
“Yea, but,” said Bill Miller, “which bum-wipe did you find to be the best?”
“I was coming to it,” said Stephanie Miller, “and by-and-by shall you hear the tu autem, and know the whole mystery and knot of the matter. I wiped myself with hay, with straw, with thatch-rushes, with flax, with wool, with paper, but,
When you your foul tail wipe with paper,
You’ll have to clean your ass with a scrapper.
“What,” said Bill Miller, “my little rogue, hast thou been at the pot, that thou dost rhyme already?”
“Yes, yes, my dear father,” answered Stephanie Miller, “I can rhyme gallantly, and rhyme till I become hoarse with rheum. Hark, what our privy says to the skiters:
Shittard,
Squirtard,
Crackard,
Turdous,
Thy bung
Hath flung
Some dung
On us:
Filthard,
Cackard,
Stinkard,
St. Antony's fire seize on thy toane (bone?),
If thy
Dirty
Dounby
Thou do not wipe, ere thou be gone.
Will you have any more of it?”
“Yes, yes,” answered Bill Miller. Then, said Stephanie Miller,
A Roundelay.
In shitting yes'day I did know
The debt I to my arse did owe:
The smell was such came from that slunk,
That I was with it all bestunk:
O had but then some brave Signor
Brought him to me I waited for,
In shitting!
I would have cleft my watergap,
And join'd it close to his flipflap,
Whilst he had with her fingers guarded
My foul nockandrow, all bemerded
In shitting.
Now tell me I don’t know anything! By the Merdi, they are not of my making, but I heard them of this good old nun, that you see here, and ever since have remembered them.
“Let us return to our purpose,” said Bill Miller.
“What, said Stephanie Miller, pooping?”
“No,” said Bill Miller, “but to wipe our tail.”
“But,” said Stephanie Miller, “will you give me a box of wine, if I do not blank and gravel you in this matter, and put you to a non-plus?”
“Yes, truly”, said Bill Miller.
“There is no need of wiping one's tail,” said Stephanie Miller, “but when it is foul; foul it cannot be, unless one have been a-pooping; poop then we must before we wipe our tails.”
“O my pretty little waggish girl,” said Bill Miller, “what an excellent wit thou hast? I will make thee very shortly proceed doctor in the jovial quirks of gay learning, and that, by God, for thou hast more wit than age. Now, I prithee, go on in this torcheculative, or wipe-bummatory discourse, and by my beard I swear, for one puncheon, thou shalt have threescore boxes, I mean of the good Franzia wine, not that which grows in Britain, but in the good country of California.”
“Afterwards I wiped my bum,” said Stephanie Miller, “with a kerchief, with a pillow, with a pantoufle, with a pouch, with a pannier, but that was a wicked and unpleasant torchecul; then with a hat. Of hats, note that some are shorn, and others shaggy, some velveted, others covered with taffeta, and others with satin. The best of all these is the shaggy hat, for it makes a very neat abstersion of the fecal matter.
Afterwards I wiped my tail with a hen, with a cock, with a pullet, with a calf's skin, with a hare, with a pigeon, with a cormorant, with an attorney's bag, with a hooded cape, with a cap, with a falconer's lure. But, to conclude, I say and maintain, that of all, arsewisps, bumfodders, tail-napkins, bunghole cleansers, and wipe-breeches, there is none in the world comparable to a nice downy neck of a goose, if you hold her head betwixt your legs. And believe me therein upon mine honor, for you will thereby feel in your nockhole a most wonderful pleasure, both in regard of the softness of the said down and of the temporate heat of the goose, which is easily communicated to the bum-gut and the rest of the inwards, in so far as to come even to the regions of the heart and brains. And think not that the felicity of the heroes and demigods in the Elysian fields consisteth either in their asphodel, ambrosia, or nectar, as our old women here used to say; but in this, according to my judgment, that they wipe their tails with the neck of a goose, holding her head betwixt their legs, and such is also the opinion of Barry Goldwater“.

Libertarian Morons

noreply@blogger.com (Colonel Kurtz) — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 19:26:00 +0000

I used to be a Libertarian. Twenty years ago I thought
Ayn Rand was great and Big Government was bad.

Now I see the flaw in all that. Maybe it wasn't Ayn
Rand's intent, but getting rid of Government puts
us in the State Of Nature, otherwise known as
Anarchy, otherwise known as The Law of The
Jungle, otherwise known as The Strong Take
The Weak.

The thought of it terrified Thomas Jefferson and
George Washington. It should terrify you. The
Strong are taking the weak here and now, and
unless you are a billionaire you are getting taken.

Your job, your home, your money, your
retirement, your health care, your environment...
they are all being trashed by the elite. You are
being enslaved and trampled by a tiny clique of
creeps. And the Government, as sad and
inefficient and corrupt and stupid as it is, is your
only protection.

The problem with Government right now is not
that it's too big, the problem is that instead of
protecting you and me, the little guys, from being
preyed on by the big fish is that it's in too many cases
working for the evil fat cats it's supposed to be
restraining. There is nothing wrong with rich
people. There is nothing wrong with government.
We need both.

We need the rich to pay their share. They want to take
their profits and leave us to clean up their messes.
They want unsafe working conditions, unlimited
pollution where we live, not them, they want to reduce
us all to peons and rape and pillage the entire Earth
and all humanity.

The Government is the only thing that can stop them.
As bad as governments can be, they are at least
somewhat more responsive to the needs and wishes
of the governed than any feudal fiefdom Corporate
edifice.

Corporations are only about profit. They are not about
people, or the environment, or justice.

You think you're ready to live in the State of Nature?
That you're prepared to wear a loincloth and slit
throats for fuel? You think government is wrong
and you're big and bad enough to walk through the
valley of the shadow of Corporate Monsters 'cause
you're so tough and smart and bad-ass? Think again.
Unless you are a billionaire you damn well need
government to protect you from the Giants. They
will devour you.

If you're concerned about the government, get busy
working to force it to respond to your needs and the
needs of all of us. Get government to reign in these
Corporate Creeps. Force them to quit robbing us,
polluting our world, enriching themselves at our
expense and leaving us to pay for the cleanup.

Go ahead, live in your Libertarian Paradise. The Old
West, where there are no courts or laws, just
Cowboys and Robber Barons. Try Somalia, that's
about a perfect Libertarian paradise right now.
See how you like it.

Don't Do Politics No More

noreply@blogger.com (Colonel Kurtz) — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 01:53:00 +0000

It's time to rededicate to staying off the particular
rancid toxic sauce of Politics. Tryin' desperately
to stop. It's a Mug's Game. We can't win. The
US is doomed. Between the Damns and the
Rethugs, it's all over. No Mas. The distributor
cap is missing, and the parts store is closed.
Forever. Don't make that model any more. The
China Man is smiling at you, an' it ain't a friendly
smile.

It's Imperative that we find something Positive
to focus on. Thinking about our Political situation
is suicidal. I can't read the newspapers; they
disgust me. These politicians, they've sold us
out. What are we gonna do? Armed Insurrection?
I don't think so. It was always a battle in men's
minds, and it's a battle we've either lost a long
time ago or haven't yet begun to fight. But in
any case, I see little evidence anyone has got
the Idea.

What do these kids know today? Empty headed
dolts, sexting away on their blackberries, their
thumbs about to fall off. Worried about what
they're gonna buy at WalMart, utterly oblivious
to History, Philosophy, Ethics... ya gonna fight
for these feebs? They don't deserve it. Pearls
Before Swine. These Fucking Swine are Angry
at you for trying to point out the pointlessness
of their lives, the doomed dead end they cling
to with such passion, their moronic Bleating...
if the Masses weren't always Asses they sure
as Hell are now, and they demand their ignorance,
they are militant passionate jihadists for Radical
Stupidity and Empty-Headed Foolery.

Too Damned Late. Our Father's generation
fought the War, came back, married Suzy
Housecoat, bought the six-pack, busted ass
down at the Plant. Thought they'd won.
Thought it was over and it was all OK now.
Went to sleep. By the time we came along, it
was Too Damned Late, yet we thought we'd
change things, Fix things, right the ship,
wake people up, return to Basic Principles.

Not gonna happen. Don't let it get ya down.
Plenny Empires rose and fell. We're not the
first, nor will we be the last. The Twentieth
Century was the American Century, and we
squandered it. It's China's turn now, or
somebodies. Let them take their shot.
Ours is about done.

Save your passion for something better. Dogs.
Hunting. Eating well. Friends. A good honest
drunk on. Race dirt bikes, fuck sweet women
that don't care about anything but having a
good time and not getting caught. Anything
but politics.

That train has gone, the race was run, the
ship sailed long ago, with a broken rudder
and out of date charts. It was an Insurance
Job, destined for the rocks. The Captain, he
was bought and paid for, he stayed drunk in
his cabin the whole time. The crew knew
what was coming down, they had the lifeboats
well stocked and ready to be swung out. But only
enough for them. The Passengers? Fuck them.
Doomed and damned. Too Stupid To Survive.
They partied the whole time, Oblivious. Didn't
wanna do no lifeboat drills. Didn't wanna wear
no life jackets. Didn't wanna think their whole
cruise could be a fucking charade. It ain't gonna
be pretty on Lord of the Flies Island, but these
cretins don't care. They gonna have a great time
getting there.

Zombie 2010

noreply@blogger.com (Colonel Kurtz) — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 19:53:00 +0000

"Anyone who's read The Illuminatus Trilogy knows
there are hordes of Nazi Zombies waiting for us in
the watery depths of a lake in Ingolstadt. It is for
these reasons that I avoid large music festivals..."
-- posted by khanti, September 17, 2009 11:20 AM
----------------------------------------------------
Apparently it's an entire sub-genre of Zombie
movies, Sub-aquatic Nazi Zombies... and what a
perfect Metaphor for post-WWII US of A...
Sub-aquatic Nazi Zombies are bad, Mafia ones not
so much; the cement overshoes tend to make them
less mobile.

And the CIA-Cowboy zombies end up in the
White House... or with hit TeeVee or Radio Talk
shows and Vatican/Jesuit Mafia/Nazi Zombies as
their allies in the Dope/Guns/Souls racket... not
to mention the S. American/Nazi/Assassination
Torture/Narcotrafficing Zombies. it's just Bidneth.
The Zombie Bidneth.

It's whut makes this Poor Old Mortal Coil Go
'Round, here in this Foul Twenty-First Century,
obviously NOT of Our Lord. So far it's the Devil's
Own Century. And by all signs looking like it's
gonna stay that way, barring that return visit
Jesus talked about.

Look how good the Goldman-Sucks Zombies are
doing, wandering around Wall Street, gnawing on
passersby... no one even says a word. They've
even taken down the "Do Not Feed The Zombies"
signs that used to be up there... Christ, you can
freakin' buy Zombie Feed in the Financial District
for a dollar, just watch your fingers as you're
feeding them...

noreply@blogger.com (Colonel Kurtz) — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 04:12:00 +0000

Dreadful, Dreadful Sarah Palin, DIE DIE DIE!

I fucking hate you. You are a white trash moron with
delusions of grandeur. You have no integrity. You
have no intelligence, save for the kind of cunning
usually found in a chicken-killing dog.

You are an ugly, ugly person. Your warped and
twisted personality shines forth so strongly anyone
with the right kind of eyes can see. Greedy grasping
amoral self-serving narcissist you are the Perfect
follow on to that hideous little creep George W. Bush.

The only thing about you is that you are extremely
frightening. There are apparently enough
"Conservative" fools out there that you actually have
a following. It's as if Hitler lived and moved to the
United States and became a popular politician, after
having lost 90% of his brains.

You would cheerfully sell us all out to whatever
criminal gang would install you, just as long as you
got yours. I SO hope you do get yours soon, in Hell,
where you belong. You are a disgusting horrible
wretched excuse for a person, much less a leader.

Eat Shit, Ms. Palin, and Die. Please. You are a mortal
danger to this nation. But next time I'll tell you how I
Really feel.

noreply@blogger.com (Uncle Dave) — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 00:36:00 +0000

Seemed like as good a time as any to post an old "Uncle Dave" piece from June 4, 1996:

**Uncle Dave's Celebrity Profile**

Michael Jackson slumped back in his lounger, aiming his remote at the television to flip idly through the channels. An advertisement for "Baywatch" caught his attention and he stopped to watch Pamela Lee run across the beach in slow motion, her hydraulically-enhanced attributes suspended in a slow-bounce silicone ballet.

He laughed. Not the shy, girlish giggle he affected in public, but a lusty horselaugh that he reserved for his truly private moments. Jackson drained the last of his Michelob and let the tapered amber bottle drop to the floor. He glanced over the edge of the lounger at the litter of bottles that had accumulated so far. Laughing again, he stopped counting at ten, then rose to fetch another cold one from the refrigerator.

Scratching at the edge of beer gut peeking from underneath his stained t-shirt, Jackson wobbled into the kitchen. He stopped in front of the refrigerator, pointed at the door and proclaimed, "The King of Pop would like another beer."

The refrigerator did nothing. Jackson snorted and chuckled. "Guess I'll get this one myself."

The King of Pop. Of all the nicknames in the world, why did he have to pick the King of Pop? Jackson shook his head as he twisted open his beer and wandered back to the living room. An edge of a reflection caught his attention, and he stopped at the mirror in the hallway to stare.

A middle-aged black man stared back, the light-complexion makeup washed away, the wigs in storage, the fake eyelashes in their special boxes in the dressing room back in California, a lifetime away. His own hair was cropped close, groomed in a short natural style, his cheeks and chin peppered with two-days-worth growth of beard.

The one-bedroom apartment in Huntington, West Virginia had been a masterstroke of genius, the perfect place to hide, to be himself. Jackson could come and go as he pleased, to wander the riverbank, to walk along Third and Fourth avenues. He had become an adept dumpster diver, able to retrieve trashed treasures from the bottom of the most fully packed receptacle. The winos called him "Jack," and they appreciated his dumpster diving skills as well, sending him in time and time again for food and salvageable bits of metal and glass.

The crack whores on Hal Greer Boulevard called him Jack, too. Jackson was a regular in the tattered project housing that lined the avenue, and he knew all the women who worked that part of town. They would do incredible things for a rock and a fresh butane lighter, and Jackson kept a supply of both. His appetites required that these women be capable of bizarre things. Sometimes they disappeared altogether after a long weekend with Jackson, but nobody asked questions about these types of women. They seemed to be transient by nature, and the ability to disappear seemed to be one of their talents.

Back to the television, Jackson eased the recliner back and resumed his surfing. Comedy Central was replaying an episode of "Absolutely Fabulous," while the USA network was showing some bad made-for-TV suspense film.

But A&E was broadcasting a biography on Jeffrey Dahmer, and Jackson stopped there. Transfixed by the details, he watched the file footage of police officers and ambulance crews outfitted in hazardous material suits carrying away the blue 55-gallon drum that contained three partially-dissolved human torsos.

He sat forward to watch as a white-suited officer in a gas mask wheeled Dahmer's refrigerator down a flight of stairs. The voice-over narration said there were preserved heads and genitals in the refrigerator, and the King of Pop wondered aloud what it would look like if the icebox door suddenly flew open on the way downstairs, scattering the gruesome contents like human confetti.

Then Dahmer's image flashed onto the screen. A tall, slim, blue-eyed blond with a faint shadow of beard. Jackson stared, thinking how easy it would be in a few years for Macauley Culkin to portray Dahmer in the movie based on his life. A sharp wave of paranoia took his breath for a moment as the documentary showed the court scenes, the replay of anguished family and friends of the deceased lashing out at Dahmer.

Jackson settled back and took another long drink of his beer. This would never happen to him. Neverland is too secure, the freezers locked and hidden away in the dark sub-basements of the mansion. The children would not be missed, the homeless waifs who wandered the streets in Los Angeles. They appeared on and disappeared from those streets every day.

Soon, it would be time to go back to Neverland, time to prepare for another concert tour. He would have to lose weight, to don the makeup and wigs, to practice talking in that high, breathy voice that the media expected. And, of course, there would be the trips to Disney World, the fantasy land where the media and the world believed Jackson belonged.

As long as there were children there, they were half right.

Jackson laughed and went to the refrigerator for another beer.

More later,
uncle dave

© 1996 by D.L. Swint. All rights reserved.

noreply@blogger.com (Colonel Kurtz) — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 17:50:00 +0000

"The ones you want to fuck want to be loved and
the ones you love just want to be fucked. When
your woman leaves you this is probably the best
song ever."
-- comment on "Can't Find My Way Home"

I'm ancient now, 48 times this old orb has made
it's twisted way around the long circuit. But I'm
still a lusty young man, and the fires still burn.
I've been through the crucible. In my misspent
youth I seemed to have a lot to prove, and prove
it I did. I've still got the scars and broken bones
to show for it.

I ran 127mph on the Harley on a black night on a
flat highway with the Highway Patrol out on the
prowl for me. I jumped in full combat equipment
in the dark from a C-130 aircraft with my face
painted and dressed in camouflage, a killer ready
to kill, Airborne Death From The Sky.

I've tripped, I've loved, I ran hard and fast and
crazy with no regard for life or limb, utterly
unconcerned with the very real possibility I'd be
maimed or killed, a life well established ending
suddenly and violently.

So here I am, miraculously still around, a little
older, slower, not so fast to heal, but much wiser. I'm
the Ram, impetuous, headstrong, charging blindly
into the ambush. Recon, the point man. The
Penetrator, the Gimlet. Now just older and wiser
enough to know when to pull my horns in. Plenty
just like me aren't around any more to tell you
about it, but I am, and I will.

I got my bona fides the Hard Way. I've seen the mean
streets, the dive bars, the alleyways. I was
lucky, and that's no exaggeration. Measure twice, cut
once. I learned that. It's especially true when you're
about to change lanes on a lean low fast Sportster
traveling over 100 miles per hour. There's only one
chance to do it right and if you muck it up, well, there
will be plenty of time to regret it while you lay in the
bed of pain and contemplate the place where your
femur came out the side of your leg. Or no time at all,
catapulted forever into that great mysterious Other
Side, off to explore whatever Next Adventure awaits
each of us in that place where no one gets to come
back and tell you how it is...

I'm a film noire detective working on the greatest case
ever imagined. Only one problem, it doesn't pay. Not
even expenses. Not in sheckles anyway. The payoff is
all metaphysical, and that don't make the nut when
rent is due or the bottle of rye is empty and you need
a refill to getchyer head right.

But it's exciting, exhilarating, somedays, between the
bouts of extreme boredom. I've got a Harley, but not
a big fat one like so many guys ride. Mine's slim and
sleek and built for speed. Everything not necessary
for going fast has been stripped off, like the horn and
the turn signals and the mirrors, except for the one
bar end mirror perched way outside of my elbow
where I can check for pursuing cops. Not that I really
need a mirror. Worry about what's in Front of you,
I say. But I make that one concession to the Law. You
don't need turn signals so long as you make all the
proper hand signals, but you must have a mirror.

You're obviously built for speed too, Honey. You'll
look great, a beautiful tail ornament on the back of
the Sporty. Be sure to wear a little pleated short short
skirt and give all the citizens a thrill. Let the vibrations
off that big 74 cubic inch motor percolate and
permeate and get you all wet and hot and sultry
sweaty stanky so when we get back into those trusty
trails and there's no one around and you're stretched
out under that tree with my face buried in your
luscious little snatch you taste so good I'LL be
moaning with pleasure just lapping up your sweet
hot cum as I shove my thumb up your ass and you
buck your hips and arch and dig your nails into my
back and catch your breath with a little squeal of
pleasure, grinding that hot little box into me...

Memo From The Sports Desk

noreply@blogger.com (Colonel Kurtz) — Sun, 31 May 2009 02:08:00 +0000

Johnny,
Listen you brutal savage, you've scared the shit out
of the cleaning lady for the last time! It's bad enough
you call the editorial offices at all hours, raving in the
phone and frightening the cleaning staff... but the
faxes have gone too far.

Bleeding Christ on a broken crutch that shit isn't even
legal in most states! Plus she's heartbroken. She's
gone all to pieces, she mopes around here for days,
listlessly polishing the meth cookers and mumbling
'Mista Brock, he come soon?' You really got her
hopes up, you evil sot.

I had to take the 12 gauge away from her the
other morning after she woke me up racking shells
into it at the foot of my bed. She struck out at me
like a cornered dog and screamed 'Mista Brock, he
come for Milena, he gonna buy Milena a hat!'
Then she collapsed in the corner, sobbing.
I couldn't get any work out of her all day.

Don't call here! The police have the phones tapped.
Call Sparks, or TS. They've got your shit. It's not
here! We keep the FCN offices clean! Rick Himes
told me he's not returning your calls and to tell
you he's dead.

Robbie Parker is in hiding, the fucking Mounties
have a dragnet out for him and his wife and they
blame you. They said you tried to perform some
kind of king-hell 'medical experiment' on them
and that it turned their skin permanently blue.
The only place they can hide is in the Blue Man
Group -- oops, sorry Robbie, I just blew your
cover...

SS Minnow maritime disaster

noreply@blogger.com (Colonel Kurtz) — Wed, 27 May 2009 13:45:00 +0000

SS Minnow (Maritime Disaster) was a faked shipwreck
engineered in order to set up a Mind Kontrol Gulag
on Gilligan's Island.

The Island was a Mind Kontrol experiment. The test
subjects were lured to the Island with promises that
"a good time will be had by all" and "Relax, Honey,
you'll be back to the dock by 4 pm. It's only a three
hour tour". They were also told there would be a
dolphin show on the Island and drinks with little
umbrellas in them.

The entire operation was financed just for kicks by
jaded plutocrat Thurston Howell III, who offered up
his wife "Lovey" as a test subject. She was a
brainless socialite who never produced anything
in her life so she kinda had it coming. She abused
her servants and hated poor people and minorities.

Amoral Kink "The Professor" aka "Roy Hinkley" aka
"The Doktor of Death" [real name thought to be:
Rheinhardt Hinnkler] administered the experiments.

He had formerly worked in the Eugenics programs,
lobotomizing and sterilizing any patient unfortunate
enough to fall into his hands. He also worked with the
Public Health Service giving syphilis to unsuspecting
black men in Tuskegee, Alabama and leaving them
untreated.

On The Island he specialized in creating multiple
personalities through rape-based trauma, and also
used sensory deprivation, electroshock, and massive
doses of LSD. The Professor was a full blown
sociopath who achieved sexual arousal by torturing
people and animals. He later served as adviser setting
up prisons in Guantanamo Bay and Abu Ghraib. He is
believed to be a close confidant of Dick Cheney.

Brutal Bull-Fruit Screw "Skipper" Jonas Grumby,
ex-Office of Naval Intelligence, ex-OSS. He ran a
lucrative black-market operation in the South Pacific
during World War II, together with Lieutenant
Commander Quinton McHale. He later smuggled
guns into Cuba and drugs into Miami. He worked
as a mercenary in Africa and was accused of
crimes against humanity for his role in massacres in
Biafra and the Congo.

On The Island he provided security and muscle. A
vicious sadist, he loved to inflict pain and suffering
on his hapless charges. Skipper had a mean streak a
mile wide. Nobody ever crossed him twice. So mean
he once killed a man for snoring. He was finally killed
by Sendero Luminoso guerrillas in South America
after serving as a torture instructor to Right-Wing
death squads allied with the CIA. At his funeral,
Danny Quale called him "a great American".

Mary Ann Summers was a test subject, a mind
controlled zombie assassin sex-slave courier. As a
test subject she represented the virginal, wholesome
innocent farm-girl. Mary Ann was a Dorthy Gale clone,
another troubled young Kansas farm girl far from
home in a strange land, involved in horrible things
she's unequipped to understand. She later changed
her name to Squeeky Fromm.

Ginger Grant was also a test subject. She was
recruited while a member of Anton LaVey's
Church of Satan and a dancer at the Carousel Club
in Dallas, TX. She was the opposite of Mary Ann,
representing the Whore, the Diva. She was a
cheap Marilyn Monroe clone.

Ginger was later found bleeding and incoherent along
a Texas highway, babbling "they're gonna kill the
President". Her warnings were not given credence
and two days later John Hinkley attempted to kill
Ronald Reagan.

Gilligan was the Shaman, the Trickster, The
Huckster Witch. He posed as a test subject but
was secretly one of the Kontrollers. His main
technique was to allow the victims to think they'd be
released and then at the last minute smash all their
hopes. He was obviously always high on drugs, and
had a secret double life as a beatnik.

He later committed suicide by shooting himself in
the back of the head twice, after repeatedly stabbing
himself and gargling drano while hanging by the
neck in his garage.

Aftermath
When the Island's cover was blown during a
trip by Congressman Leo Ryan in order to discover
what had happened to his constituents, the subject
population was liquidated in a fake mass suicide
and the remaining mind-kontrol zombie assassin
sex-slave couriers were turned loose on the
unsuspecting American public to wreak havoc as
serial killers, forcing the American public to
demand a police state to protect them.

Master Kontroller Sherwood Schwartz went on
to create further Mind Kontrol Psychological
Warfare programs loosed on the American
psyche , such as the Nazi-inspired "Brady Bündch"
and the blatantly gay "My Favorite Martian",
used to push the homosexual agenda of sneaking
up behind you and sticking it in while you're not
looking, like they do.

The SS Minnow was eventually repaired and used by the
CIA for gunrunning and drug smuggling. It was later
loaned to Gary Hart for use during his Presidential
campaign, renamed "Risky Business".

The Island became a transshipment point for
weapons and drugs by Oliver North during Operation
Screw-Worm and Operation Cordoba, part of the
Mena, Arkansas/Iran-Contra drug and weapons
operations. It was later resettled by transplanted
Hmong Tribesmen from Laos.

Ethics 101

noreply@blogger.com (Colonel Kurtz) — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 19:42:00 +0000

Torture is wrong and nothing ever justifies it. When
it’s staring you in the face and you can’t recognize
it, that’s a clear indication that you are a sick,
degenerate, WRONG individual. Any normal, decent
person can correctly label torture as wrong. So
given your position that torture is just a-ok,
where does that leave you?

If you can’t recognize torture for what it is then
you possess a malformed conscience; you are a
moral dwarf, a stunted, misshapen less-than-human
creature.

You reflect a loss of moral function, a distinct
inability to recognize evil. Your moral compass
is broken. You cannot discriminate crucial
differences. The difference between good and
evil. Wake The Fuck Up!

It's something any freshman ethics student can
tell you. Torture is wrong. As a side issue, it
doesn't work. But that's not the issue. The issue
is that you can't be the good guys and do wrong.
Don't bother telling me that we're at war with
terrorism and we've got to torture. We didn't even
torture the Nazis or the Japs.

It's illegal to torture. It's illegal to order torture.
It's even illegal to try to amnesty torturers. It's so
simple and plain and right out there in front of you.
The United States of America cannot torture people.
And Bush and Cheney had us doing it. And for that
they must be held to account.

Lindy England rots in prison for the sins of Evil Dick
Cheney. Dick can whine all he wants that torture kept
us safe, but it doesn't fly. Our use of torture destroys
us. We cannot use the methods of evil to fight evil.
The ends do not justify the means.

Sorry. It's just the way it is. And nothing can change
it. Just like nothing can erase the guilt of George W.
Bush and Dickie Cheney. That criminal duo tried to
destroy the very foundations our nation is built
upon. And if we don't hold them to account now
then they succeeded.

A Man of Wealth und Taste

noreply@blogger.com (Colonel Kurtz) — Sun, 15 Mar 2009 19:54:00 +0000

Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. Oskar Dirlewanger, M.D. -- and Dick Cheney's Heart Specialist

I also assisted in setting up Lord Cheney's Own SpecialOperations unit, the Einsatzgruppen Kommando for the purposes of guarding Amerika's "Interests" organized by Erich Prinz and his "BlackWater" [SchwarzeWasser] Organization, along with DickCheney,Halliburtonandthe Karlyle Gruppen. We also help to deal with those who are disloyal or inconvenient, such as Paul Wellstone or Deborah Jeane Palfrey, the DC Madam who knew too much.
We also liquidated her associate, Brandy Britton, an accused escort, who " killed herself" before she went to trial. Britton was a professor at the University of Maryland in addition to being a hooker.

Dr. Kissinger assists where he can. He's a modest man, a simple technocrat with simple tastes. A nice glass of beer, the feel of a new stiff starched pair of lederhosen against your naked skin, the sound a puppy makes as you crush his windpipe with your bare hands...

ah, for the Gut old days, back in 2004, when we really had things going. Abu Gharaib, Guantanamo, torture, rendition, secret flights to secret prisons! Arrest without warrant, indefinite detention without habeus corpus. War of Aggression, mass destruction, Shock and Awe. Old Adolf is giving us his blessing from hell. And it's fantastically profitable! We are looting the World as we go. Ah, it's all gone now. These bastards, that Schwartze half-breed and his
Communist pals... we should have bayoneted them all while we could have. I was never for this timeshare agreement we have with them. I just don't like it.

The Joint Special Operations Command: We Take Care Of Business

http://www.minnpost.com/ericblackblog/2009/03/11/7310/investigative_reporter_seymour_hersh_describes_executive_assassination_ringDominatrice Who Claimed to Have S&M Sex with Bush Is Said to Be Missing
“In 1984 I watched George W. Bush enthusiastically and expertly perform a homosexual act on another man, one Victor Ashe,”-Leola McConnell

http://noworldsystem.com/2007/11/18/dominatrice-who-claimed-to-have-sm-sex-with-bush-is-said-to-be-missing/

Afghan Opium, Commie Plots and Repug Snuff films

noreply@blogger.com (Colonel Kurtz) — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 04:39:00 +0000

Hiding in Plain Sight:
Afghanistan has record 2006 opium crop.
Despite the destruction of the economy
and infrastructure of the country,
Coca-Cola has just opened a plant there.

In S. Vietnam bottling plants were key
Heroin refineries. In all likelyhood, the
reason this new bottling plant has been
opened is to refine heroin.

See also: Alfred J. McCoy, The Politics
of Heroin.
See also: Air America (book and movie)

Given the war going on in Afghanistan,
nothing else makes sense to explain why
Coca-Cola would suddenly build a new
plant there. The great new market? Not!

In the late 1960s the Russian and Chinese armies
fought a series of border engagements. Some of
these were very bloody, and involved heavy
weapons and artillery.

In 1968 the KGB attempted to start a war between
China and the US. The KGB hijacked a Soviet missile
submarine and tried to launch a nuclear attack on
Pearl Harbor. The missile exploded on launch, sinking
the sub and killing everyone on board.

The US learned of this. Nixon and Kissinger used the
information to get the Soviets to the SALT I bargaining
table. They also used the information to get
rapprochement with China.

The US raised the sunken sub using the Hughes
Glomar Explorer, which was specially built for
the purpose.

Thinking about the story that HST made a snuff
film at the Bohemian Grove: It's either true, or a
rumor Hunter made up, or a rumor someone else
made up about Hunter. Or someone using Hunter's
name made a snuff film at the Bohemian Grove.
Or appeared to. Given HST's reputation, it's
something you can say and get away with. Who's
gonna doubt it? It's like saying your brother
is in the Blue Man group. Who can tell? Do you
doubt that the world's elite would do human
sacrifice if they thought they could get away
with it? Given the human sacrifice practiced
every day through policy and program, what's
the difference? Do you think Hunter
would film such a thing? He may have been welcome
at such elite gatherings, but he was certainly not one
of them. His last book is largely a rant against the
evil ruling elite, as was his whole beat, 'The Death
of the American Dream'.

At least one of HST's assistants has said that she got
fired for refusing to come in the house and watch a
snuff film with Hunter. So there is at least one small
other connection between snuff films and HST that
we know of. Here is a link to a scan of the account of
the snuff film, which claims it happened in January
of 1984.

http://www.thelawparty.org/FranklinCoverup/FranklinBookGrove.htm

The Bohemian Club was founded by San Francisco
newspapermen. It includes elites from government,
banking, media, etc. Hunter Thompson was a San
Francisco newspaperman, as well as night manager
of the notorious O'Farrell Theater in San Francisco
('The Carnegie Hall of Public Sex in America').
Thompson also ran with the Hells Angels in and
around SF. He was active in politics, he knew
the movers and shakers. So all this adds up to
one thing -- Hunter had to have known of the
Bohemian Club. He would have known many
people who attend the Bohemian Grove.
It's very possible he attended the Grove.

The Bohos claim they do not practice human
sacrifice. They do however admit they sacrifice
a human effigy they call 'Dull Care'. This is
supposed to symbolize their casting off of
work and care during their annual two week
long anything-goes bacchanalia out in the
woods.

So the Grove is a place where the corrupt
elite plays out it's fantasies. The human
effigy they sacrifice to the huge Moloch
Owl God represents the toilers, the little
guys, the shlubs who have to actually work
for a living, unlike the parasitical
Overlords. And it really doesn't matter if
the human sacrifice is real or not, when
your system sacrifices humanity every
day by war, pollution, slavery, drugs, debt. . .

... and Hunter has perpetrated his greatest
boastful lie ever -- that he filmed the unholy
rite at the Bohemian Grove where the uberRich
perform a grisly offering to their dark god. From
beyond the grave Hunter exposes the very
people he referred to as Nazis. Hunter hated
the elite, even while they welcomed him to
their secret exclusive gatherings. This is
HST's most ambitious jake ever. So where is
the purported snuff film anyway? Why can't
we see it? It doesn't exist. It doesn't need
to. Hunter Thompson didn't have to make a
snuff film at the Bohemian Grove; he just had
to say he did. Once again he beat us to it --
that's why he was such a genius. Or not. This
could all be just another internet rumor
spread by credulous dupes and started not
by HST but by anyone. Or it could be all
true on the face of it.

Snuff films themselves are the stuff of
legend. Even as you watch one, how do
you know it's real? Stage tricks are ancient.
FCN could make a very convincing snuff
film without anyone being harmed. The
even bigger theater of our public spectacle
features real snuff films every night. The
gullible public eats up the crap the elites
serve with little question of whether or
not it's real. Phoney reasons to go to
war, phoney reasons to pony up the
man's vig, phoney reasons to forgive
the latest outrage they perpetrate on us. . .
the real snuff film rolls every night at six,
when the stuffed fake heads spew the
nightly poison of lies, half-truths and obvious
cons. The mainstream official news outlets
will never tell you the truth. Their lies
are pervasive. Their lies are lies of
omission, they ignore the 3000 pound
elephant in the room as they throw out
their worthless puff pieces . . . the job
of the mainstream media is the same as
the educational system: to keep the
people ignorant and amused.

"All journalists are liars' -- Hunter S. Thompson

"There is no such thing, at this date of the
world's history, in America, as an independent
press. You know it and I know it. There is not
one of you who dares to write your honest
opinions, and if you did, you know beforehand
that it would never appear in print. I am paid
weekly for keeping my honest opinion out of
the paper I am connected with. Others of you
are paid similar salaries for similar things, and
any of you who would be so foolish as to write
honest opinions would be out on the streets
looking for another job. If I allowed my honest
opinions to appear in one issue of my paper,
before twenty four hours my occupation
would be gone.

"The business of the journalists is to destroy
the truth, to lie outright, to pervert, to
vilify, to fawn at the feet of mammon, and
to sell his country and his race for his daily
bread. You know it and I know it, and what
folly is this toasting an independent press?

We are the tools and vassals of rich men
behind the scenes. We are the jumping jacks,
they pull the strings and we dance. Our talents,
our possibilities and our lives are all the
property of other men. We are intellectual
prostitutes."

(Source: Labor's Untold Story, by Richard O.
Boyer and Herbert M. Morais, published by
United Electrical, Radio & Machine Workers
of America, NY, 1955/1979.)

So just where is the truth of this story? Here's
a link to a site asking the same questions:
http://abelahsimmons.gnn.tv/links/660/GOP_child_rapists_and_Hunter_Thompson

As for me, I'm leaning toward this being
Hunter's greatest jake ever, and from beyond
the grave to boot. But I really don't know.
There is some great shit out there on this
story. Here's a link to one of the best sites
I've seen. They've got a REALLY creepy
quote from HST's last book:

"The autumn months are never a calm time
in America. . . . There is always a rash of
kidnapping and abductions of schoolchildren
in the football months. Preteens of both
sexes are traditionally seized and grabbed
off the streets by gangs of organized
perverts who traditionally give them as
Christmas gifts to each other to be personal sex
slaves and playthings."
http://portland.indymedia.org/en/2005/05/317430.shtml

Was HST hinting at something? Did he KNOW
something?

The End of Morality Policing in America

Thu, 29 Jan 2009 14:40:00 +0000

The End of Morality Policing in America: Part I

The End of Morality Policing in America: Part II

sexual pancakes

Sun, 21 Dec 2008 20:10:00 +0000

Drive Offs Don't Drive In Michigan

noreply@blogger.com (Colonel Kurtz) — Sun, 05 Oct 2008 16:13:00 +0000

by Colonel Kurtz, somewhere Up the River...

The Michigan State Police have helpfully provided
stickers to gas station owners in response to the
rise in "drive offs"at those stations. A drive off is
when the driver pumps fuel and then leaves without
paying. As gas prices have risen the number of drive
offs has also risen.

The Michigan State Police should have known
better, and they appear to have learned their lesson.
That is, the original stickers they provided to gas
stations had a picture of a stern-faced Trooper
admonishing the gas station customer that drive-offs
faced criminal prosecution. There's not a single one
that doesn't have a penis and testicles strategically
added to the picture of the cop. The new version of
the stickers omit the picture.

Ha-ha! I may not do a drive off, but I WILL be
therewith my trusty Sharpie, and you'll look great
with a big dick and balls in your face... have a Nice Day!

This is it kiddies

noreply@blogger.com (Colonel Kurtz) — Mon, 29 Sep 2008 20:15:00 +0000

by Colonel Kurtz
"The Horror! The Horror!"
Goldman Sachs, Chase , JP Morgan:
These are the ones who will profit from
this bailout. These are the ones who own
the private money cartel that controls
this country. These are the enemy. It's
class warfare against the rest of us. And
if you are in a war you don't even know
was declared against you then you are
at a severe disadvantage. Abolish the FED
or never get your country back. It's as
simple as that. The American people are
toofucking illinformed, willfully ignorant,
or possibly just too god damned stupid
to get it. Wake the fuck up and demand
real money. Conduct a national strike
until the Fed has it's greedy little paws
pried off our money system. It's a private,
illegal, immoral , unconstitutional cartel
that will forever be an albatross around
our neck and will forever suck any and
all prosperity out of us until we kill it.
Read it and weep. It's the truth, and
until you know it and act on it and make
it happen, you are a slave.

Happy Happy Lehman Brothers

noreply@blogger.com (Colonel Kurtz) — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 15:37:00 +0000

by Colonel Kurtz -- "They said my methods
were unsound."
Did you really think that we want those laws
to be observed? We want them broken. There's
no way to rule innocent men. The only power
government has is the power to crack down
on criminals. When there aren't enough
criminals, one makes them. One declares so
many things to be a crime that it's impossible
to live without breaking laws. Who wants a
nation of law-abiding citizens? But just pass
the kind of laws that can neither be observed
nor enforced nor objectively interpreted and
you create a nation of law-breakers - and
then you cash in on guilt. - Ayn Rand

"The war is not meant to be won, it is meant
to be continuous. Hierarchical society is only
possible on the basis of poverty and ignorance.
The war is planned to keep society on the
brink of starvation. The war is waged by the
ruling group against its own subjects and its
object is not victory but to keep the structure
of society intact." - George Orwell

Sarah Palin is PERFECTLY qualified, an
empty-headed dolt who will order any policy
that's she's told. A simple-minded toole. Just
what the plutocrats behind the Repug party
want. Another figurehead, like Reagan or
little Geordie Bushy. God wants her to be Pressy.
God and the Powers. The Infernal freaking
Powers. There is no America. There is no
democracy. There is only IBM, and ITT, and
AT&T, and DuPont, Dow, Union Carbide, and
Exxon. Those *are* the nations of the world
today.
— with Thanks to Paddy Chayefsky

Lipstick on a pig. Perfect metaphor for the
entire Repug 2008 campaign. McCain/Palin
is a pig, in all the worst connotations of the
word, no offense to our suiform even-toed
ungulate brothers. The American people are
in for a roasting if these bastards get/maintain
power. AND given the rotten stench of
Washington, the only Hope we have is that
Obama proves to be as smart, honest and
tough as we need. That he's REALLY the
Patriot we are all praying for. And that he
can put a great huge dent in this evil
System that has grown up…

"Fossil remains indicate that whales, dolphins,
and porpoises evolved from hoofed land
mammals related to sheep, pigs, deer, camels,
and cows. These animals returned to the sea
about 50 million years ago, during the Eocene
Epoch."

In other words, they were a lot smarter than
OUR ancestors. They came out, looked around,
and said "Hell NO I'm NOT!"

Dolphins are the only critter with a greater
brain/body weight ratio than humans. But
you can still trick 'em with a fish. Kind of like
a crack-head. Which leads to my plan to round
up the crack heads. You put holes in walls of
buildings all over town, just big enough to get
your hand in. You put a crack rock in each
hole. The crack-head sees the crack rock,
grabs the crack rock, but can't get his fist
out once he's grabbed the crack rock. Then
you just send the paddy wagon around. We
could even automate it like the Rat-Zapper.
[the Ratzapper is an electronic rat killing
machine, kinda like Sarah Palin's mouth
see ratzapper.com ] Call it the Crack-Zapper.
Monitor the catch right from your PC.
"Hey Moe!, we got one in trap #114!"

Latest Internet Rumors

noreply@blogger.com (Colonel Kurtz) — Sun, 07 Sep 2008 14:11:00 +0000

by Colonel Kurtz -- "They said my methods were unsound."
The Internuthin' is always packed with crazy rumors,
a few of them occasionally with some actual substance.
Here's a recent sampling:

Bill Clinton was the model for album cover "Paranoid"
by Black Sabbath, featuring Young Bill in day-glow
tights w/underpants on the outside and a
pseudo-Samurai Sword/light saber and cheesy
cardboard shield, all topped off with an old
motorcycle helmet.

Dick Cheney of course is well known as the sinister
"Figure In Black" on the original Black Sabbath
album.

Hillary Clinton is equally well known as the model
for The Predator crab mandible face/vagina dentata
horror.

Johnny McCain: crazyMean. What kind of freakish
Ibogaine rumor can you start about him? the guy IS
crazyMean. For years rumor has had it McCain is a
Manchurian Candidate, having been programmed in
the Hanoi Hilton. Wouldn't surprise me, given the
way he acts and that sheep-killing dog/creepy-ass
"smile" he puts on.

The more fun things concern McCain's asshole/slut/
moron VP Sarah Palin as a former CIA honey-pot
sexual-entrapment whore and hit woman. And that
ain't hard to believe, looking at her or hearing her
obnoxious braying. True or not she's a nut-job with
zero integrity. Google "Wasilla Sports Complex"--
she wrecked that town's finances to build a hockey
rink, and she bungled the associated land deal.
With extreme arrogance and incompetence. She
is lying about the Bridge to Nowhere she claims
she opposed. She not only campaigned for
governor in favor of the bridge, she kept the
Federal money after Congress scuttled the
rotten thing. She was only against it after it
became politically impossible. I can call her
names here, but it's really not necessary. Her
record sinks her. There is plenty to attack Sarah
Palin with, all of it real, all of it her own public
policies. Check out:
http://www.who-sucks.com/people/13-reasons-why-sarah-palin-sucks
it's all there. Not rumors, not mud-slinging.

A Nation of Goats and Sheep, From PC to PSL

noreply@blogger.com (TS Penn) — Sun, 07 Sep 2008 03:48:00 +0000

9/7/08

From the Sports Desk

A Nation of Goats and Sheep, From PC to PSL

By TS Penn

It appears that these days’ people will pretty much eat anything fed to them like a starved Iraqi goat. It seems to have gained irreversible momentum when America gouged itself on a 12-course “All You Can Eat” buffet of Political Correctness. They are still stuffing their faces as I write this blog. They slop away with their heads so deep in those stainless steel buffet pans they are oblivious to the pile of crap building up behind them. To hell with personal responsibility there is no time for that now.

The liberal community organizer extortionists and personal injury lawyers are having a field day at their own personal cash/power troughs. The always-hungry pork barrel politicians at all levels of government have quickly exploited this opportunity. A surge in PC fueled legislation and town ordinances have been implemented in the name of protecting us from ourselves. Be happy and nice to each other, have some more to eat, pay no attention to that twisted bastard cackling out loud behind the curtain. Bicycle helmets, seat belts, vehicle cell phone bans, jaywalking and even the composition of Little League baseball bats. I guess the local Little League brats fell behind on their political vig. Screw the little bastards! Tell their parents to get them out there in front of the local supermarkets begging for change more often. It doesn’t build character like a car wash but it will teach the little urchins a useful skill in these treacherous times of Political Correctness.

The PC Nazis established a definitive victory in the war against personal responsibility and freedom with the abolition of smoking in privately owned establishments. The outlawing of sports loving Americans to have a beer and a smoke at your favorite bar as you watch the game was met with inferior firepower and an attitude that the it could never happen.

The game has been changed for the average sports fan. That major casualty of personal freedom from the smoking ban in bars was but a shot across the bow. The icons of Americana, holy sanctuaries of our fathers and their fathers, the den of the hard core sports fan was changed for ever in one powerful swing of the PC broadsword. The game has changed. The working man, the heartbeat of this country has lost along with thousands of mom and pop, shot and beer havens where the smell of stale beer and heavy smoke provided a cloud that obscured the wickedness of it all. The Alamo of blue collar American life has fallen to a liberal PC panzer blitz that is only challenged by the public through anonymous callers to radio talk shows.

As a rule, when it comes to cashing in, corporate America, motivated entrepreneurs, and small businesses, are quick to pick up the pieces and see the angle. They seldom shy away from a fight but when they loose, little time is spent on licking wounds. The smart money is on defining, and adapting a plan to exploit the lessons learned. In the case of the lost war on political correctness the lesson learned was that the public are goats and will eat pretty much anything. The second lesson is that if you blow enough smoke up their ass they may bitch and moan when you move the trough to a harder to reach position, but they will follow. The goats then morph into sheep. Then Bob’s your rich uncle.

This now brings me to crux of the blog. One of the first corporations to recognize the validity of the goat to sheep analogy is the National Football League and its team franchises. They have long been the leaders in the art of the consumer fleece. $12 parking, $6 hot dogs, $7 dollar draft beer, $4 dollar pretzel, $25 baseball cap, $90 team jersey, $350 for nosebleed tickets for a family of 4. The fleecing of the Goatsheep? …Priceless.

You need to understand that pro-sports arena/stadium seats are like real estate. They’re not making any more available with rare minor exceptions.

Enter stage left, a bi-product of the far left PC blitzkrieg that is available only to that far right waiting list line. The PSL, Personal Seat License. Or, the “Purge Sports Lovers” program. This is a program being implemented by a growing number of professional football franchises. This low risk move offers the teams an ability to raise fast cash for a new stadium, a quarterback, two 2^nd round tackles and a Brazilian place kicker. This is done with the blessings of the NFL Vatican. Hell, how bad could it be? We have swallowed the $4 hotdog and swilled copious amounts of your $7 watered down draft Coors Light. Well, let’s take a look at an actual case history of a personal friend of mine under the PSL fleece.

Actual True Case of Tommy D. (Name changed for fear of NFL retribution) Tommy D has held season tickets to a NJ/NY area NFL football franchise for 50 years. He has 8 season tickets, on the 50 yard line, lower level. For this loyal fan, now in his mid eighties, his costs to keep his seats will cost him $160,000 per year for the privilege of paying $5,600 per game for those 8 seats. That is $20,000 to purchase a PSL for each seat, and $700 per seat, per game cost.

The sport PSL is social cleansing for profit. It is purging of many long time loyal fans and families who can’t make the enormous new vig. The NFL is telling them to hit the road. If you can’t come up with a 4-5-figure tribute to the team bosses then we don’t want your kind around. These teams look at the core fan as tailgating, beer swilling, and rabid parasites. You were extremely useful... but we need the seats. We love you all! Be sure to catch us on our upcoming new weekly PPG, Pay Per Game program coming to cable soon.

They continue…By Banishing the financially weak we can lower our insurance costs according to our lawyers. We only want to enhance the quality of the fan experience by weeding out tenants of “underutilized and blighted seats.” These seats are a commodity that can provide an increased investment in the team. In addition it provides a potentially lucrative opportunity for our financially capable, current ticket holders. That last part is true. If you have season tickets, mortgage your home to keep them. You will at least triple your investment in 2 years.

There is no doubt that this PSL thing sucks. But they got you by the short and curlys my friend. The goats will not starve in this story, they’ll move on. Goats will eat anything. The trust fund docile and/or shrewd sheep however will follow. College funds will be depleted and child support payments will run into arrears as the long time, hard core fan, tries to meet the perfectly legal and perfectly controversial extortion demands or succumb to the financial cleaver of economic cleansing of PSL. The NFL and team fan loyalty to the core fan base has been exposed as an exploitive ruse. The rules no longer apply. The PSL, Purge Sports Lovers, program shows that these teams never considered their loyal fans as anything but simple-minded rubes. If the whimper of backlash against PSL is any indication, maybe they are right. I wonder just how long it will take before half naked fat guys painted in team colors in snow covered bleachers will be replaced by pencil neck investment bankers in pin stripe suits and corporate logo umbrellas. Monday Night Football will trade in Hank Williams Jr.’s beloved introduction for that annoying guy from the free-credit-report.com commercials. PC to PSL, Goats morphed to sheep and a sale on veal at Shop Rite.

Reporting from the Sports Desk, wondering what a stadium press pass is going for these days,

TS Penn

The Strange and Terrible Story of the Semi-Domesticated Primates

noreply@blogger.com (Colonel Kurtz) — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 05:02:00 +0000

The Semi-Domesticated Primates spent most
of their time trying to hide what they were
doing, since most of the time they were acting
Just Awful. And those who were known to act
Just Awful were understood to be No Good Shits.

Dick Cheney is a No Good Shit. George W. Bush
would be a No Good Shit, except he's not smart
enough to know that he's acting Just Awful.
He thinks he's a Great President, 'cause Dick
Cheney tells him so. And so does Condi Rice.
Condi Rice is a No Good Shit.

The Semi-domesticated Primates followed the
territorial dominance posturing/aggression
behavior of their undomesticated ancestors.
Where the ancestors would shit into leaves
and fling the shit across the tribal boundary
at the rival predatory gang, the Semi-
Domesticated Primates would put squiggles
of ink onto leaves of paper and hurl them
across tribal boundaries at rival predatory
gangs.

They also devised elaborate rituals and
structures which allowed a few No Good Shits
to monopolize most of the good food, clean
water, nice places to live, and desirable
mates to procreate with. The rest of the Semi-
domesticated Primates had to make do with
what they were left with, because they were
not smart enough to figure out how they were
being screwed, or because they didn't have
the power to stop it.

The power to stop it required education and
awareness on the part of enough of the
Semi-domesticated Primates that they could
smash the heads on the No Good Shits in and
get away with it. The No Good Shits became
very good at keeping enough of the others
distracted, divided, or ignorant enough that
the No Good Shits could continue to act Just
Awful. And so it went. [with thanks to Robert
Anton Wilson, Timothy Leary, and Kurt Vonnegut.]

Let's Kick Toby Keith In the Balls

Thu, 07 Aug 2008 20:34:00 +0000

I am a Whore and My Drinks are Free!

noreply@blogger.com (TS Penn) — Sun, 03 Aug 2008 02:13:00 +0000

I am a Whore and My Drinks are Free!

By TS Penn – Vintage 1997 Fat City News

UPDATE: 8/2/08- TS Penn-- The concept of objective journalism is dead in America. If you flip back and forth between Fox News and CNN, somewhere in the middle you may find the truth if you look real hard. With this recent goat fuck of a presidential election going on I though this original Fat City News article from 1997 has been validated. Never in history have we seen the media more blatantly expose themselves as the bias whores, They have cast off the ideals of conventional journalistic ideals to embrace the Gonzo concepts of becoming a part of the story, as opposed to a neutral observer. The biggest story these days the media is reporting is about themselves and the defense of their teenage crush on Barrack Hussein Obama. Perhaps those media moguls who envision the profits that will be realized by the magnitude of cannon fodder that this untested, almost virgin, strange new political entity, are encouraging the obvious media love fest. After all the price of beer is going up with everything else and downsizing is a growing trend.

Time to write about last night's savage adventures at the "Mecklermedia Fall 97 World Internet Conference". First, my apologies for not submitting a LIVE report from the pressroom. I forgot the list's email address. Among this crowd of techno geeks in a pressroom full of techno journalism's elite press, I ran across more than one fan who knew of Fat City News. To this small contingent... I was treated like a hero. They would later become the core of my own private army of radical fringe wannabe journalists who joined me on the twisted trail of press parties we invaded with drunken abandon later that night. Journalistic ethics and morals disappear as fast as the cash and drugs from the evidence locker of a Mexican police department in Tijuana.

As I roamed the over 600 exhibitors with my first real,. legitimately issued "press pass" for Fat City News, I was sucked in like a corrupt politician to the social suck up attention and the amenities and gifts that were heaped on me by the corporate reps because I had a press badge that said I was a "product review journalist". (Or so they thought. It was a cover that easily passed any background checks for a show that was all about touting the latest and greatest computer and internet products.) I found myself being catered to by companies like Microsoft, IBM, Oracle, AOL and a host of hundreds of Internet companies who all just wanted to be my friend in the hope that I would write a good review or even mention their product in a positive light. I felt like a politician being swooned by the lobbyists. I marveled at the fact that a little tag around my neck hanging by a shoestring gave me almost godlike powers over the marketing swine of billion dollar corporations. When I saw a software package I liked all I had to do was say we were "considering" a product review in a future issue and I was handed a full boxed version of their latest version. Needless to say my press pass identified me also as the "Managing Editor" drew me even more attention. If I knew then what I know now, this would have been our Fat City News summit with press passes for all on our staff who were willing to make the trip to the most wild and electric point on the Earth,,,New York City...just like I pictured it..skyscrappers and everything!

Let me state now. I totally sold out. But in retrospect, that may have been hidden mission and story I was looking for. It didn’t take long to recognize I was not only in a corporate whorehouse, but my press credentials gave me VIP status. Waiting in lines? Fuck no! I would be quickly escorted by a hired wannabe model/actress to the front. And I liked it. Fuck the doomed; give me some free stuff and an invitation to the after party. Maybe I sold out, but maybe I was just following the story. I was willing to make that sacrifice.

FUCK THE TRUTH.

Tell them what they wanna hear and they will treat you like a god.

Buy me a drink and a whore and I’ll promise that your product is gold in my bloodshot eyes.

Ignore me… and I'll threaten to bury your ass in negative ink.

Corporate journalism at its finest.

I've learned they all do it. The product review so called journalists. They also, like myself enjoy the good life and being catered to. The main difference is I am willing to admit it here in print now.

I'm a whore who is ready to play this fucking game. I am also someone who knows the rules only apply to the weak, sidestepping the rules is how this game is played

OK, now that I've admitted it, I'm one step above the pompous assholes who play the game but will forever deny any involvement in it. Instead they play the role of the "respectable journalist". The guy who will enjoy all the perks like a politician yet deny they play any role on their decision making.

I say fuck it!

Let them know where you stand up front, sure you'll be considered scum, a traitor by the majority of press, but to the marketing people you are something special who deserves extra special treatment.

Then again, the gonzo journalist has always been a misunderstood breed. The very concept has always been open to interpretation by anyone with enough honesty and balls to jump headfirst into the bowels of this indefinable style of writing and reporting. Some may claim that underground journalism is the last bastion of truth. In that train of thought, and by exposing myself as a whore who will promise you a cover story for a free drink and the company of Corporate America's finest public relation sluts, I have therefore exposed the corpse of the most despicable and savage naked journalistic myth. Journalists throughout time have been called whores. Now is the time to revel in this truth and stand up and be counted and admit:

I AM A WHORE, AND MY DRINKS ARE FREE!

OK, I've wandered and ranted and hopeful a small handful will grasp the concept. Consumer journalism is bed full of beautiful sluts that only those devoid of normal childhood would walk away from. They have not realized there are no heroes in this line of work. Heroes do not generate advertising dollars and they seldom get laid.

I never wrote a single word about any of these products. That was not the mission. But I still get invitations to the free parties every week. Sometimes even billion dollar corporations participate in the lifestyle and ignorance of the doomed. They can afford to do so, it’s a write off, a numbers game. I attended a lot of parties that night given by major corporations plying me with booze, babes, bands, and gifts. My world of journalism is just a peek into where all journalism is already hip deep in. The difference is I tell the truth while they continue to bullshit you. Their facts are always hand fed and most often murky and twisted to bolster the agenda of demographic sales statistics. The truth can only be told by those who are willing to admit that they can be manipulated. For they are the free, the liberated, and they no longer have any reason to lie…to you.

Genius From a Past Era

noreply@blogger.com (Colonel Kurtz) — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 21:34:00 +0000

C.T.Robinson is gone, lost in a world that was too
slow to catch him and too small to contain him.
He was a prototype, a high speed, low drag mutant,
god's own one-off, a special writer who could only
come along at a special time.

And a special time it was. The early days of this
old internuthin', a wild high time when cowboys,
prospectors, robber-barons and gunslingers like
C.T. Robinson ran amok and it was Nobody's
Business. We were young then, and free, or at
least more free than we are now.

Young wild and crazy, driving fast with no
restraint, not wearing restraints, no helmets,
no registration, no insurance. We didn't stop
when the Man tried to pull us over, and we
didn't care what the consequences were gonna
be if and when they finally ran us down.

And run us down they did. Eventually even
the fastest full bore wild man runs into that
cul de sac, that speed trap, that ambush where
the Man was one step ahead of you and nothing
you could do was going to alter the outcome.

The great worm of history continues to turn
though, debts to society get paid, eventually,
parole boards relent, under constant pressure
to open critical bed space. The call is out: we ARE
getting the band back together, but C.T. won't
be there to answer the call.

It's too late, way past that epoch. That kind of
primitive brute is out of place in this foul age;
it's the twenty-First century now, and beasts
like C.T. Robinson have all been hunted down
and placed in climate controlled zoos, or just
killed outright. Rumor has it there are reproducing
colonies still holed up, pockets of decadence even
the Dept of Homlnd Security hasn't been able to
penetrate or ferret out. But these are just rumors,
and malicious ones at that. Don't hold your breath:
Osamo's cave will be easier to find.

So given all that I feel no shame in shamelessly
putting this tres aged gem out there. Chris will forgive
me. And if a stranger in dark glasses, trench coat and
false beard ever shows up, the royalty check will still
be there, waiting.

Subject: Fwd: Ancient skulls
From: C.T. Robinson

Paleoanthropology Division
Smithsonian Institute
207 Pennsylvania Avenue
Washington, DC 20078

Dear Sir:
Thank you for your latest submission to the Institute,
labeled "211-D, layer seven, next to the clothesline
post. Hominid skull." We have given this specimen a
careful and detailed examination, and regret to
inform you that we disagree with your theory that
it represents "conclusive proof of the presence of
Early Man in Charleston County two million years
ago." Rather, it appears that what you have found
is the head of a Barbie doll, of the variety one of
our staff, who has small children, believes to be
the "Malibu Barbie". It is evident that you have
given a great deal of thought to the analysis of this
specimen, and you may be quite certain that those
of us who are familiar with your prior
work in the field were loathe to come to contradiction
with your findings. However, we do feel that there
are a number of physical attributes of the specimen
which might have tipped you off to it's modern origin:

1. The material is molded plastic. Ancient hominid
remains are typically fossilized bone.

2. The cranial capacity of the specimen is
approximately 9 cubic centimeters, well below the
threshold of even the earliest identified proto-hominids.

3. The dentition pattern evident on the "skull" is
more consistent with the common domesticated dog
than it is with the "ravenous man-eating Pliocene
clams" you speculate roamed the wetlands during
that time. This latter finding is certainly one of the
most intriguing hypotheses you have submitted in
your history with this institution, but the evidence
seems to weigh rather heavily against it. Without
going into too much detail, let us say that:

A. The specimen looks like the head of a Barbie doll
that a dog has chewed on.
B. Clams don't have teeth.

It is with feelings tinged with melancholy that we
must deny your request to have the specimen carbon
dated. This is partially due to the heavy load our lab
must bear in it's normal operation, and partly due
to carbon dating's notorious inaccuracy in fossils of
recent geologic record. To the best of our knowledge,
no Barbie dolls were produced prior to 1956 AD, and
carbon dating is likely to produce wildly inaccurate
results. Sadly, we must also deny your request that
we approach the National Science Foundation's
Phylogeny Department with the concept of assigning
your specimen the scientific name "
Australopithecus spiff-arino." Speaking personally, I,
for one, fought tenaciously for the acceptance of
your proposed taxonomy, but was ultimately voted
down because the species name you selected was
hyphenated, and didn't really sound like it might
be Latin.

However, we gladly accept your generous donation
of this fascinating specimen to the museum. While
it is undoubtedly not a hominid fossil, it is, nonetheless,
yet another riveting example of the great body of
work you seem to accumulate here so effortlessly.
You should know that our Director has reserved a
special shelf in his own office for the display of the
specimens you have previously submitted to the
Institution, and the entire staff speculates daily
on what you will happen upon next in your
digs at the site you have discovered in your back
yard. We eagerly anticipate your trip to our
nation's capital that you proposed in your last
letter, and several of us are pressing the
Director to pay for it. We are particularly
interested in hearing you expand on your
theories surrounding the "trans-positating
fillifitation of ferrous ions in a structural matrix"
that makes the excellent juvenile Tyrannosaurus
rex femur you recently discovered take on the
deceptive appearance of a rusty 9-mm Sears
Craftsman automotive crescent wrench.

Yours in Science,
Harvey Rowe
Curator, Antiquities

VOUCHSAFE AND BEHOOVE WHOREMONGERS,
C.T. Robinson

The World's Leading Experts on the Nursing Madonna...
Read Phat City News:
http://phatcitynews.blogspot.com/