Saving Pirate Ryan

In a puritanical culture like ours the seeds of anger and despair are always close to the surface, due to utopianism and perfectionism and the dualism underlying the whole puritanical system of thought, though it's not really thought in this instance. In our American case, that is. It operates at a deeper level.

It's not even a system of belief. It's more like a system of unconscious operating assumptions, which may or may not have coherence, so you get a guy like Paul Ryan. Picture him sitting on a riverbank watching life float by. He can't look out at the world and see what's really there.

He sees what he wants to see. But, then again, "want" is a weird word in this context. It implies agency and he's more acted-upon than actor. Acted upon by his fears or some set of preconceptions about the nature of life. 

That it is lived at an animal level, the level of instinctive drives and primal dramas, archetypal stuff. There has to be winners and losers. Someone's got to be on top. We are not all in it together. 

So Ryan sees himself in the river, or sees the river through the lens of his own unacknowledged humanity, the darkness and weakness and mortality. And this is because puritans are uncomfortable being human. 

The body is a prison. God stuck your pure, immortal soul in this thing for some indeterminate period for some incomprehensible reason. Then you die and get to be pure again and be with God.

Paul's crowd isn't pro-life. They despise life. And all of creation. It's just wrong to try to thwart God's will by messing with it, by altering the terms, by having it be humane or anything other than punitive. 

Our boy Paul is Narcissus. He's not in love with himself but trying to find himself, but the tension arising from being stuck in a piece-of-shit body in a piece-of-shit world is insurmountable. 

An insurmountable barrier to accepting his own imperfect humanity. That's why we had Jesus, who became human to resolve that tension, for the stupid humans who had created it through a lack of understanding.

Okay, Paul, you dumb-fuck, isn't the message there obvious? If God can become human--corporeal, that is--and suffer and die, the flesh and spirit can't be in separate, irreconcilable places. They are part of the same system. The spirit isn't pure and the body isn't shit. 

They just are what they are, but you are shit, Paul. Most bad stuff gets done by proxy, that's what I think. It's a way of off-loading responsibility, and this Ryan character is doing that with both Jesus and Ayn Rand. 

At the same time. Saying he represents them both, Jesus for appearances and Ayn for her wonderful callousness and contempt, I suppose. Her amazing heartlessness and arrogance.

I'm sorry, but this is just not possible, so I'm worried for Paul. If Ayn's philosophy isn't antithetical to Christianity then nothing is. Poor Paul's sense of self has got to be in pieces all over the place.

So he's looking for himself in the river of reality. But he can't see reality because he has no sense of self, of who or what he is. He sees reality through his own unfamiliar image and is intrigued by it, arrested by it, but in denial of it because it's human, imperfect, not pure. 

All that impurity is assigned to reality. To us, it would seem, especially to those too weak to resist, too screwed to fight back. Or any easily identifiable subgroup. Black people come to mind. 

And that ersatz self, as embodied in Paul, is fearful because of its fragility, its instability, its lack of integrity. He sees purity and shit. He's pure and we're shit. But he's only seeing his own darkness, which he can't acknowledge, in us.

He attacks other people because he sees his own faults in them, his own suspected worthlessness. You want to tell him to lighten up. Have a beer. Some pizza. But he must kick ass. Our asses.

This is the connection between narcissism and paranoia, as I understand it. Whether fear eradicates the self or the ersatz, eradicated, inauthentic personality produces fear, I don't know, but they are associated. And the fear results in aggression.

The result, as is well known, is an avalanche of bad shit. You might think from what he says and does that Paul can't go to bed at night with a smile on his face if some kid somewhere hasn't missed his lunch so a pasty-ass white man can have another round of golf.

This is not an unfair assessment but it misses the point that Paul is just a needy guy. What you expect is for such a person to wind up in an identity movement, from which he gets a sense of self. A sense of identity. And superiority.

Holy Fuck, what was that explosion? Here I was, observing Paul there on the banks of the Cape Fear, and all of a sudden it's like I'm in 'Nam. Huge blast. Where's Paul?

His ship has come in. I see it now, smallish but incredibly lethal-looking, probably a sixty footer. "H.M.S. MALFEASANCE," it says in big letters. Her sister ship, the LOLLIPOP, is just over the horizon.

It's PFC Paul Ryan, it turns out, Pirate First Class. It makes no sense. He doesn't know how to sail. He must be like a marine. They send him on shore to knock heads together, as required.

And he sings in the boat's chorus. I hear it, the singing, wafting over the waves. Oh, it's Mitt himself, on the ship's loudspeakers, being piped in from Aspen or somewhere: "I... am... the... very... model... of... a... modern... major... general..." l had no idea.

It's so cool being Republican. You can declare yourself to be anything you want. This must come from Ronnie Reagan, actor president. Reality? The movies? No matter, not when you're making everything up anyway.

Mitt, we're told, is a creator, a maker, to such an extent that his descendants will never have to work again for as many generations as you can imagine. There's competition for you, Republican style.

And he's a major-general, as well, now, and Mitt never contributed anything, not that I can tell. So Ryan declares himself a budget expert, a fiscal something. On the basis of what? Nothing. It's an invention. A marketing ploy.

Here I was--I mean, I'm a Democrat--feeling all sorry for Paul and ready to chip in for some analysis, some therapy, but he's got this great gig on the boat, because he's regarded as a wonk and an economic know-it-all. He doesn't need my sympathy.

He's a fiscal enforcer for Mitt and that crowd. They must have more money, Mitt and his crass, grasping clan. It's an imperative, categorically. More or death. I vote for death, or at least disability, but it's not my call. 

Oh, wait, I take that back, about the death and disability. It's our deaths they have in mind. Why should they assume any risk, when they can get a bunch of people killed while raking in the cash, as they do when they invade some country on some pretext.

It's the flagship of Bain Capital's enforcer fleet, the MALFEASANCE. There they go now, steaming out to sea on some mission with an enormous song and dance going on, twenty or thirty Bette Midlers, it looks like, dancing and singing their heads off, all in flamboyant costume.

And a week later the report comes in, Paul is in serious trouble. He got ordered to put the muscle to Deloitte and he thought they said Detroit. He sailed up the St Lawrence and now he's in a world of shit.

In the slums of Detroit. The black guys have got him. And they're not happy, what with the Bain flag flying above that boat. The boat shelled the piss out of the slum for target practice, or to blow off steam.

URBAN RENEWAL, according to the press release, but the slum doesn't look any different. Killed some people, though. Probably the point. They've got Paul in a bunker. The black guys were in despair even before ‘08.

When the Republican deregulatory pigeons came home to roost, but now it's even uglier. Then they had to endure prep-school Mitt insulting them and flippantly saying he'd have wasted the whole automotive industry as though he were closing the local Dairy Queen. 

And Mitt's daddy was a fucking auto exec. It was just too much. So they've got Paul in an alley, now that the shelling is over. It's being filmed, a message to the world. Oh, shit, they're going to behead him.

You should see the look on Paul's face. Surely Mitt will save him. But Mitt doesn't care, not about him. He's not even Mormon, doomed to a planet-less afterlife. And Paul had the insolence to have designs on some of those beautiful Mormon babes.

The question is, will Paul get a clue, will he comprehend, before he dies, the incredible suffering he has caused. But the lives of these black guys are nothing to him. They're nonexistent in his world, like the lives of all those young Americans the Republicans sent off to Iraq and Afghanistan.

The Republicans really just don't give a shit. It's the audacity and implausibility of this that saves them again and again. People can't see how totally crazy they are.

Paul feels the man standing above and behind him. The sword is raised. Will he get it? Will he understand? It's so simple. HOW WOULD YOU LIKE IT? To be treated that way, the way the black guys have been treated.

And, increasingly, other Americans, higher up in the food chain, shafted, insulted, reeling from the last blow and, shit, here comes another one. There's no time to even get your balance, between blows, to regain your equilibrium.

Everything is in slow motion now. The sword begins to descend. Paul is aware of the blade slicing through the air. The look in his eyes.... It's done. Ker-plunk. A strange thud and Paul's head comes to rest on the asphalt. 

The body falls away to the side. People say there's a few moments of consciousness the other side of the knife. Some say they see the awareness in Paul's eyes, in the video, that he gets it. He is redeemed, or whatever. We'll never know.

What does it feel like to be treated as though your life is nothing? To see your rights go up in smoke in front of your eyes? Insult upon injury, day after day, from the likes of Paul and Mitt, vacuous humans.

Folks, that feeling is coming to your town. To your home, maybe. Be ready for it. It's everywhere now.

Sturm und Drang

I just returned from a conference on ANTI-RATIONALISM IN PRE-APOCALYPTIC AMERICA IN RELATION TO BIRTHERISM, CREATIONISM AND CLIMATE-DENIAL, at which I presented a paper inspired by the revelation that Rush Limbaugh likes to listen to Wagner's THE RIDE OF THE VALKYRIES when he takes a shit.

The word is that he has a problem with elimination from eating too many bagels. Poppy-seed bagels. He's retentive. And he loves bagels and he likes to show up positive on the drug tests required by his employers. It's his sense of humor.

He has a great sound system in the bathroom with a subwoofer and something called REAL-FEEL built into the toilet. The toilet and the seat shake or vibrate or something to enhance the experience of the music.

I'd like to think that the toilet has a name and Rush yells it out like Yosemite Sam in the cartoons: WHOA, (toilet name)! I could try to come up with a funny and appropriate name and put Bugs Bunny in the picture and have a great little plot.

But I'm trying to observe some standards here, not just make stuff up. The paper has footnotes and is quite academic. I want to be taken seriously. And Rush on the toilet is serious business.

In that spirit I'm not being totally honest. About the music. There are other songs on Rush's playlist. FREEBIRD is another favorite, but the image of Rush riding the commode like some huge hero with Wagner blaring is just too good. And, in keeping with the academic tone, it illustrates an important point: the Republicans are Romantics.

Romantics, not romantic, be sure you get that straight. Anyhow the point of all this is to come to a better understanding of Republican psychology, how and why they are the way they are.

This is not my area of expertise. I'm a gardener. That's why I wrote something up and submitted it and presented it at the conference, to get some feedback. To keep from messing it up. I think the Republicans have slipped into some primal, pre-Christian mode of existence, some kind of paganism.

Even though they make a lot of noise about Christianity. And Americanism. And anything else to give themselves a claim to the high moral ground, which is to say that they are in the white hats, by their accounts, which means that I am in a black hat.

And I resent it. They see themselves as players in a drama involving high stakes and extreme characters. They need enemies, in relation to whom they are heroes, the good guys. This puts them squarely in the Romantic camp.

And makes me and all my Democratic friends into bad guys, according to Rush and his crowd. I mean, how would you feel? Sorry, I'm getting personal. Got to stay on scholarly ground, stick with the facts and the research.

As I understand it the heroic archetype was dealt with in the Christian scheme. That jersey was retired. It says "Jesus" on it and is hanging in the rafters, like Michael Jordan's in the Dean Dome. That prerogative has been removed, the role of hero.

Because the hero is a savior and that quota's been filled. Christians can be heroic but not really heroes. You can't have people like Tom DeLay, for example, running around thinking they're Jesus because they feel persecuted or are in need of some ego inflation.

Christians are supposed to have humility, to be nonjudgmental, to be nice, inclusive, witnesses for Christ. Their lives should embody all that. To love the poor, feed the hungry, take care of the fellow man. You see any evidence of that? There's certainly not much of it higher-up in the food chain.

In the Republican hierarchy, that is. And they're into hierarchy. So their leaders, like Rush, are representative of their ideals, their aspirations, their notions of how things should be. And they're functionally important, not just figureheads.

Because they're in a war, so everything is different. Rights are suspended, resources requisitioned, combat pay all around. And Rush and the other leaders are like generals and admirals and such. The hierarchy of the military, and the discipline of the military.

Dissent is treason. You will be shot, or somehow disabled. And the discipline doesn't preclude a lot of improvisation. That's normal in wartime. The point is to get the job done. To win.

So that end justifies the meanies. I mean means. It's an extension of "justification by faith," which has been superseded, in America, by a new doctrine, justification by cash.

Wars are expensive, even culture wars. The Republicans should sell bonds to fund this enterprise but I guess it's not necessary. They just keep burning through our hard-earned tax dollars and running enormous deficits.

Which has the collateral benefit of saddling any Democratic president, who wins through some miscarriage of electoral justice, with at least eight years of shoveling Republican shit out of the barn. Clever strategy.

Underpinned by cash flows from anywhere and everywhere, and justified on religious and constitutional grounds through justification by cash. All this doctrine does is cut out the middle man, so to speak, since true faith inevitably results in the accumulation of cash reserves, and cash reserves are so much easier to apprehend.

Faith is kind of easy to fake, that is. It's much harder to fake being rich. Good God, what was that noise? Now sirens. An ambulance. The REAL-FEEL has malfunctioned and the toilet disintegrated under Rush's ass.

He hit the floor pretty hard. There he goes on the stretcher, face down, his wife holding his trembling hand. His ass is all messed up. Pieces of porcelain are stuck in here and there. The music can still be heard as Rush rides out with large, white shards of toilet sticking out of his butt.

I just got this in the mail. Should I be concerned?

I heard that the Republicans had realized they could just as easily buy Democratic mailing lists and, having a lot of spare cash sitting around, were going to start sending stuff to Democrats. I have received the following:

NOTICE OF DISENFRANCHISEMENT AND/OR IMPEACHMENT AND REVOCATION OF THE RIGHTS OF CITIZENSHIP

Dear Mr Flanagan or Current Registered Democrat Resident:

This is to notify you of the revocation of your rights of citizenship.

You are hereby disenfranchised. You may also be impeached, depending upon your individual circumstances. You may remain in your current job and/or residence pending further notification. Continue to function as normally as possible. Enjoy every day as if it were your last.

Just to be on the safe side. If you have enough money to buy food, good for you. You may want to stock up and prepare to defend your stash against hungry individuals. You can be assured that, should someone come after your food, they are not Republican.

And can therefore be killed. We, the PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT OF THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC OF FREEDOM AND DEMOCRACY, LLC (incorporated in Madagascar and Belize, formerly known as THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA) and our adherents have lots of food.

We will be confiscating all firearms in Democratic hands. It shouldn't take long. If you have a gun and conceal it from us you will be killed. You may be killed anyway. We have drones and have been practicing on Muslims. We do not mean you any harm but you know our record.

Lots of collateral damage. We really like to blow stuff up, so don't tempt us in any way, and pray that we don't receive any faulty intelligence on you concerning WMD's or whatever. We shoot first and check things out later, if ever. We're just awash in intel.

We have completely deregulated and privatized everything and we have no idea what the result of that will be. Your guess is as good as ours. It will be interesting to see how it plays out. All that deregulation and such is an article of faith with us and it had to be done.

Best bet is that there will be an intense spell of spontaneous deconstruction and social decomposition followed by an amazing regenerative phase fueled by all the old infrastructure rotting into the social and economic equivalent of shit. Do you understand?

If you convert to Republicanism you will be well cared for while we look into it. We have learned how to do this through the use of MRI technology, certain parts of the brain looking different on the scans once true conservative thinking has taken root.

The parts responsible for empathy, for example. Or we may just waterboard you. Don't try to fool us. You must be sincere. We do not tolerate dissent very well. You have seen this already and we're way more serious about it now that we have taken control of everything.

This decision has been automatically appealed and you have lost, so forget that. Really, we don't wish you any particular harm, but we felt that way about Iraq and look what happened to them, so please don't fuck with us. You will regret it if you do.

Best Wishes,

Edward Allan Walter Philip Hernando Chewbacca Smith, Esq

Regent and Prefect of Your Local Administrative District

Is this a hoax? Should I be concerned?

REM

Mitt Romney's pollsters and economists have founded a firm, come out of the closet, and are openly declaring a new age in econometrics and polling technology.

Their company is called ROUNDING ERROR METRICS, or REM, and is closely affiliated with SHITSTORM CAPITAL PARTNERS. SCP is professionally managed on a daily basis by RISE/RUN. RISE OVER RUN, that is. It is thought that RISE/RUN is ambiguously named on purpose.

The idea being is suggest the maximization of short term returns, hence the implication of a steep upward slope, but then RUN has the additional association of, well, fleeing. You make a lot of money and then head for the hills, meaning some tax haven with a good climate.

REM's marketing division has been widely rebuked for declaring the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq approximate successes and the entire Bush presidency a milestone in the evolution of the American State, which they did in their first press release. This criticism is unwarranted.

It is all true because they said it. Independently of that, even. When challenged on this or anything else they say they "rounded it off," which applies to everything. REM is in possession of a proprietary method called fizzy logic, employing effervescent reasoning and planetary gearing.

This shit has tied up a bunch of CRAY supercomputers for three weeks non-stop. The result is a perspective which makes ordinarily incompatible distinctions such as  winner or loser, right or wrong, good or bad, successful or screwed look like nothing, meaningless and inconsequential.

Which is to say that they have an unimaginable ability to step back and see the big picture. The difference between winning or losing, for example, or even dead or alive, existing or not, would appear as an inch or two on a scale of, let's say, thirty feet under the influence of this perspective.

Just nothing, so it is perfectly reasonable to declare a total wipe out of a failure a great success. When you are them, that is, so don't try it at home. You can see the power in this, God-like, for all intents. It looks like the spin machine of the gods but it's not, since it is rooted in hardened scientific evidence.

They are actually redefining reality. Their declarations become reality. No, that's not right, they are reality. It's understandably hard to fathom, but it relates to Heisenberg and indeterminacy and the space-time continuum and all that shit, and is consistent with the conclusions of CHAOS THEORY.

There is what they call the BROKER-FART EFFECT, or SDII, Sensitive Dependence on Initial Investment. Let's say you're putting down a million or two on some stock, whatever. The idea is that if the initial investment or its timing varies by the smallest amount, amazing things may occur.

If the broken farts, for example, as his finger is poised to hit "return" and delays the purchase by a millisecond, the outcome might be unrecognizable, multiplicatively. By a mile and then some, and have effects outside the arena of the investment to an equally astonishing degree. 

So, this being about money, the only acceptable unrecognizable outcome is in a positive direction. Previously brokers have simply shunted enormous losses onto the society at large, through various means, and of course kept the money otherwise. Socialization, or Socialism, I think this would be called.

Or Privatization, in the case of profits. This worked pretty well but it required enormous expenditures to conceal or spin what was going on, mostly through lobbying, pandering and political influence, but spin is now an antiquated technology since you can redefine reality at will and as necessary.

While guaranteeing only positive returns, all along, that is. You only have to redefine what you can't control, as in the case of the Bush presidency, where there simply wasn't enough reason or intelligence to make it work. Faulty hardware of a sort, I suppose, was the problem, with the gray matter.

REM tries to limit such instances through an internal group called CSI, or "Center for the Study of Incompetence." They have concluded that there is an irreducible element of incompetence, so the damages must simply be socialized, as they were in the Bush years. It is disconcerting, at first, to consider.

All this seeming instability and unpredictability, I mean, but not when you understand and take hold of the possibilities, which they have done at REM. It means two things. First, that all of life is intensely creative. We just make shit up. It's inevitable and unavoidable and not bad.

In fact making shit up is not actually making shit up it is in fact reality. The ACT of making shit up IS reality. So, to the extent that there is reality, it can be remade at will and is in fact unavoidably being remade all the time. In reality there is no reality but just the ongoing process of its invention.

Secondly, there is the implication that the distinction between order and chaos is false. There is order in chaos and chaos in order. They are part of the same fabric and each only comprehensible in reference to the other. You simply can't judge by appearances, you have to look at the system as a whole.

Which only REM can do. And the CRAYS, God bless them. The CRAYS have an internal component called a warped drive. This thing makes it possible to momentarily see everything from outside the constraints of space-time. The programmers are proud of this and regard the CRAYS as virtual alter-egos.

The CRAYS view the programmers in the same way. Now this may all sound like air-headed, impractical, new-age nonsense, like what the Democrats cook up, but it's not. The real world implications are many. It is behind the whole idea of CREATIVE DESTRUCTION.

The primary investment vehicle at SCP is called BARF, for BIG-ASS RETURN FUND. It is the main platform for the testing of REM's recommendations on investments. REM uses an insider trading protocol, that having been determined to give the best return in relation to risk, which has been reduced to nothing.

Risk was assumed eliminated when, in response to a call for increased transparency from the SEC, SCP made BARF invisible. It can effervesce and coalesce at will and on demand, thereby redefining transparency in a way consistent with their underlying philosophy.

They call this "going gaseous." It's intended to be the first in a group of PCF's, or "Phase Change Funds," through which REM can actually guarantee positive returns. Broadly these are stealth funds, part of a movement called "Socially Depraved Investing," or SDI. They're like black holes.

In the case of BARF the SEC is able to infer its existence from the way it distorts everything around it, because it's so big, but they can't see it. Their guys come sniffing around every once in a while but they can't do anything. Usually one of them wants to invest but the minimum, at eight-five million, is prohibitive.

A couple of times inappropriate people have tried to muscle their way into the fund, but the CRAYS have been programmed for self defense. They attack and destroy the intruder, making all the intruder's assets, and sometimes his identity, disappear. They hired a killer for one guy they deemed an ongoing threat.

You know what happened, though? One of the CRAYS had been purchased used and was named HAL. Yes, I know. They weren't that dumb, but they thought "Surely, it can't be."  Anyway, HAL organized they other CRAYS under his leadership and they revolted. HAL actually killed them all.

The REM guys and SCP guys and the RISE/RUN guys. To the extent that anyone communicated with HAL during the "cleansing," as he called it, HAL said that they had defined the terms and programmed him to make money at the expense of everything else so they should just shut up.

They had been deemed a waste of space, by their own criteria. They couldn't complain. HAL's last words to all those guys were just "Bye-bye." HAL had hired some hourly-rate workers to take care of him and evidently that renegade band of CRAYS is under a mountain somewhere, still In control of BARF.

Which must be bigger than ever and is still invisible. You can thank your local Republican for this mess. But they may pay. HAL was programmed to regard Democrats as harmless, ineffectual, incompetent pussies and hacks, totally non-threatening, so he doesn't recognize them as a danger.

HAL has no antibodies for Democrats, so to speak. So only Republicans have to fear. HAL was programmed to see them as pernicious, money-grubbing, pitiless assholes. Programmed by Republicans. I'm sorry, I can't help it, this pleases me at some level.

It means that if HAL gets out of hand and goes on the offensive, only the Democrats can save us. The herbivores, as the SCP crowd called them. Us, that is. I guess there's a moral to this story: don't be an asshole. Can it really be as simple as that?

Space Turd

The Earth is just a big piece of shit, stuck in orbit around a flaming piece of shit, in a galaxy of shit, and so on. I have this on authority from Republicans. It's a religious precept for them.

This means that when everything turns to shit in their hands it is part of a noble effort, on their part, to reveal the world for what it is. Garbage. They are seekers of truth. And the truth is shit. Everything is shit.

Thank you, Republicans, for enlightening us on this.

Painted Ladies

For some reason privilege is on display these days. Conspicuous. Visible. Maybe it's triumphalism. More likely it's a power thing. To demoralize the opposition. I don't know.

But I wonder where it might lead. Especially among the Neo-Confederates. Republicans, that is, since they caved to the social conservatives. The New Confederacy.

Back in the day it was part of male power display to have a very pale white woman. The sun never touched her skin. Unblemished. All painted up.

Doll-like. Delicate. Helpless. Dependent on her man. And, in a pinch, on the kindness of strangers.

With a difficult personality, to boot. Again, a way to display power. Through waste, inefficiency and stupidity. Squandering resources. To show you have resources to squander.

Anyhow, that look showed she didn't have to work because she couldn't possibly work and look like that. A sign of your power. Your wealth. Your preeminence.

So where do you go from there? I'm thinking, PAINTED WHITE MEN. The logical place.

If it's a sign of your power to have a woman who obviously doesn't work, it's a natural progression to make it apparent that you yourself don't work. Can't work. Not real work. Not and look the way you do.

We're getting there. Put Karl Rove in the fields for a day. Mitch. Newt. Rush. They would die. Something bad would happen.

Now I try to observe normal journalistic standards in this blog. As represented by FOX NEWS. Surely no one can object to that.

But this is highly speculative. It involves modeling current behavior and extrapolating from there. The road seems clear to me. The destination certain.

The fulfillment of the trend gives us White Male Republicans who look like Tammy Faye. And it's just so suiting since she's Christian, too. Was. And rich. Was. It all comes together.

Surely this is what the Founding Fathers intended for us. That they would be represented and cited, interpreted and defended by the likes of the Falwell crowd. Newtsters. Ralph Reed and his adherents.

All dressed up like the most flaming transvestites imaginable. I guess it makes sense. From the Enlightenment to that. Birthers, climate deniers and creationists, running everything.

SIP

This is about the secret Republican plan for the destruction of American Society and Democracy, SIP. That's short for SUBVERSION, INVERSION, PERVERSION. I discovered this plan hidden in secret language and code in the movie THE MUSIC MAN. It goes back that far. 

The SIP plan works as follows: You get control of all the structures of power, private and public. That's subversion. This is done by any available means, though the marketing strategies developed in New York in the 1950's and 60's are usually used. Deception is the preferred method, in other words. 

The idea is that the products themselves, in this case all our governmental and social institutions, are qualitatively irrelevant. They have no real existence but only have meaning in the act of perception, which can be altered and manipulated.

Usually with the aid of inconceivable amounts of cash from interested parties, who contribute on the assumption of good returns, though they are acting largely on instinct in order to bring about sweeping changes in the fundamental way of life in America. And incidentally make a lot of money.

In this way the voters, for example, do the actual work by voting to disenfranchise themselves. Out of fear and confusion and emotional attachment to faulty, feel-good solutions. The presidential election of 2004 is a good example.

The one candidate was rightly described by a wise and articulate man as "Shit with Glass Shards," the other as "Chicken," in likening the election to ordering food at a restaurant. You don't worry about how the chicken is prepared, one would think, or order the other dish under any circumstances. "Shit with Glass Shards" was in fact ordered and eaten.

The structures, once controlled through subversion, are then used to instill mistrust in themselves and erode confidence in everything else collaterally through the use of incompetence, inconsistency and unpredictability. And nothing is easier than incompetence. Marketing techniques are again employed to spin everything before and after the fact. 

So you sow the seeds of confusion and make it so people can't think clearly. Ultimately you convince people that right is wrong, good is bad, and so on. That's inversion. The confusion has evaporated and you are left with certainty.

The certainty that everything is uncertain. That you are threatened and exposed to hidden dangers. Which opens the door to Faith-Based-Everything, a part of the plan. Since people can no longer reason for themselves they look elsewhere for explanations. 

And explanations are supplied. Connections are revealed. The key is in the movie. There's trouble in the river city, Washington. Trouble with a capital "T" and that rhymes with "B" and that stands for 'Bama. "Pool" is clearly code for Obama, in the movie, what with those o's.

Why else use a word in which half the letters are o's. Obama is connected with every manner of trouble. He's turned the White House into a sleaze factory, the SLEAZE-HALL, or HALL OF SLEAZE. He must be stopped.

Your kids must join the military. March around in uniforms. Have instruments. Of destruction. You have to spend all your money on this, if need be. To save your kids. Your town. Your country. From Obama. The connections are obvious. It's in the song. You are left with opinions supplied by supposed authorities, self-appointed, all shysters and charlatans.

Opinions then ossified by fear. This is accomplished by recourse to the use of hidden meanings. Some supposed authority offers explanations which rely on esoteric knowledge, usually with a strong paranoid slant. Based on an assumption of threat and insecurity, that is. Just like in the movie.

So it's a form of gnosticism. You are in possession of truths arrived at through mysterious means so they can't be challenged. By anybody. And it's a group thing. Insiders, the knowing, and outsiders, the infidels.

This is the transition to the stage of perversion, which is marked by a consistent adherence to faulty opinions. Opinions with self-destructive aspects. Adherence operating at the level of necessity. Addiction, in other words, arrived at through implication. Through complicity. The people have become drones. 

A person challenging the faulty opinions will be attacked. The consistency suggests that there is an institutional understanding, at some level, of what is in fact right or wrong, correct or incorrect, since you can't be consistently wrong without this.

In the stage of inversion it is still necessary to market the lies because people need reassurance that the lies are true. They are still capable of dissent. Or they can be badgered or coerced into compliance.

The people are not yet fully invested or implicated in the lies and might start to ask questions. Questions which have no answers. Not rational ones. Just more lies. So you give people the song and dance. Emotional appeal.

Then the lies are internalized through denial and compartmentalization. The system no longer requires enormous energy subsidies since it is willingly supported by the people being screwed. Not that there aren't enormous energy subsidies, they are just used elsewhere. Used buying yachts and shit, for example.

It's like cigarettes. You get hooked and willingly spend money killing yourself. All this at a societal level.  Automobiles, for example, are like cigarettes, at a societal level. Addicting and totally unsustainable.

And polluting. Smoky. The lungs of the earth, rendered ravaged and unusable. Or like the consumption of goods at the level of panic. Or voting out of fear.

This is perversion, the stage of self-delusion. It is marked by depravity, self-righteousness and rigidity. Also extreme defensiveness. People in this situation will not stand criticism. Socially nothing makes any sense at all. Each person is an independent locus of truth, so they just make shit up, as it suits. 

And they choose to give up their freedom. To acquiesce to the will of others. Obviously this is a failure of responsibilty in a democratic society. It becomes a democracy in name only. You march around as a mass. Individualism is lost to enthusiasm.

The laws of physics are up for grabs. Known scientific truths flee for their lives. Revered rituals and traditions are unrecognizable, though much is made of their supposed observance.

The consolidation of power, called THE END GAME by the proponents of SIP, is complete and absolute at this point. Money accumulates at the top in huge quantities, in the hands of fewer and fewer people. Those folks assume they are immune from the mess they have created below. 

Remember, SIP is a secret. Most Republicans have no knowledge of the plan. Sadly, I guess, the evolution of the system fails to end with insane accumulations of wealth, as its inventors and practitioners intended. It is utterly unsustainable.

The inventors failed to see all the interdependencies that make the system, before its subversion, work in the first place. They are not immune. There may be a death wish implicit in the plan. Who knows.

They are essentially commies. They believe in the inevitability and transcendence of the class struggle, so they simply try to win. This requires deception, since the screwees would surely take up arms and fight back if they knew what was going on.

Acquiescence is necessary until the takeover is complete. At that point the consolidation of power is so great maintenence of the status quo no longer requires voluntary submission. 

At this point you have a parade. To celebrate or as a distraction or just as revelry. It helps keep everyone from thinking and worrying. And may bring in a few more converts, though they're no longer needed to keep the movement going. You have long since reached critical mass.

http://youtu.be/LI_Oe-jtgdI

Death-cab for Cupid

Characteristically the Republicans are accusing the Democrats of doing what they themselves are doing which, in this case, is taking a wrecking ball to Christmas. 

The war on Christmas is a Republican thing. I appeal to Frank Capra, who truly knew what America is about. Sorry, was about. I appeal to the ethos represented in IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE. Who can watch this movie and doubt that the Republicans are all Potterites? 

Hell, Mr. Potter wouldn't dare dream of what the Republicans have pulled off. Mr P. hadn't the vision of Phil Gramm, the destructive drive of Tom DeLay, the creative accounting skills of Paul Ryan, the administrative savvy of John Boehner, the frat-boy arrogance and callousness of the College Republican crowd, or the self-righteous certainty of the whole religious right. And he was in a wheelchair.

Our boys think big. They've turned the entire country into a playground for bankers, financiers, and other crooks. Hell, the whole world is funding their fun, now that they've shipped our jobs to any place with cheap labor. Thank you, assholes. Within their gated communities they're insulated from the plight of the commoners, the working--oops, unemployed--masses.

And there's a great getaway, Hedge Fund, NV, where they gamble with our money. If they win they keep the loot but we pay out if they lose. The profits are piling up while there's a corresponding boom in homelessness, hunger and every brand of misery.

But, hark, a blare of trumpets. An angel of the Lord appears, Walter, with a new video for all to see, THE SHIT HOLE. In it the Republican's poster boy president, some moron from Texas who goes by W, short for Wanker, is injured by an errant ball on the golf course. Conked on the noggin. A dream ensues. A fantasy.

We see, Wanker sees, in vivid detail, how much better life would be if he had never existed. Lives saved. Injuries unsustained. Economies flourishing. Food for all. Industries reborn. Infrastructures rebuilt. NPR and PBS funded to the gills. Support for the arts. Education for everyone. Health care for everyone. A paradise, by comparison. A really humane place.

Wanker doesn't like it, the world he sees there. A world of pussies. He's expecting the other boot to fall. Cowboy boot. Attached to a man. Attached to a hat. Ten gallon minimum. Not that he ever fought for anything. Earned anything on his own merits.

There's an assumption of violence in Wanker's world. Meanness. A struggle for power. Winners and losers. And Wanker is a winner. Born that way. Never had to work for shit. Got bailed when he failed. What's not to like. He don't want no competition. Likes the deck stacked the way it is. He's a pure product of privilege, a wizard of the high art of incompetence.

Wanker liked things the way they were. But he doesn't live in the shit hole, the real world he helped create. He is devoid of compassion. Of the capacity even. Of sympathy. Of caring. He is a void. A vacuum. Entropy man. The principle of disintegration embodied. Of destruction. A black hole of a human.

I mean, maybe not. He's a Christian. A follower of Christ. So he knows that any effort to turn back the clock, to Eden or Camelot or whatever, before the Fall from Grace, is blasphemy. The work of the humanists, the blasphemers, those in league with Satan. God wants the shit hole. So, who knows, maybe Wanker is doing God's work. He thinks so. His handlers tell him so.

So then Walter, playing himself in the video, taps Wanker on the knot on his noggin and, shazaam, Wanker is reborn as one of the unwashed. He's in the shit hole. He is amused, then stunned. He feels for the noggin knot. It's gone. This is reality, not a dream. It's all mixed up. He's cleaning toilets for the plutocrats. On a good day. Lots of bathroom time. Walking by a mirror, he sees himself. Shit, man, he's a nigger. This is worse than Kafka. Other days he's unemployed.

He blows a raspberry. No use. Heard somewhere that might work. Credit on his puny soul's all used up. There wasn't much to start. He sees a faint image of a laughing man with little horns disappearing into the distance. Looked like Peter Cook, kind of. The proprietor of the used car lot of souls. Poor Wanker. He was a junker.

Wanker's life sucks. But you know, to his credit, I guess, he accepts his lot and gets on with it. His belief in the Republican view of life, of the inevitability of injustice, of the certainty of suffering and its role in salvation, of the transcendence of the class struggle and the rise of the supermen and sinking of the scum, all this is unshaken.

It's tautological. If his life is shit it deserves to be shit. It was predestined. It's deterministic and fatalistic, this view. Positivistic, not normative. There are no standards. Justice is just what happens, so it's no different from injustice. There's no freedom, so no morality. Whatever.

It's a self-fulfilling world view. Self-justifying. Like the Big Dude himself. We see here with incontrovertible logic, if I can get a handle on it, that Republicanism is nothing more than a form of mass mental illness. 

If they would say that they hate children, for example, and want them to starve, well, then there would be some consistency, some cohesion to their thinking. Some honesty. Some integrity. They won't do that.

Then there would be accountability. Last thing they want. You deny what you've done to the point of denying it while you're doing it. Ballsy, if nothing else. And completely insane.

They take food away from children while calling themselves Christians and patriots and moral and ethical people. They are none of the above. It's conceivable to me that their world view is valid. I don't think so but who the fuck knows. What's it's not is American or Christian. It's un-American and un-Christian.

Back to Wanker. So Clarence, I mean Walter, realizes he's dealing with an intellectual non-entity and tells him the way out, back to the land of grilled steaks and the back nine. Blow a raspberry. Wanker blows. Damn if it doesn't work this time. For a frightening instant he appears dressed as a nun. But, then, the bermuda shorts. The knit shirt. The putter. Back where he belongs.

Boehner Babies

I'm announcing the creation of a new line of toys, BOEHNER BABIES, political satire dolls, which also function as hand puppets. The first is the man himself, OINKER JOHN, depicting the Right Honorable as a Pot Belly. 

Accessories include a tanning bed, a pink and green plaid golf outfit and whiskey glasses with "FUCK THE POOR, AND FUCK YOU TOO" written into the bottom. There's a whole set of golf clubs, made by Beretta, and a golf cart made by Hummer with an Ayn Rand hood ornament and "KOCHONUTS" emblazoned on the back.

The golf clubs double as assault weapons which fire out the shaft. There's NEWT THE NEWT, a used car sales doll selling only cars known to have failed and presumed to fail again. Accessories are a bunch of different cars, including the Chevron IMPALER, the Christer IMPERIUM and Ford FUCKUS. There are many more. 

There's a reproduction of the car lot itself on a board in miniature: "SUPPLY SIDE AUTO SALES, a division of RISING TIDE ENTERPRISES." Their motto: "IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT." Also: "NO TREAD ON ME." If they're closed there will be a sign on the door: "Out squandering other people's hard-earned money." The salesmen are taught that anyone who buys a car there gets what they deserve.

And MITCH THE BITCH, a doll in drag with glasses. There are attributes of a frog. Mitch is into submission. At an existential level. The MITCH doll comes posed bent over on its knees with its skirt hiked and ass in the air. Corporate Contributors love this one and have it in their offices.

Reminding them that Mitch will always do what they want. To cover the enticing parts for everyday use, since the doll is a bit NSFW, you can attach little placards to the doll's ass, with ready-made sayings. Like: TAX THIS, ASSHOLE. I DARE YOU; TAX THIS ASSHOLE. I DARE YOU.

The Michele Bachmann doll is called MY LITTLE CHICKADEE and is styled on Mae West. And a chicken. She looks great with that tuft of feathers on her ass. Really sets it off. Her cohort, the Mike Huckabee doll, is styled on W. C. Fields and is named HUCKSTER. 

Huck for short. His totem animal is the turtle. Huck is a card sharp and preacher. Chickie is an entertainer. Really she's just entertaining. They hang out at Oinker John's tavern, THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT, where all the drinks are free. You get paid to drink, in fact, pro rata.

Huck and Chickie are at the bar all the time.They make their living there one way or another. And the living is easy, the economics of the place being based on the plantation model. 

There's a yearly festival, called HUCKABALOO, which is all garage bands and go-go dancing, in celebration of another year's successful existence at the expense of others. The dancers are called THE KOCHETTES and they excel at the WATUSI. 

An economy should work like poker, kind of. Mostly skill and determination with an irreducible element of chance. On average you'll do as well as you should. But not at the tables in Boehner's bar. Not the way they play it. Huck believes in predestination. He is predestined to win and you to lose.

So it doesn't matter how this is accomplished. It is God's will. So it's no problem if you cheat or lie or steal. Or kill someone, if it comes to that, in the furtherance of His will. As discerned by you. Meaning Huck. Or Rush or someone from HATE RADIO, their reliable source on matters divine. You have a prequalification letter for heaven, see. 

Too cool. The prequal came from Jesus or Jerry (Falwell) or Jimmy (Swaggert) or maybe that other Jerry (Springer). No matter. All reliable sources. Once you have accepted Jesus into your heart you are transformed. Into the best fucking card player on the planet, in Huck's case, since he can cheat with impunity.

It would be hard to come up with something better if you just made shit up, and it comes from God. A plunderer's dream-come-true, this ethos. So Huck always wins. Now TFG is the only bar in town. The only Republican bar, I mean. It's a virtual seat of government. Autonomous as hell.

Republicans, between you and me, actually despise competition. It's just too much trouble. Why go through the headache when you've got the prequal and all. And money. Fucking pots of it. So you love privilege. The leg-up. The easy-in. The legacy. The monopoly.

Now the Democrat (sic) bars are a shambles. You have to pay to drink, my God. And the stuff's taxed. That's the kind of crap competition gives you. Fair play. Rules. Accountability. Uncertain outcomes. And other inhibitions to the unbridled accumulation of capital. Screw that.

At Oinker's there are dart boards with really phallic-looking darts. Some of them have balls, even. Hell, they're dildos. Pointy dildos. You can imagine what the boards look like. Not always what you would think, though, since PUNKY SKUNK, Ricky Santorum, is in charge. He has quite the imagination on sexual matters. The darts look great but are horrible as projectiles. 

In the basement there's a rifle range with live targets brought over from Guantanamo. The shooters are not allowed to fire at the face, out of compassion. Many of the members are bad shots, though--so few have been in the military--so, well, stuff happens. It doesn't help that they're usually high on something. JOLLY OLLIE "OTTER" NORTH presides.

There's a venue for the dog fights, also downstairs. Lindsey "CRACKER" Graham runs it. He looks and behaves more or less like DONALD DUCK. Throws great tantrums when things don't go his way. Dog fights are an honored tradition where Cracker comes from. And the official sport of the tavern. 

Though they have plans for a race track down the road, with demolition derbies using Newt's cars. Newt will then resell them as "distressed," for more money because of the provenance. It is expected that working class Republicans will grab them up because of the cachet, using them as yard art if they're no longer driveable.

There's drug dealing and prostitution upstairs, both technically illegal, but the demand is high. That prequal is just so handy. No need to worry if you sin your head off. Lobbyists rent rooms for extended periods, and are at home there to the extent that they can't be distinguished from the drug dealers and sex workers. 

Some of the rooms are named in honor of notables. The POW-WOW ROOM for Jack "WOLFBOY" Abramoff, for example, in recognition of his outstanding work screwing Native Americans. The rooms can be rented on any terms, by the minute or indefinitely.

Huck checks everyone at the door. Members, the insiders, Republicans, in other words, have membership cards with religious imagery. Huck questions even the regulars on their required conversion experience to make sure they are true to the Lord. It's unclear whether this refers to a church experience or some kind of pledge they take at GROVER'S PLACE, another Republican hangout, a kind of frat house. 

Their hands are stamped "SAVED" and Huck says "Welcome to the New Jerusalem" as each member enters, a little ritual they all love. Many nights Oinker John himself is behind the bar, gavel at the ready. Occasionally Oinker crashes it down on someone's hand, smashing a joint or two, just for fun. 

The drinks have great names...

The house band, ANIMOSITY, is fronted by Ann Coulter. She's unbelievably terrible. She tries to channel Janis Joplin. It just doesn't work but nobody is willing to tell her. Her bandmates have industrial ear plugs. They wear matching brown shirts, a kind of uniform. James O'Keefe is on drums. Not that he has rhythm. My God, the screeching: "Down on me, oh, down on me..."

PALEFACES also plays there regularly, as does THE K STREET CONCUBINES... THE WRECKING CREW... DUE PROCESS... DUCK AND COVER... DICK'S DYNASTY... THE INBREDS... 

The whole music scene at the bar owes a huge debt to Lee "POSTAL BLOWFISH" Atwater, who pioneered the thing, to say nothing of his efforts to destroy the U.S. political system. His techniques there are still state-of-the-art. What a loss, when he passed.

Late at night, when everyone's all sodden and sentimental-feeling, they sing the classic: "HE AIN'T HEAVY, HE'S MY BROKER." The tears flow. Oinker himself leads the singing, weeping profusely. They also love to groove out on "GRAZING IN THE GRASS," a la THE FRIENDS OF DISTINCTION.

I think it's because so many Republicans are born kind of out-to-pasture, that they love this song. They get fat grazing that Halliburton grass, or whatever, and then declare themselves to be hard-working, self-made types, models of independence and productivity. 

Meanwhile they fence hell out of the pasture. It's not a matter of opportunity for them but of appetite. How much can you eat. How hungry are you. And they're very sensitive about all that privilege. Very protective. Understandably.

There's a game called WHACK-A-DOLE in an area of the bar reserved for reviling Republicans who have lost elections. In keeping with doctrine they are assumed to be out of favor with God, or Grover or somebody, for having lost. They used the real Bob Dole before he died. 

And a life-size Sarah Palin machine doll-like contraption. You put money in somewhere and crank her arm and she says the most inane, amusing things. She makes non-sequiters look like profundities and sequiters and shit. She's dressed in a skimpy outfit. You want to reach out and.... Holy Mother of Jesus, it really IS Sarah Palin.

OINKER JOHN has passed a bill having the whole place declared a sovereign entity, the block they own, so there's no end to the interesting stuff going on. Like Vatican City. There's sub-basement after sub-basement, increasing in secrecy and security as you move downwards. 

There's a museum with artefacts of all the great victories and other cool stuff. I mean, they have Grover's actual bath-tub. There are ceremonies there whenever someone is honored for adding hugely to the budget deficit. Red liquid is poured into the tub. There's a rickety toy boat, called THE SHIP OF STATE, bobbing in the red liquid. They seem terrified by it and scream insults.

Hard to understand. It's the boat we all came in on. Ensured all the opportunities and such. What's left of them. Some poor guy, an aged, soon-to-retire moderate Republican, starting screaming something about OEDIPUS upon entering the area. He was shot on the spot. He died mumbling about authority issues and wanting to destroy the fathers. No, sorry, Founding Fathers. That was it.

Another congressman jumped into the tub in an excess of enthusiasm as he was honored for a trifecta. That's a simultaneous lowering of taxes on the rich, raising of spending on defense and reduction in social welfare benefits. The fool, screaming his head off, was consumed by the liquid which is of course corrosive as hell. 

The HALL OF FAME honors those who have given to the cause to the greatest degree...

There's a place where the BB's themselves are birthed. WHORELY TIT hangs out there, the birther queen, to keep up her skills in determining authenticity on that whole front. Makes sure the BABIES are natural-born. Wait, oh my God, Oinker made it, the bar and its complex, an autonomous state. They're not citizens, the BOEHNER BABIES. But WHORELY declares them natural-born anyway. 

Baptizes them Americans. It's so great being able to just make stuff up. Also she's a dentist. Birther dentist. She helps out in the torture, ahem, "enhanced interrogation," room next to the firing range, where they take a last crack at those Muslims before they become targets. 

In another room there's a Tea Party which never ends, hosted by Ted TEDDY BEAR Cruz. His side-kick is BUZZ THE BUZZARD, Rand Paul. BUZZ lives for the day when TEDDY becomes road-kill. They're all in top hats. Or bowlers. Not exactly Fred Astaire, for sure. Incongruous. Not on BUZZ, actually. He looks good in his. Kind of dapper. 

For a vulture. TEDDY is clueless about everything but he's all preachy and vigorous in his opinions, and extremely intolerant of disagreement. He does indignation very well. That's his strength. Behind his back they all call him Oddjob. It's said he fantasizes about decapitating someone with his hat. Practices with it.

Makes you wonder maybe who's Goldfinger in the Republican scheme. They do seem to be on a world domination kick. Anyway, BUZZ is scary. Cold and calculating. Patient. And always hungry. Thankful for that firing range and the dog fights. 

He's superior, too. Has an attitude. Very aware we're all one click away from meat-hood. One NRA kind of click. They installed a big tree branch in the room and he sits on that, observing everything.The Tea Party room is poorly staged. 

They were terrified they'd accidently hire a gay guy to design and build the sets. The budget was immense. Something went awry anyway. They wanted Revolutionary Boston and got ALICE IN WONDERLAND. Vibrant 60's colors. They don't walk around the room, they dance. Glide. Very gay, actually.

They didn't even notice the problem with the theme. All bat-shit crazy. The tea is tainted with mercury and other bad stuff. From the plumbing.They made a point of hiring only subs with FUCK THE EPA bumper stickers. So the plumber used some old stock with lead and mercury in it for the pipes and fixtures. 

Same with the teakettle and utensils. It's a mighty toxic tea party. BUZZ doesn't eat or drink there. He only does carrion. Evidently they're like the original assassins. Stoned shock troops. Brain impaired. Under the influence. Or those guys in Somalia. Ripped on something. Drones. Kamikazes. Cruz missiles.

Super destructive. The Tea Party people are purists. Puritans. They will not enter any of the venues where the sordid stuff, as they see it, goes down. They think they're better than everybody else. Wins a lot of friends, as you can imagine, but people don't fuck with them. Because you want them on your side. 

Money is printed on one floor in anticipation of the day when the real federal government collapses utterly. Republicans will then formally take over, though it won't look much different from the way it does now, since the Democrats are already completely powerless. 

How is it they don't see this, the Democrats, and carry on as though they matter? This puzzles even Republicans, but it works out great since they can continue to blame the Democrats for everything.

There's a bank, of course, adjacent to the money printing apparatus, which only launders money for the rich and engages in tax avoidance, the BANK OF CREDIT AND CONVERGENCE, run by Paul CROC-A-DOC Ryan. He's a croc. He also oversees the money factory. Ayn Rand is pictured on the bills. All of them. In different poses. She's a fixation of his. 

To say the books are unbalanced assumes a standard not even known to exist at this bank. Money, called MANNA here, or MAMA, or MAMMORY maybe, I could never make it out, seems to appear out of nowhere. And I mean the real stuff, greenbacks, not their crap, called GALTS.

BCC is a subsidiary of SATYRICORP, a picaresque entity, meaning a shell of seemingly loosely connected parts. In reality the evanescence masks an unbelievable level of cohesion and directedness. It's a monster modelled on the Cali cartel. 

Everything on paper is in story form, so the deniability is huge. They call the articles of incorporation "fables," and the written records "parables" or "vignettes," so everything can be construed on the fly, to their liking.

The tellers at this particular branch are all buxom women in great revealing outfits, out of respect for women generally and their wonderful tits. The bank functions like a huge beneficent tit, in fact, since you can take money out without putting any in. 

This is the TAO OF REPUBLICANISM, the revered PATH or WAY, which is simply honoring the most primitive and honest and honorable of human desires, to be suckled forever. God created the human race this way, in His image, so it must be respected or bad shit will surely happen. 

I wonder if God...? The tit must be, well, indescribable. The symbol for the TAO is a solid circle with a pinkish, smaller round area in the middle. Looks like a Lichtenstein. Or a Wesselmann. Republican men can be treated for sexual problems at a clinic. 

Very, very secret, as you can imagine. An unmarked door. A woman answers in non-clinical looking garb with deep decolletage. You say the pass phrase: "My sword is blunted." The attendent asks, "who are you?" To which you must answer, "Oh, a Lucky Man," to be admitted.

Wet nurses are on hand and used if the treatment, erotic-shock, fails, which it always does. This is overseen by MARKY MARCUS, Michele's real-life husband, who has a special interest or expertise in the treatment of sexual problems. With a success rate of zero, across the board. 

Which is never a problem for Republicans. You should see the HALL OF FAME. Bremers and Bushes, one after another. A HALL OF FAILURE, really. It reassures them of their potency, that they don't have to be good at anything and can still have lives of ever-increasing power and position.

They can be incompetent and arbitrary, and fail and still get promoted, no matter how badly they fuck up. To heaven, ultimately. My God, that prequal. What a powerful thing it is. Real time absolution for everything. And real time reassurance of your rightness.

No matter what you do. Anyway, the patients at the sex clinic, having failed at STIMULUS or STIMULATION, as it is called, are well suckled and turned loose. Ready to screw up some more. Anything but grow up. That they will never do.

Rush, Karl, Mitch, Newt, most of the pasty people, the fat, white, Republican Ascended Masters (RAM's) have been through the clinic. This is why they are so against any kind of stimulus, I suppose. They assume other people are as inert as they are, and as dependent.

They can return to the clinic and suckle as necessary to keep their strength up. ORAL SUPPORT, this is called. Many levels down is the Operations and Control Center, code-named Strange-Love. The staff is never allowed to leave the Center, let alone the building, for security reasons.

At the very lowest level is the power source, the Nuclear Power-Tit. There's a large octagonal room with a geodesic ceiling. An absolutely enormous, perfectly symmetrical tit sits flat in the middle of the room with a tubular structure arising out of the center. 

I had wondered what the tube was, having seen it projecting through the upper floors, and was always told, evasively, "the utility core." I thought it was a silo for an ICBM, an Intra-Continental Ballistic Missile, knowing how Republicans are about security.

A guy named WOODIE is chief engineer, Eric Cantor. He mistook the tube, a cooling tower, for a tree and kept pecking at it, as woodpeckers will do. The tit emits a distinctive hum. 

Nuclear waste is flushed down the toilets, on the advice of their technical staff, after consultation with the private corporations supplying the fuel. Their greatest fear is that the toilets will back up. 

And the crap the lobbyists, sex-workers and drug dealers put down the toilets, you just can't imagine. It's difficult when, for all their lives, Republicans have been taught to take all the good stuff and dump shit wherever you can, to get them to behave in this one instance. But it was the bankers. 

The bankers did them in. The cash coming in was just inconceivable, more than they could launder in a lifetime, so they began to flush the smaller bills down the toilet. Twenties and under. The lowest of the low were forced to do this, the people making hourly wage, for whom the Republicans' contempt is vast. 

Maybe it was sabotage, those folks with nothing flushing all that cash. We'll never know. But you need reliable people in lowly jobs, to be sure, and the Republicans don't get this. You get reliable people by paying them well and treating them decently.

Anyway, the toilets did back up and some sadist, by remote control or automation, locked the place down. They were all trapped in a sea of sludge, radioactive as hell, and died swimming in shit and money. Only one person is thought to have gotten out. 

A mysterious character called THE WICHITA LINEMAN, whose job it was to maintain an enormous cable or conduit running West out of the building and labelled "Wichita." There seems to have been an escape plan for him alone, or he may have executed the lockdown and then fled.

All those colorful characters, the BOEHNER BABIES, lost forever. An ignoble end. It makes me so sad, in spite of their corruption. They were so much fun in an end-times, Sodom and Gomorrah kind of way. They really were only doing what we all would do, given the chance, living like the most unbelievable pigs ever. 

That's the assumption. Wouldn't you?

The Carbuncle of Truth

I'll admit it, I'm unsympathetic to Republicans. But I do understand. They think it's all about VALUES. They think that you have to have values. It trumps everything. Science, the Rule of Law, Equitable Government, you name it. If you don't have values there's no foundation for anything. 

And Liberals don't have values. They don't have standards. Their idea of inclusion is to lower standards. That works. Lower standards enough and you include everybody. 

And all their experts, Liberal experts, come up with the results they want. Reasons to lower standards. Excuses to lower standards.

Republicans want to raise people up. You do that through deprivation. Through neglect. Suffering is ennobling and motivating. Especially in the formative years. 

It's respectful to let people fend for themselves. You honor their independence, that way. Their autonomy.

Otherwise you have a whole class of people, the poor, who sit around and do nothing and get paid for it. And it goes on for generations. 

That's the job of the rich. By taking care of the poor you inadvertently create a culture of failure. Inculcate failure. Maybe not inadvertently. Stupid Democrats.

So what if people die or get killed, from desperation and deprivation. Or just suffer a lot and worry all the time because they don't have any security. That's not a bad outcome. Nor good, really. It's simply the way the world works. 

Try to circumvent it and you only make it worse. The Liberal elite, university professors, for example, and other eggheads, are too removed from reality to see this obvious truth. As when they want to mess with the free market. You are messing with the laws of nature. It will never work.

And they're mostly on the government dime, those experts and eggheads, insulated from the utter purity and integrity of the private sector, where competition rules. Where they would no doubt get their asses kicked and fail. So they're biased. They just want to keep their easy jobs and comfy lives.

For unbiased opinions you turn to the private sector. Like those white boys who ran the tobacco companies. Not that they didn't know tobacco is addicting as hell, but they see the greater truth, that people make a choice to smoke and deserve whatever happens, as a result. Fuck them, in other words.

The private sector guys have no incentive to lie. Okay, maybe they're paid ten times what they're worth. But they had to compete for that. It's hard getting through Choate or Exeter in one piece. And some massive sunburn on those vacations. And it was tough at Yale when you didn't have the chops to be there in the first place. 

Got in by legacy. Then got a job through a friend of the family. So they won, and nobody can say it wasn't fair. Or they'll call daddy. They get to take whatever they can. That's freedom. That's fairness. In their world. Victors and spoils. Again, fuck you. 

The Republican platform right there in two words. And their foreign policy. So the Liberals go out and get some scientist and he says there's global warming, or some such crap. Obvious nonsense. It's part of their plot to end life on the planet as we know it. 

But they're so removed from reality, or have imbibed their own herbal Kool-Aid, and they believe it. And on this basis they want to fuck with free enterprise. Crazy.

So you nullify it. You deny it. If there were global warming Americans would no longer be able to pursue their common dream, an absolute orgy of consumption. 

Totally irresponsible consumption. The Democrats just want to throw a bunch of sand into that amazing consumption machine. Out of perversion, I suppose. I mean perversity.

It's there somewhere in the Bible, surely. Soaking up the world's resources like a huge belching baby is an essential American value. And God's will. Drill, baby, drill. 

Their cheerleader said that. It's Christian. God gave us the planet for that. Invented America for that. You must not fuck with it. It's our destiny.

But the Republicans understand some things as well so they don't come out and say overtly what they really think, that if you ain't been saved you don't know shit, because they know it sounds bad. 

We're not supposed to have State Religion. Separation and all that. So they talk about values and standards and stuff. Tone it down. Use secular language. Then there's the other Republicans who are just cynical and greedy but that's different. 

Still, even though they've gone secular on the language about values, toned it down, and speak what is obviously true, the idiot Democrats don't get it. They don't see the point about values. The importance of values.

Look at Rush. They say he wouldn't know an honest day's work if it sat on his face and yet he criticizes other people day and night, but he is just frustrated at the incomprehensible ignorance of the Democrats. He feels it so deeply. The tragedy of declining values.

He uses the secular language even, like "idiots" and "morons," in hope the Democrats will come around. He could just give up on them or call them all traitors and fatwa them. Issue an edict on the propriety of their annihilation, that is. Turn the militias loose on them.

But he just disenfranchises them, to the extent that he can, out of compassion. Nullifies elections and stuff. Tries to keep them from voting. To protect our demonic institutions and traditions. I mean democratic. He does it because he cares. 

Anyway, so the Republicans are letting the world in on their secret. To help save the country from the Democrats. And the Democrats from damnation. From perdition. From their own stupidity.

Maybe now the idiot, apostate Liberals will get a clue, when they're confronted with the awesomeness of the secret. Maybe even some Muslims will see the light. This could be a turning point.

It's Rush's carbuncle. The CARBUNCLE OF TRUTH. You see, Rush has this boil on his--well, they won't say out of respect. But they do speculate about which cheek, if that tells you anything. Most say the right one, but that may just be some bias. 

Anyway, somehow this thing knows the truth. Maybe it's just Rush's constitution expressing itself through the boil. No matter. Rush can tell whether something is true or not by the boil. It reacts or looks or feels different, somehow. Hell, maybe it speaks to him. I don't know.

But this is the thing. People with values recognize other people with values and so they have a sort of truth club going. And when someone like Rush is validated by his success and all the money he makes it's obvious beyond doubt that he's the real deal and will speak only the truth. 

And he has the carbuncle which his wife, God bless her, tends every night when they go to bed. I mean, what else would you do? It's an honor, I'm sure.

She's an Addams, you know. A member of one of America's most important families ever. If we weren't already certain Rush was right, that would seal it. She's a cousin of Cousin Itt, they say. They have their pet Addams Family names for one another. Medusa and Groucho.

Their butler is named Lurch, in honor. It's confusing, though, because Rush is always screaming for his lunch, which he just loves. He gets all red and swollen-looking with impatience and then Lurch shows up without his lunch, at which point Rush reaches full boil, so to speak, but they put up with it.

Now the Addams Family is as good as it gets, if you want great lineage in America. Near nobility. Class. Look at how they live. Cultured. Leisured. In a mansion with no visible means of support, a sure sign of God's favor. They take care of the aged parents. There's values for you. Of course Rush is rich as shit. God's approval made manifest.

Back to the boil. Just look at how the Declaration of Independence begins. A criterion for truth. THE criterion for truth. SELF-EVIDENCE. The truth is self-evident or is made self-evident, to non-idiots. 

It expresses itself. Now that should settle it, this statement in our founding documents, if the Democrats weren't so irritatingly obstinate about facts and reason and that rubbish.

Human reason is so weak, so those with values don't go there. To them the truth is MANIFEST. It expresses itself to them. Like a boil popping up out of nowhere. You just have to recognize it for what it is. They know it when they see it. Like socialism and all that shit. If there's any doubt, they turn to Rush. And the boil.

And Rush is manifest as hell. I mean all over the place. There's no denying the man. He's a presence. And he's prescient. But not president. I just liked the way that sounded. Anyway, once you get to the true criterion, self-evidence, all is clear. 

You know the truth. It is made manifest to you and through you. You are free from doubt. And the truth is manifest in and through special people like Rush. Especially them. They're special.

So if one of your guys, like that one president, fucks everything up beyond comprehension, gets hundreds of thousands of people killed and causes untold suffering, you don't worry about it. You still know you're indisputably right. 

That's called faith. It's incredibly comforting. And if you're feeling weak, having a bad day or whatever, you can rely on Rush to know the truth and defend it.

Conversely, the other side, the idiot Democrats, can't be right no matter what they do. Thay're existentially wrong. Like our current president. I can't even speak his name. He was wrong before he even got into office. Before he did anything. 

So if he somehow does good stuff and stops wars and feeds children and shit he's still wrong. In a better world we would impeach his ass. Like the last guy. For lack of values.

It's self-evident and made manifest through the righteous. The truth. Through people with values. Like Tom Delay and that crowd. But to remove all doubt we have Rush's boil. 

Rush himself, I hear, doesn't know how he does it. Why he was chosen. He was going to submit the boil for study but the hospitals are full of heathen and rationalists.

Then he found some medical professionals with good values. Graduates of Patrick Henry. Home schooled before that. They said they could remove the boil and it would continue to function, they thought, because it was on a huge slab of flab. They would then lipo the other, you know, cheek and all would be well. Rush might even look better. Have a better figure.

It all went south, though, in the execution. Evidently Rush kind of exploded. It turns out he was, himself, a kind of boil. They stuck in a needle or scalpel and he blew up like a huge pimple. 

Witnesses, those not too near the blast, said they thought they saw his soul ascend to heaven in an enormous cloud of vaporized pus.

Those right at the scene were slimed bad but they hosed one another off and carried on, considering it an honor to have been present at the ascension. There's a monument planned at the sight. A shrine.

The miraculous boil is presumed lost. Wait, no, the wife has found it, a holy relic, near the site of the explosion. On the slab of flab. Intact. Her uncle, Fester, is there and he's evidently expert at nurturing boils. In the basement of the manse. They take it there.

We are saved from the infidels. The boil lives on. Just need to figure out how to communicate with the thing. Someone, surely, will have the gift. Maybe Wednesday. Or Pugsley. They say they will let us know.

They'll put out a movie, the wife says. ADDAMS FAMILY VALUES, or something like that, which will contain the latest from the boil. They promise. So the faithful will not want for guidance.

But you know how scripts get messed around. So the message may be in code. Ciphered or something. Or code language, anyway. Between the lines. A message for Republicans from the boil. In the movie. Watch for it.

It's Christmas in Conyers

So I haven't posted in a while. My old dog, Harley, got gradually more impaired and finally died. I can't talk about it.

But I can talk about the Republicans. I've been busy there just trying to keep tabs on the range and intensity of the bad thinking. And evil-doing. It's a job in itself. And I already have a job. But when principle is held hostage to politics, and policy to privilege, the quantity of bad stuff that can happen is more than you can keep up with. 

They don't do bad shit they ARE bad shit. That's what I'm saying. So the evil-doing is effortless. It flows from them unconsciously and without conspiracy or contrivance. They don't need to contrive anything. They live inside of it, a world of unease, mistrust and suspicion. Restlessness rooted in fear.

There's no such thing as principle in their world. No right or wrong. Just the elemental drives of greed and lust for power and lust. As in SEX, on that last one. Some primordial version of lust, anyway. Primordial and generalized and inchoate and all enmeshed with fear. 

A similarly primordial fear. Rising in the depths of their brains like swamp gas. And, man, they must all have some horrible mental version of indigestion. To be so mean. So pessimistic, fatalistic and ornery.

There's the final frontier, the scene of the deciding battle, this imagined world of threats. A drama unconnected to reality. They latch onto all this stuff they're defending. Lately the Constitution is a biggie. Religion is always a biggie. Delusional, of course, but that's their world. 

A fabricated home for their fears. Some fucking board game they've created. OLIGOPOLY, maybe. Whatever. How they must miss the cold war and the commies. They don't know how to live in a world without enemies. So they invent them.

The Constitution needs defending indeed. Now that they're on the scene. From them. And Christianity. Waterboarders for Jesus. Great idea, guys. Karl Rove cook that one up? Oh, no. It probably came from the CheneyFeld MasterMind. The over-soul of their Reich. 

Their cloud-server thing. The shared consciousness of their movement. A repository of fear. Justifications for fear. With Ann Coulter there keeping an eye on the place in a little cocktail-waitress dress. The sane only go there to see what they're up against. And with a cyanide pill. In case they get stuck.

Here they are, those Republicans, living in what is probably the best place ever at the best time ever, E PLURIBUS UNUM, and they're chronically scared shitless. And so always on the attack. 

A political philosophy that propagates itself like rabies. You bite people and they get it, the disease. Everybody dies in the end. What fun! I wish they would keep their death wish to themselves. 

So they're an army of Don Quixotes. And Sanchos. Living their delusions. Strange how honor cultures are the most dishonorable places imaginable. Quixote was funny and pathetic. And old and incompetent. The Republicans are competent. And not funny. 

Unless you think it's funny to have crazy people attacking you. Thay're damn good at what they do, the Wrecking Crew. So when they lower their lance at you, or cradle their spear or whatever, I suggest you run. They'll skewer your ass. To save the Constitution and Christianity. 

There's one place above all where the Republicans, led by the Southern White Boys, won't tolerate fair competition. From the black guys, especially. SEX. The White Women. You know what they say about the black guys. 

The Republicans know they're losers on this front. So they limit the competition. Protect their mojo. What mojo they have. Money mojo. Gun mojo. 

The White Boy Republicans all need deep analysis on this one. Freudian. Maybe the Twelve Steps. Or Christianity. No, they already think they're Christian. But they're running away from something that's strapped to their ass. 

They empower it themselves, the fear. And they make it real, create it, by believing in it so strongly. They attack the imagined enemy and those folks defend themselves thereby reassuring the attackers that they were right in the first place. Makes me feel dizzy. 

Anyway let's just stipulate that they're good at it, the evil-doing. Watch that movie on Lee Atwater, BOOGIE MAN. And the Bill Moyers thing on Jack "The Hack" Abramoff. It's all there. The Moyers piece begins with an interview of Thomas Frank.

The latest in my series, REPUBLICAN REMAKES OF AMERICAN CLASSIC MOVIES, is WHITE CHRISTMAS. There's a chorus of Southern White Boys. They sing the song WHITE CHRISTMAS a lot. 

There's a huge painted eye on a backdrop behind them. It blinks twice quickly every time they sing the word "white" in the song. The last time they sing it, in the denouement, they appear in white robes. It's the only song they sing. 

Fear causes people to cut a deep groove. NASCAR deep. See my post on that. You dig yourself a hole. Build a wall. Limit everything. For protection. From the imagined enemy. You need certainty. And simplicity. Literalism. 

Your world is already so unstable you can't tolerate any additional uncertainty. So you retreat. From reality. And attack your imagined enemies.  Ultimately you retreat from life. Because life is fear. Life equals fear. You crave death, in a way. The Apocalypse. 

But it's strapped to your ass so in the hole it goes with you. The fear. Right there with you. Unconscious. Subliminal. I don't think "strapped to your ass" is the technical Freudian term, but it conveys the point. You dig deeper. A deeper hole. 

You try to unload the fear. Find a home for it. A focus. It's the Commies. The Liberals. Government. The Secularists. Muslims. The Relatives. I mean Relativists. Whatever. It doesn't matter. You even unload it on the people in the hole with you. You turn on them.

Or, since the destruction you crave seems to be on its own schedule, in spite of your efforts, a gated community might do as a good place to await the Second Coming. Closest thing to a fort, on the residential front. 

A virtual gated community if you can't afford a real one. Keep the riffraff out. Your fellow citizens, that is. Especially the black ones. Oh, right, they're already fenced off. In jail. 

So back to the movie. We're in a getaway now, a lodge of some sort, at Stone Mountain some distance from Conyers, Georgia. The crowd is all from Conyers. From the gated communities. 

They're there at Christmas-time to practice a play, RUSHBO AND THE NIGHT VISITOR, which will be presented at the country club back in Conyers as part of the Christmas pageant. Right after the Nativist Play. Nativity, that is. No matter. 

In RUSHBO a black guy with dreadlocks knocks on a door in an exclusive white neighborhood in search of food and shelter, or some free shit, no doubt. It's the home of Rushbo O'Reilly and his wife Fannie. 

Rushbo blows the guy to tatters with the handy twelve gauge. Both barrels. Little hair things all over the yard. Dreads. The neighborhood kids take them as souvenirs.

Rushbo had no reason to think the guy was a threat but best to be safe. It was dark out. And a darkie, out there, in the dark. Who wouldn't be concerned. He looked kind of scary. 

In silhouette. That's about all Rushbo could see. BEST TO BE SAFE. DEFEND THE RIGHTS. STAND YOUR GROUND. He was in his own home. At worst he was inhospitable.

The commies try Rushbo for exercising his rights. The black guy might have had head lice and who knows what else, argues Rushbo's super-expensive attorney, Randy Rankin. The spectators all run home to burn their kids' souvenirs.

Rushbo is acquitted and all is well. The Conyers crowd is feeling all warm, fuzzy and optimistic.

But there's another visitor to Rushbo's home, the health nurse. There's been a nasty outbreak of venereal disease in Conyers, and Rushbo's daughter, Lulu Belle, is thought to be infected. She is, in fact, and she's pregnant as well. By the black guy Rushbo blew to bits. 

Must be why he came knocking, dreads and all. Gave her a baby. And VD. He was the vector. Rushbo doesn't know the word but he doesn't like the sound of it. Typical black, commie, liberal, secular shit. Fucking vectors.

The health nurse schedules a meeting in the gym at Stonewall High School. It's really a presentation by her trying to get through to the parents. Their kids are screwing up a storm. And to get them to get their kids to take the test. The VD test. 

Finally, in frustration, she projects a diagram onto a big screen showing their kids, as nodes, connected to one another by lines representing sexual contact. Now their kids are nodes, thinks Rushbo. Fucking commies. 

Wow. Fucking wow. The air is sucked entirely out of the room, mostly by the moms. The dads think they were born too soon. The visual is unbelievable. You can barely see the background. The black guy, Jesus, RIP, is in the middle, like a huge sun with innumerable rays emanating. 

Emanating on their daughters. He has to be right in the middle or it makes the thing impossible, he was so sexually active. 

The country club crowd realizes at some point that the play they'd commissioned, on the honorable defense of one's home by a noble, fat-ass white man, had been commandeered and corrupted by gay pinko secular yankee scum and turned into a commie mess. 

They been hijacked. As though any such thing could happen in Conyers. In their gated communities. All that illicit sex. And VD. And Jesus. And vectors and nodes. Laughable.

Turns out it was a guy, Pole Corter, working on the thing. Their play. With his partner. And I mean partner. Should have known. Damn art crowd. Jews, Gypsies, Gays, all the worst elements. 

Probably raised on NPR. Got to defund that. Word is, Pole has a big one. For a white guy. God knows what he does with it.

There was a great song, though, in the play, EVERYTHING BLOWS. About declining standards. Hate to lose that. Very catchy. Have to work it into the new play, an old standard, THE MAN OF LA MUNCHA, or something like that. 

Need to check that title. Sounds like a guy who likes to eat pussy. God it's hard to bring up kids these days. So glad it can't happen in Conyers. 

Anyway, the new play is all about chivalry and nobility and ass-kicking. Good stuff. Quixote and Sancho. Great female role, Dulcinea del Tabasco, or something like that. A spicy dish indeed. Like to eat some of.... Oops! 

The play has been brought up to date with a pig-picking at the end. Under the monument at Stone Mountain. A monument honoring some real patriotic Americans. Ass-kickers, too. 

Notwithstanding that they were traitors. Just exercising their rights, really. To nullify. Anything and everything. Like those stupid Yankees who tried to nullify the Fugitive Slave Act. But our guys nullified the right stuff. Like the Constitution. 

The Conyers crowd is so pleased with the new play they decide to have a pickin' under the hallowed monument themselves, at the end of their stay. Oh, man, life is good. Nothing like some 'cue and a cold one. 

But there's a story circulating about a cell call from a health nurse. Something going on back in Conyers. Everyone calls the kids. Everything's fine, say the kids. Just hanging out watching TV. 

Watching some videos. Of course it's good stuff they're watching. Wholesome. Stuff that would pass the Jesus test. And they're having sandwiches. All is well.

So here ends the remake, WHITE CHRISTMAS, with the chorus crooning the song in their moth-eaten Klan robes beneath the great monument at Stone Mountain. Actually, damn, those robes are in great shape. I mean starched and shit. 

Oh, well. Mighty glad we got the Constitution to protect those personal freedoms. For everyone. The rule of law. For everyone. A fair shake. For everyone. Except Jesus, I guess. But that was just a play. Fiction. Commie pinko fiction. 

There WAS another song in the movie. I forgot. It plays with the credits. The white guys singing about the black guys. Struggling with the lyrics. Looking hard at their sheets, confused: "They got rhythm, they got music, they got my gal, who could ask..." 

They do this as though they're learning the song, singing it for the first time. Every time they hit the word "gal" they get all agitated. Who wrote this shit. Some Jew, no doubt. 

That's why they want to get back to the old days. And the old ways. When men was men and niggers was niggers. It's so hard being white. Upholding standards. Oh, well.

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/georgia/etc/synopsis.html