Dirty Politics, Dirty Religion, Dirty Science

Dirty Politics, Dirty Religion, Dirty Science

 

     Small, plushly-furred silvery cat, Frolic, was a spy – a tender and wry observer – from Noilednad, the hub of Universe 58, the one in which Asylum Planet Earth floated, a turquoise jewel, around that vermilion temptress, that furacao furnace, the Sun.

   Most of the bipeds on planet Earth are inmates. Without a single exception, all the bipeds owned by dogs are inmates. The bipeds owned by cats are in advanced recovery. All people owned by SUVs are psychopaths. A few people partnering with Burmese cats are clowns – healed but hanging out to help with the recovery of the lemming people who dwell in humorless gigagreed, drink blood on Sundays and other feast days, and pauperize their fellow inmates.

    Frolic, her bittersweet-chocolate colored pal Jester, and pogblog were watching Tenzin Gyatso, the 14th Dalai Lama, talking on an ancient televid device. Gyatso was musing about science. He said, roughly, as we recall it, that there was nothing wrong with science – it was just a method. there was nothing wrong with a religion – just some people went too far. There was nothing inherently wrong with politics, just some people got all zealed up and did ‘dirty politics.’ He then coalesced that thought into that you could have dirty politics, dirty science, and dirty religion.

  “Now that’s as tasty as a mouse soufflé,” said Frolic. Her words were secondary to the powerful holothought projections the felinoa fabulosiens could project into the left eye of the holofi enhanced. Most felinoa art-thought is daliesque – except animated. One could see the mouse soufflé rising in an oven where upon it daliesquely mogrified to a low serving table where with a crowned mouse head adorning it, the soufflé dish ran up and down the table on centipedal little mousefeet. Cat humor, like Rat Sauce, is a developed taste.

   “So,” continued Frolic, “Dalai’s meme is Dirty Politics, Dirty Religion, Dirty Science. It gives us a handy, mouse-soufflé-tasty way to comprehend the wrongness and the rightness – to see the ideas of politics, religion, and science through a prism with the light broken into its constituent parts. The ignorant excesses distort the possibly noble pursuits.”

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1 Dog . Oc . Wolf. North . tzol 170  11.18.05 fri 

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Psychic Forensics .. Autopsy of Karl Rove’s Brain

Psychic Forensics .. Autopsy of Karl Rove’s Brain

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   Psychic Forensics pursues crime with tools unavailable in 2005. The ability to use these tools through warp-rinths mapped through the Akashic Record didn’t get discovered til 2211 by Myrth, part of the S. Finley Breese Morse communications-inventions bloodline.

   Before we begin our story about the horrific discoveries about Karl Rove’s diseased brain using Psychic Forensics, let’s clear up some lingo for you.

    The Akashic Record is that indelible record (or imprint really) of experience upon the all-senses papyrus of the multiverse. It’s all there in infinity for those who can read it. Your cat can’t read a book, but that doesn’t mean that a mammal (you) with a different skill set can’t decode a myriad of information distilled in those squiggles.

    There is no thought, no envy, no patience that can be forged (faked) or forgotten. The multiverse is an incomprehensibly gigantic information system. You are embedded in the multiverse – it’s not like you can step out of it, have a rotten thought or action and step back in — in disguise by deceit. Yes, it is all recorded. A sobering thought.

   Anyhow, Myrth was into maps. Maps are not truth, but they are links, useful links by which you can follow a theme or a thread. Warp-rinths are a kind of pattern of tunnels through time that orient you to certain threads in either a life of surpassing beauty or a life of surpassing ugliness like Karl Rove’s.

    A labyrinth may seem confusing, but it is a path. Warprinths are just such paths through times as well as spaces.

     Consider Mavericks, the greatest break on the planet – a wave so thick, deep, and powerful that only a handful of the greatest surfers dare ride it. And it killed the best of all time. Surfing the Akashic Record is like riding Mavericks except that you’re not just dealing with that one wave in one time. The times can slip a chron on you and you lose the thread. (Your mind can be mangled in time-riding certain time-waves.) It’s very tricky, though sherlockianly fascinating, of course. I’ll explain more about that another time (haha), about how to stay oriented in time when navigating the Akashic Record. Think sense of smell.

   Myrth and Quetzal were time-riders and psychic detectives. They returned through a warp portal to confer with pogblog, an early 21st century bloggelist.

    When you deal in nanotime (later called luzime or light-time), it’s a question of angles, not of distance. It’s very origami, very folded. It’s all potentially immediate.

    Karl Rove was a very nasty piece of work. He derailed planet progress, equality, and happiness, and added to the sum of human misery as much as any sick villain who ever trod the dear earth.

        Psychic forensics examines crime with a psy-ray. A psy-ray is like an x-ray in that it reveals interior things. It just reveals mental/psychic realities (shapes, forms, sequences) rather than bones and tissues. All a matter of tuning frequencies – and what isn’t?

    Instead of wanting to tenderly and effectively do good, somehow there came to pass a group of greedy and empty people who wanted to aggrandize and rule.

    The question in 2211 was no longer how to psy-ray a deviant psyche, but rather how to translate the forensic info back into the less holospheric 2006 brains.

   Karl Rove stank. His diseased mind fed on misery, on the pus of fear. Pain, especially humiliation, tasted good to his herzgeist, the spirit of his cold heart. Deep in his dna, he was not a mammal. He was cold-blooded. The only way he could feel warm was to drink the blood of the mammal – of the kind, the tending, the care-full.

    In addition to being inherently cold, he shared dna with a long bleak line of cold creatures which were anti-empaths. They invented the rack and burning people alive. They rose in the Dark Ages in the Inquisition, justified their atrocities in the Name of God and of protecting the world from sin and sinners. That strain of cunning and sickness went recessive in the dna until it exploded back on the scene in about 1950 in a batch of killers born on Earth in those years. Karl Rove’s birthday was <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />12/25/50 – an anti-christ indeed – in deed.

    Karl Rove likes to humiliate people. He so resented not being the romantic lead, the handsome swaggerer, that he is making the planet pay. The reason madmen often come to power is that they have no doubts. Sane people have doubts. It is very hard to avoid being swayed by coherence (cf a laser) – it is simply a stronger signal. The form is strong. People are convinced by the form, the conviction – amplified by mob effects. It takes serious discipline to see that the completely convincing form may be a vial of poison – what it contains may be evil. (What do you do anyhow if you look behind the curtain and see the maggot-writhing corpse of Dick Cheney pulling the levers? The potent hallucinations of patriotism and religions are certainly more apparently comforting that the bizarre and terrible and lonely truths.)

    Karl Rove is psychotic. “But he doesn’t look psychotic,” you cry. They seldom do except in movies. The real nutcases have perfected cunning to a degree that mere fairly sane you can not conceive. Look, we all have some complex, hidden peculiarities or worse. But you’re just milling around in the wooden handle of the ice pick, vanilla in your deviance. Karl Rove is the very tip, the perfectly piercing sharp tip of the ice pick of dark and grotesquely disturbed. What is your swath of destruction? Your own peace of mind? Your family’s peace of mind perhaps? You’ve stolen from yourself, your family, and your community your fruitfulness you might have more developed if your hidden deviances hadn’t stolen so much of your better discipline.

     But Karl Rove’s swath is the planet. The creeps he’s enabled have derailed all of America’s crucial collaboration in tending the health and education of its own population. It has poisoned the international atmosphere not only Kyotoill, but in its paranoid and hysterical response to 9/11. (3000 people died. It sucks, but 485,000 people die of tobacco-related deaths every year  and there’s no comparable hysteria about that – we don’t do shock and awe on Philip Morris and invade North Carolina.)

    We were on a relative fiscal even keel in 2000. Obscene and abzurd kick-backs to the Have-Mosts capsized the fiscal ship with no lifeboats for the poor. Let them swim.

   The outer world deeds are catastrophic and your children’s children will still be paying for the Have-Mosts self-centered profligate indulgences. But the ugliness of Karl Rove’s cold soul is a genius of anti-pity stealth. He is a hungry ghost. He is a ravenous ghost. He always goes for your strength: he cuts your balls off. The thing you honor in yourself; the thing you did that was good. That’s what he twists and pisses on. And he doesn’t just twist it into a bad light – he triple twists it into a disgusting, into a shameful light. And if you retort, you are deepened into the shame. It is not ever unproveable.

    Dick Cheney is severely psychotic, which we’ll talk about another night, but Karl Rove is even more dangerous because he’s trickier. Cheney is less skilled at the façade. Karl Rove is a supreme shapeshifter. (A tragic shame that he is a wounder rather than a healer.) He never wastes effort. As with all consummate psychopaths, he can ape rationality with all but seamless conviction. (You have to have been repeatedly lied to by a professional liar like a compulsive gambler to have a glimpse at how good these people are at deceit – deceit fits them like their skin. There is nothing tentative about their deceit. They have learned that boldness works. The Big Lie works. They enjoy jerking you around – stupid, honest, ordinary you. You may be smart enough in your day job, pilgrim, but they’ve got you completely smoked in cunning.)

    People like Karl Rove who get addicted to other people’s extreme humiliation can wreck a world. You must remember that nothing is what it seems with him. Even then you’ll be conned – again. Don’t look at him and his legerdeflak – look at the consequences.

   End of preliminary KRB Autopsy Report.      

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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9 Serpent . Chicchan . East . tzol 165  11.13.05 sun

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Not One Centavo on Bullets

Not One Centavo on Bullets

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    I saw a tv program on grisly diseases like river blindness and malaria. River blindness gets into your blood and causes constant horrific itching – to the point where you just peel pieces of your flesh from your body. And then when you are about thirty, you go blind and hold the end of a broomstick with a child holding the other end, leading you around for the rest of your life. Until that child goes blind and so on and on. It costs a buck a year or something to prevent this. You probably make 50 cents a month in this country so you brutally itch and go blind.

    Where does the list have to end for you, pilgrim, in order for you to throw up your guts and say FUCKING STOP spending money on weapons? I try to avoid swearing on pogblog because profanity is usually just a failure of imagination, and when you really need it like here, its impact is diluted. But the Military Budget madness is what swearing is for.

    As I said to chancelucky: Dwight Eisenhower pushing the massive interstate highway system was justified on national defense terms tho it actually benefited commerce. The idea was that troops could be shuttled around the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />US better, were there a need.

     The point about universal ultraband and cheap tough cool laptops (wolfbooks I call them 'cause it's cool) is that they'll explode cheap trivial low grade crud, yes, <b>but they'll also explode invention.</b>

    It is invention which will preserve America and a decent standard of living — not more destroyers and fighters.

    Yes, it will take us time to buy out this idiot war in Iraq and all our obligations to its mutilated and their dependents, but at $820,000 per minute for the Military Budget and $200,000 per minute more for Iraq (It's 'off the books'), we can make the transition to an education-invention economy forthwith if we just change the meme or the controlling idea.

  This invention and the savings on destructive projects could be flooded into education and health.

   What BushCo & Ilk completely miss is that we win both allies and friends with spreading what you might call ‘practical love.’ Instead of multiplying vengeance, we would multiply affection. Train paramedics instead of soldiers – the same people, folks, the very same people. Train para-engineers instead of soldiers. The same recruits. The same team work, the same camaraderie. Minus the future nightmares that we bequeath to so many of them. We should use our massive strength (tho we’re owned by the Chinese banks & it’s hard to know when that bubble bursts?) to build for the downtrodden, champion the sick. The Earth is pleading for peace in broken people — they are the runes, the hieroglyphs. You just have to have another tank — and you let another sister go river blind? These things are connected.   

    Is our legacy as America all this hell and hate? I don’t believe it. I believe that we can export engineering and education and medicine — and movies and cruddy hamburgers.

 

    Take a deep breath – we are going to have to believe in actual democracy for better or worse. The Security Council has got to go. No veto. We have to educate an international multilingual police force to do actual peace-keeping. With ceaseless citizens' oversight. Not power decreed by the Old Guard, but elected. We have to stand for our beliefs. It can’t be democracy except when that doesn’t suit us and we go all Adolf Stalin. We have to put our sword in the pit of fire and strike it ourselves into a pen and a plowshare. We cannot tyrannically declare our belief in democracy. We act it or we do not. People can see. Unilateral action can’t be countenanced because all peoples are created equal and have a right to the pursuit of happiness. We are supposed to help with that. Bombs are not help, ever. 

    How can you imagine that corporations should less than tithe? I have a real question as to why a genuine and humble leader needs to make one centavo more than the janitor – what real leader would not want to raise up the janitor and share his bread & or cake with her/him? (I just don’t recall Jesus being into aggrandizement, but maybe I missed that gospel? Maybe the Gospel of Greed was left out of all 36 tapes worth of the New Testament I listened to? Can you imagine Jesus being elected to office in USofA Inc with his platform? I think someone should comb the New Testament and update the language, chapter & verse & try to run on that.)
   Our leaders are supposed to be citizen servants – not bloated have-mores. How can we empower and include more citizens in a relative abundance of education and happiness? How can a leader call themselves prosperous if there are poor, unhoused, unhealed, unhappy? How can we trust any leader who rides in a phalanx of gas guzzlers? Is where they are getting to more important than where you are getting to on the 32 bus? If the leaders rode the bus and lived on minimum wage one week a month, I could listen to one syllable they have to piously mouth. Otherwise it’s all hot air and broken wind.
     Please, some leader, dare to try it. Try it and write a blog about it. We would rally around you like the whirlwind. One week a month. Then testify. Tell the other leaders how hard in fact it is. Put your life where your mouth is, Mr.Bush. Do democracy. Do humanhood.

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

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3 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird. West . tzol 159  11.07.05 mon

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Chinese Green & SoKo WiFi Dust the USA

    Friends, I hope you escape this very sudden and very harsh presumably non-avian sore-throat-from-hell Event that attacked me a few days ago & felled me for awhile. I wouldn’t mention it, other people's misery in specific being tedium times ten, except that after a few days of a throat so sore, I was wavering – (I haven’t been to an MD since 1979 except once to get an inch long splinter pulled out from under my thumbnail – yes, you would say anything if they started shoving splinters under your fingernails – an answer I could have let someone else discover) – I thought, maybe, you old fool, this is the dreaded avian flu or who knows. But a friend suggested gargling dissolved Bayer aspirin in water – which I take every day any way. Willowbark is the miracle drug for sure, but chalk this in its column too. As an aspirin junkie for 15 years, only Bayer aspirin has the magic. Sorry, something is missing from the generics in this case. Anyhow, gargle away. I am not cough or other revolting drooling symptoms free, but the scary sore throat is Gone, hallelujah, bro & sis.

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But to the real subject du jour.

 

Chinese Green & SoKo WiFi Dust the USA

 

    We either pursue the Burning Child shifting of the Military Industrial Complex to the Education Instructional Complex or we end up, baffled, as a backwater in history. We are spending our $820,000 per minute on an absurdly, obscenely obsolete model of dominance. The new dominance is invention for fun and for survival.

     Thomas Friedman’s China’s Little Green Book, a Nov 2 NYT column, tells how the Chinese are putting a giga-press on getting green. Not because it’s a nice idea, but so they don’t choke to death on the effluents of modernity.

    <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />South Korea, or SoKo as I ultramodernly call it, has grokked that nationwide ultraband is the kiss the frog & turn it to a prince smartest move. The frog being stuck in the past troglodytism and the prince is the collaborative and colludenative future 

     And we are stuck with a bellicose Administration all hopped up on the drugs of weapons and war. Everyone else is looking at us with horror tinct with pity or pity tinct with horror. Ye gods, I’m ashamed for our de-evolution, and a different thing, I am skin-crawlingly embarrassed that we are so belligerently and theistically stupid. We actually, tho admittedly barely, elected Al Gore an environmentalist and futurist who grokked green and the noosphere, the internet change from the competitive model to the instant and intimately collaborative, colludenative model. It is catastrophic to America’s hopes for joining – yes joining, what a novel, almost Navaho idea! — the future that we are stuck with an entire administration with at least three fatal flaws.

    The whole BushCo mindset is a throwback to anti-ecumenicalism in its many useful varieties. First let’s take a breath, as dear Fitz would say. I am not a communialist at all. I like my little personal space without having to pretend to like people’s company more than I do. I like it sometimes, sometimes I don’t. I like have a lair to retreat to – my garret as it were I suppose. I am not a happy hive person, always rubbing and buzzing like in bars on Friday night. So don’t think I have some sloppy sentimental notion of us all hunkering down in some loving commune. Piffle. However, we could care what happens in the next hovel, I think.

 

     How, for instance, does someone get to take their second dwelling off their taxes before everyone has a first dwelling? And tax payers should subsidize mansions? Really? No one makes their f***ing fortunes in a vacuum. You wouldn’t be so damned rich, FattHoggist, if the janitor weren’t making an impoverished wage. You are not worth 431 times more than your secretary per hour.

    So Robber Baron greediness and a complete gelding of the Labor Movement are flaws which pit us in the US against the future.

   In the general BushCo backward-looking, I see no one who groks the niftiness of technology. And, be sure, it is its niftiness which is what wins you over. Anyone who does not have access to home broadband is crippled. If that sounds like a blunt statement, it is from experience that I speak it. I had an overlap of dial-up and broadband. The broadband crashed one day (a rarity) and I discovered that the dial-up was all but useless. You cannot go back without feeling like an exile. All people who do not have a decent exclusive personal  computer and at least our clunky USA broadband are parapeligic, period.

     Going from broadband (as embarrassing as our USA broadband is – more like teaspoon-band compared to SoKo’s gallon-band) back to dial-up is like going from a fine 10-speed bicycle back to a tricycle. Yes, they both have wheels, but they aren’t in fact comparable.

    Please don’t be swayed by people who are not happy computer nuts. What do they know? I have the zeal of the converted. In 1988, I was still sure computers would be depersonalizing tools of an inhumane Corporate Structure. Maybe someone meant them to be, but trippingly around the gigantic feet of the dinosaurs, the tricksy lemurs began dancing under the moon after school.            

    A greatest fear I have is that with the changes happening so rapidly, those kids without computers or broadband, those not rhapsorg, are dusted into a different social species faster than could have happened before in history. The ability to augment your thinking with access to much of the world’s greatest knowledge all-but-instantly makes you different, more concrete, more specific – not disconnected, not more abstract. Now, obviously the same kind of training that a giga-reader of poetry or of the world itself is fortunate enough to get ought be vouchsafed to all these burgeoning brains so that they don’t only get addicted to cotton candy and giddy trivia. But the wonderful possibility of the noosphere is that you can pinball around from profundity to trivia in a trice.

    The freedom I feel as a writer now that I can check up on every nuance of what I’m writing about makes me just plain better in a substantial way. The melody is a gift I’ve practiced and earned, but the ability to check that SoKo has ¾ penetration of 4 times to 64 times faster broadband from an 11.05 article is a micro-solidity I can pass along that is both bloody cool and also makes us both smarter.

    I use rhapsorg instead of cyborg because the word rhapsody means woven song at root. And this future is orgged or organized more like a woven song than the cybernetic-org – helmsman-org model. There is no helmsman. Yet it is not chaos; there is an anti-entropic tendency to melody; therefore, woven song.

   So the kids (or any of us, really) not wired into the symphony are, ipso facto, deprived.

   Please don’t waste our time listing all that’s stupid and wrong with the internet. The same things that are stupid and wrong with people’s private minds – just the old mind was less on display to the non-psychic. Us psychics don’t notice so much difference, sooth to say. The vast garbage ground of pretentious nonsense and davidletterman sophomoric proto-humor is now in every Comment column of every blog that the generic imbecile-redneck-dave can find to bray on. However, I have found more thoughtful and resonant moments than ever I might have before. It requires a rhino-hide for a writer and super-quik junk-thought filters – like surfing the tv if you’re the one used to holding the remote – at a glance you see that it’s just britneyesque or whatever ain’t your poison.

       So the Chinese are doing giga-green and SoKo is leading the probably unwired way. We have got to instantly get this nation to have universal hotspots – the whole damn nation, like the MoonShot. Why were we woken up by Sputnik and not by SoKo? This is an Emergency & it is not a Test. You should hear that noise of alarm This is an Emergency until you shout at your Representatives urgently and constantly. WiFi this Nation Now.

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collaborate = working together;

colludenate = playing together;

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

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1 Earth . Caban . Earthquake. Heron . East . tzol 157 11.05.05 sat 

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you

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Alito .. More Promiscuous Piety

Alito .. Sick at Heart .. More Promiscuous Piety

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Preliminary thoughts on Alito.

 

Oh good, another old white guy. Go Guns(especially machine guns) & constrain them uppity womens. If you don’t have enough money for Health Care, give ‘em some tuff luv. “It’s tuff that you don’t have Health Care, but God luvs you anyway, even diseased, in pain, or, better, dead.”

 

My clarion North Star is that the poisonous, pious suckers do die off. Sadly not in my lifetime. I do dream of the Rapture when all the Interfering Pious vanish in 43 seconds or what ever snippet of time is required for them to be whooshed into the Lovin’ Arms of an Angry God. They don’t know the LambChop Plans, but who am I to tell them?

 

When you see yourself sliding back down into the sulphurous pits of the Middle Ages with “Ask Your Husband Before You get An Abortion & BTW, Walk Three Feet Behind” Alito, it's about not just reproductive rights but the right not to be a slave to any other human being.

 

Ask Your Husband?! Ask Your Husband??!! Ask Your Husband???!!! Shall we return to Wives & Husbands drinking fountains too?

 

A return to the chattel mentality is a storm the battlements fight. I'm not sure even wise and thoughtful men can imagine what it feels like to face a return to this repugnant world and cocoon some of us spent a lifetime battling out of. Let them eat communion wafers.

 

Sharpen the guillotines.

 

????????????????????????????? 

 

A friend said “I’d personally like to see Roe v. Wade upheld, but it’s far more important to me that whoever serves on the court have both wisdom and vision.” Way too rational a view, my friend.

 

I gotta say that losing Roe v Wade means hacked-up young women, often self-mutilated. “Far more important” seems odd to me. I personally can't imagine wisdom or vision overturning Roe v Wade. But then I'm a woman who lived thru the era of hacked-up young women — friends of mine even. Not anecdotes, but first hand watching the blood pour onto the floor. I’ll never forget the smell of all that blood.

 

//As for the present court — nothing harmed the whole sacred(small 's') concept of  the rule of law beyond influence more than the completely wretched decision to stop the votes being counted. Never can we claim purity again before the developing democracies. Nepots will always go 'Wink Wink — oh yeah, you gotta count the votes even if you don't like the results, nudge, nudge.' This was a catastrophically short-sighted decision.

 

People said to me then that my frantic concern was because Al Gore didn't 'win.' I said NO — it was because the sacred (small 's' — no voice of God) idea of democracy itself had been indelibly defiled.

 

+++++++++++

I always thought that if each of the Ranters outside a Planned Parenthood would hand each young woman a check for the child's upbringing through <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Princeton, I might think about taking them seriously. (A Pro-Decent Life Account?)

 

I went to a boarding school in the 1950s. One night when I was a sophomore, my roommate & I woke up and a friend who was a senior was bleeding to death on the floor of our room. I have never seen so much blood. We soaked it up with towels and towels which we later buried. I can still remember the smell of all that blood.

 

Our friend Jane (not her name) had tried to do an abortion on herself with a knitting needle. I swear — we were all so incredibly ignorant. Of course we didn't call for help or a doctor because pregnancy was such a Terrible Thing.

 

I always shudder when I think that we would have let her die. It never occurred to any of us to tell anyone — so dread was the secret. (Which is why this parental notification is SUCH a bad idea.) Jane just barely didn't die. Her naturally olive skin was white as chalk for two months. I'm not sure if she ever could have children later in life. She butchered herself pretty badly in her panic. (She may not even have been pregnant — she might have just missed a period and freaked out, tho we didn't know that word then.)

 

The idea of losing Roe v Wade gives me very personal & vivid nightmares. I know better than many what we could go back to. 

 

The hideous hypocrisies of these ‘pro-birth’ folks are chilling.

 

Karl is clearly back. Alito has a list of revolting Inquisition Ideas. Keep your mind and ears open.

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

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11 Jaguar . Ix . Ocelot . Panther . North . tzol 154  11.02.05 wed

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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“George Bush is a hard little man . . .”

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />“George Bush is a hard little man . . .” 

 

A few years back there was a famous photographer on Charlie Rose. (Forgive me — I forget his name.) This man had taken iconic shots of everyone of celebrity or infamy from Winston Churchill on. If you've ever been a photographer or a videographer, you know what an intimate process shooting someone is.

 

Every single person interested this photographer. Even the villains. He grokked and savored their uniqueness.

 

This was back in Charlie Rose's era of having swilled the WMD-9/11 terrors koolaid. If not quite a toady for the Bush Administration in that timeframe, he, like Ms. Miller, was a bit of a chalabi. (If I may update quisling.¹)

 

This was a confection show as was appropriate. A lot of stunning portraits. Tabloidism at a caviar level.

 

Friskily with a certain sycophance like a Golden Retriever puppy, Charlie asks Mr. Photo, “You shot a portrait of our (sic) President when he was governor of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Texas?”

 

All the air went out of the room. The amusing flock of anecdotes all fell out of the sky like dead birds. There was a long silence, ghastly on TV. Mr. Photo's voice lost all its buttery over-&-undertones, and he said with flint, “He's a hard little man.”

 

The president, George W. Bush was the only  figure of the past 54 years that this observant photographer had not either loved, liked, or been interested in. It was that moment, I think when I felt the rising menace of this cold and colorless of soul Administration most starkly.

 

Mr. Photo, pressed for more comment, said, “We were alone in a room in the Governor's mansion and as I was setting up the shots, Governor Bush just watched me warily through slitted eyes. He is a hard little man.”

 

Mr. Photo did not say it except between the lines. But Mr. Bush was right to be wary. As many tribes in less modern lands knew, a photo can show your soul. Awkward if you don't have one.

 

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 ¹ There are a few notes on this piece, amigoas.

 

Quisling is one of those words that starts as a name and becomes a lower-case generic word like kleenex, xerox, sandwich, and google. Quisling was Norwegian who collaborated with the Germans in WW2 and was firing-squadded. When I’m feeling more than usually betrayed by Digrif, I call him a quisling. Note that in the Land of Euphonies, or delights of sound, quisling is a word that hisses like a snake. The sibilance or hissing underlines the subliminal feeling of treachery. (Not fair really to snakes which just have the misfortune not to be furry and not to blink. We feel odd around the blinkless.) That sound which is resonant of a feeling or thing is called onomatopoetic – and the classic is murmur & the tintinnabulation of the bells bells bells

 

Hear the sledges with the bells-
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. EA Poe

 …… 

Koolaid. A undrinkable drink. Cloyingly sweet with cheap imitation flavors. Lots of people like it. But as an eponym or word from a name, to drink someone’s koolaid comes from the hideous Jonestown event where all these followers of Mr. Jones, yet another religious charlatan, a tautology if there ever was one, who took all these folks to Guyana in 1978 and they obediently drank the poisoned grape koolaid he passed around and 900 of them died. It was horrible, but in a humor so dark that it’s almost obsidian, the term has become more of a banter. “Yeah, well, she drank your koolaid.” Meaning that she swallowed your silky jive. 

 

Chalabi is the slitherer to whom we owe the Iraq war. He was an exile of such snake-oil persuasion powers that the BushCo Cabal not just hook & line, but sinker too swallowed his fishy bait. He was the koolaid purveyor to Ms. Miller who used the New York Times to give credence to the Chalabi-BushCo fantasies of Sadam making nukes at the bottom of secret wells behind palaces. So I update quisling by using chalabi who is a conman’s conman.

 

sycophant .. ‘an informer against those who stole figs’ – in other words, a rat. Someone the prince can count on to fink slimily. It has gotten generalized to mean a vile flatterer, a smoocher of royal rumps – or in our day, trumps’ rumps. Obsequious – a word oilily worth saying.

 

sic .. sic means thus. It's used literally to say that some misspelling or bad usage was in the original statement — kind of puffed-uppedly noting that cool you noticed that it was wrong because you're not so much of a rube as the original writer. Or as in this case I am highlighting that Charlie, supposedly a journalist, uses 'our' rather than 'the' as an unnecessary fondness. Charlie, by the way, has regained some spine or at least a few vertebrae lately as the war spirals into perpetual hell.

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5 Rabbit . Lamat . South . tzol 148  10.27.05 thur 

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Rosa Parks. Weasel TV. .. from the sublime to the silly

Rosa Parks. Weasel TV.

.. from the sublime to the silly

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

I was writing some stuff to some swell folks in the bloggosphere & I realized it was the kernel of stuff I wanted to share with you dear pogblog readers. The way the bloggosphere works is that you may write a Comment about something sublime and then in a few moments about something sublimely silly. That’s why I like it, the O'Sphere. It, like life itself, is fractal. We like to tidy up our memories into faux linearities. These two pieces met at the same dawn while I’m drinking organic <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />darjeeling tea and eating 72% chocolate. That is vie.   

 

I’m still up for dawn; not getting up.

 

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Rosa Parks Dared.

 

I grew up on a farm on the Eastern Shore of Maryland in the Fifties. There were the water fountains with 'Colored' & 'White.' The only place a traveling 'negro' family might rest their head along the several hundred miles on the Big Highway was down a dusty dirt road with a peeled and faded sign — not even Dew Drop Inn, but only 'Colored.' What most folks not from those places or times cannot begin to imagine was how utterly brave 'just staying seated' was in those years.

 

Some might say Ms. Parks is remembered “solely for refusing to give in to injustice” — there is no “solely” about it. 'Nice' southern white men could be so suddenly vicious, she could well have been followed off the bus and beaten to death or raped. The bitter meanness of many of the white people with whom I grew up is all but untranslatable in our time now. The gracious, mint-julep-sipping southern gentleman would turn into a slavering pitbull if crossed by a 'colored' person. It was jekyll-&-hyde.

 

You can see in the wonderful pictures of Ms. Parks in her youth how grounded she was. There are few enough among us who would possibly have dared to “sit our ass down” in a society like the underbelly of the American South back then. The things I saw 'nice' upper middle-class white people do and heard them say in those years were bloodcurdling. There was no recrimination whatever for perpetrating the vilest of the Shadow upon 'colored' people. It was terrifying and disgusting. (Think Abu Ghraib being done by your neighbors & nobody blinking an eye.)

 

Having done a fair amount of civil disobedience, I can tell you that the hardest thing is to just not move. Where is the three-square-feet of  the United States of America where you will take your stand as you are surrounded by policemen in black exo-skeletons and 2 ft long night sticks? It's the quintessence of non-violent action, not moving, but if you're standing, your knees go to jelly. Those kind of 'authorities' are very used to having intimidation 'work.' It not working is a real big threat to their pipsqueak bully self-grandiosity.

 

What Rosa Parks did was not just thrust upon her. She deeply dared. I will always be inspired by her turning rage into courage. Thank you Rosa Parks.

 

We surely must 'continue the work.'

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For Rosa Parks, please see chancelucky & Natalie Davis.

 

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Weasel TV

I had a nice flashback to my 5 years of doing televised improv with ordinary people off the street. I was talking to chancelucky's blog about saying that what he called re BushCo as Surreal Life should be SursurReal Life. I haven't quite coined a term for weirderthanDali or morepitchforksinrumpsthanbosch, but we're definitely there with these skincrawling lizards.

 

As for names like Chuzzlewit, Dickens is in a tie with Tobias Smollett (a heck of a name itself) for Name God. Smollett has Roderick Random & Peregrine Pickle. (On my Improv show, Weasel TV, my doppelganger Dame Polly Pickle [pronounced pick-kell] was a tip of the hat to Smollett as well as to Dame Edna & Hyacinth Bucket pronounced Boo-kay. Apropos of nothing, Weasel TV was the first galactic TV channel, as CNN was the first global one. We had time travel facilities and a lot of other cool stuff. We would go back and interview the babysitter of Genghis Khan & so 4th.)

 

One of my favorite planets we visited with Weasel TV facilities was the planet Nedrag (‘garden’ backwards for the anagramically impaired). On the Planet Nedrag, they had Zoos of Humans. We had two humans on and two of their zoo trainers. The Sentients on Nedrag were pretty disgusted by the hairless bipeds, but they enjoyed watching them mate (a la PBS documentaries, all very tasteful and narrated by deep-toned famous people you can’t quite recognize) They also like to watch the humans and eat and lie slothfully around. The Nedraggians would toss them peanuts — and cucumbers for some odd alien planet reason.

 

Dame Polly who uses my body when she visits, but likes hats and lipstick and enormous pink plastic shoes, is richer than TrumpGatesPerotTurner all in one bank account. Her cause celebre was Two, Then Adopt, a meme she promoted for a long time to get around some women’s baby addictions – Raise all you can afford if that’s your gig, but only two flesh + blood kids.   

 

I used to think we on Weasel were outre — but that was before the BushCo Administration came a long as a Category 666 of bizarre. Of course we were never in competition. We had a lock on warm-hearted & pithy outlandish. They have a lock on coldhearted kukluxklan without the sheets.

   

A friend the other day said, “Well, they, [the Bushoids], really haven’t got this oppression thing perfected yet. They don’t have the SS.”

 

I said, “Merde, man, they don’t need the SS. They got malls, football, and Humvees to keep people exhausted and drugged. You don’t need the SS when transmitting the Bread & Circuses directly into the home is so dead-cert easy. Honesty in blogalism, I am a pro-football nut having been a Johnny-Unitas Colts fan and a 49er fan in the glory years. Malls have just never gotten me, but not because I have any virtue, probably more because I don’t have any money.

 

Humvees. Well, the first Humvee is a felony. The 2nd Hummer is death penalty, against which I am in most other circumstances. (People who chew gum are on the cusp death penalty-wise.) Orange Arnold Schwarzenegger (orange from too many years of ManTan) has 8 Humvees, so poor ole Dante has to take a break from Heavenly concourse with Beatrice to invent a new and special circle of Hell for Arnold. What woeful oceanic inadequacy must a man feel who must have the ultimate codpiece vehicle, a Humvee? And eight of them?  Welcome to Planet Asylum where the inmates clearly are running the whole hebang. Duck & cover.

 

ps. Remember, those of us who wield Ridicule do win in the end eventually someday not soon enough but never despair because despair is never a lollipop flavor.

 

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4 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 147  10.26.05 wed 

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Rove, Cheney, and their Slithery Ilk

Karl, Dick, & their Slithery Ilk

 

mon cahbahj,

 

    I hate it when you’re out of the country in particularly trying times. It's about <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />2:29 pst & I'm on tenter hooks. Do I dare to go to sleep after eating a peach? Suppose I don't check CNN every hour & Karlsputin gets indicted & I didn't hear it live? I saw Jack Ruby shoot Oswald live after Jack Kennedy was shot down on my 19th birthday.

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

   Flayed as I was then, nothing between then and now prepared me for the brilliant seething cobra-venom menace of the malevolent guy who looks like Santa’s middle-aged nephew. The damage to our sweet future is concussive, crippling.

 

   Every centavo we spend on a weapon’s system is cheating some bright-eyed kid of a gallivanting future of invention and intense intention. There happens just now to be a helicopter flying over our town in the night for who knows what reason. It makes me think that if I were an Iraq or wherever war-torn, I would be hearing it with such breath-holding dread. Is it coming closer? Is it leaving? Will it fire on our village because Ahmed lied about our neighbor Hareth saying he was a terrorist when he’s just a barber. Ahmed hates Hareth because Zahraa married Hareth instead of him. So he lied to the police. Who needed to tell the Americans something. That wasn’t the helicopter of my death. I hear its rotors clearly further away now.  It will come again in an hour or a day even though Hareth and Zahraa have left for the South.

    I reckon there is some solace in the fact that once you see that military spending is not only abzurd, but obscenely counterproductive, you can’t unsee it. So when Karl, Dick the Dick, & their slithery ilk get it, they’ll get it. Grokwise.

   I remember standing in a hemisphere of light when I grokked it the first time. It was in the Nixon era well before Watergate. I was musing about ye owls know what. All of the rest of the landscape disappeared except the ground – so from horizon to horizon I was immersed in an opalescent white shimmer of air. I just remember how alone I was on the vast stretch of earth in every direction. I realized that war wasn’t just bad and too bad, that it was insane. This was an very rare view in those times – and frankly even today even my friends, except you, thank owls, say, ‘Oh oh, how terrible is war, except sometimes you have to . . .’. Pffft, pifflay. People don’t say, ‘Oh oh, psychosis is terrible terrible, except sometimes . . .’. Psychosis sucks period.

      In that moment, Riffie, I imagined Mr. Nixon who was the slitheriest to date — Little did we know what would come – I imagined Mr. Nixon on a couch in a shrink’s office. The shrink sat out of sight behind him. Mr. Nixon was describing designing huge weapons to fracture and mangle; and all the money poured into death and jellied gasoline to pour on little children to burn them to the bone; and bombs which shot out thousand of nails like bullets; and teaching young men to butcher shouting Kill Kill and to veneeredly feel noble about it. I saw the psychiatrist blanch and his knuckles grow white as he clutched the arm of his chair. He was sweating then, hot and cold and shuddering. Mr. Nixon was so matter-of-fact. Millions upon millions of dollars stolen from the schools and the comfort of the grandmothers and the wellbeing of the psyche of the nation. Businessmen drank blood and stored blood in the wineries of their bank blood accounts. The psychiatrist hugged himself to try to calm his convulsive shuddering as he listened to the grandiose malignant psychotic tale. He thought 'How in the world will I get this man safely to a rubber room?'

    Then the man sat abruptly up and turned and introduced him self to Dr. Flagwaver. “I’m Richard Nixon, Commander in Chief, President of the United States of America.”

    The psychiatrist felt limp with relief. The president! “Oh Sir, for just one minute there I thought you were a raving lunatic. But now that I know you really are president, it’s all OK.”

   Nixon smiled cryptically. “Well, son, he said in barely above a whisper, “if you want to get away with murder, you just need to do it on a big enough scale. It takes balls to dare it, but slaughter enough people, son, and you win, get statues, parades, and pages upon pages in the history books with your picture in front of adoring and cheering crowds. Only kill a few and you get your picture on the post office wall.”

      I remember my shock when I had that indelible vision of the psychosis of war. If it weren’t the president, it would be undeniably clinical.

    Anyhow, honeylamb, I wonder what will become of Karl, Dick the Dick, and their slithery ilk who indenture our countrymen to poverty and sign the order for weapons as if their pen didn’t write blood. How do they not hear the screams of the mutilated collateral damage at night?

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11 Alligator . Imix . Turtle . East . tzol 141  10.20.05 thur

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Karl Rove .. serial Smearer.. thug psychology ..

In this week of October 17 2005, it's time to re-view this mid-summer article and refresh our memories on the real essential rottenness of Mr. Rove & how many people he has hurt — with premeditated malice.   

 

Karl Rove .. serial Smearer ..

.. thug psychology ..

 

This gets us up-to-date and gives you something to copy to friends who may not be hip to these sad and dreadful underpinings to the Present Scrupleless Folk who sadly have our sweet future under their heels. 

 

The hydra-headed info about Mr. Rove's unfettered willingness to smear people is remarkably chilling and under-reported. There are people twisted by power throughout history who we remember for centuries. I think when the full story is known of Mr. Rove's deep willingness to go after people's actual strengths with outright lies and ruin their reputations and lives and say as Mr. Bush did to Mr. McCain with a shrug, “It's politics, John,” Rove will be remembered with the Torquemadas and Machiavellis. Even if you don't know exactly what they did, your skin involuntarily crawls. They were willing to be inhuman or anti-human in a way the rest of us cannot fathom.

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

Please remember that this outing the identity of Joe Wilson's wife is just one big spoke in the wheel the hub of which is FixedIntelGate. We sent people to war on fixed intel  which <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Wilson revealed and they wanted his reputation emasculated — 'his wifie sent him.'

 

Mr. Rove is a serial Smearer. He gets worse and more bold as he keeps getting away with it. And it often has a peculiar sexual innuendo — his male political consultant rival who supposedly made a pass at a young man at a Republican bbq; Ann Richards as lesbian and lesbian sympathizer; the judge with children's charities as pedophile. Accusations where the poor deny-er gets in a “Have you stopped beating your wife' circular hell.

 

I am sick of someone who acts, in  Josh Green's phrase in the Nov 2004 Atlantic, “where conscience forbids most others” getting cut such slack in the media. At the very least this person should be shunned, not lionized. (He certainly should also be on administrative leave with no security clearance.)

 

Of course, I would be completely happy to have the wonderful Ann Richards be a lesbian or whatever the heck she wants. But in Texas at the time, this untruth was spread as a 'dirty secret.' Some parts of Texas are lagging in their ability to encompass variety.

 

It is impossible to get the Smearodent Toothpaste back in the tube. What is John McCain to say? “No, I didn't father a black baby with a prostitute.” Then just even more people hear about it and wonder. Or John Kerry and the Swift Boat ads. “No, it was dangerous as hell and I could have died and I was really brave, unlike you, you chicken hawk.”

 

You can't rebut this garbage without sounding defensive or vain. The victim of these tactics is in a serious trap.

 

yours in distress, pogblog

 

These details of thug psychology come from years of studying this, beginning with the ruthless mentor Lee Atwater, way surpassed by his disciple Karl. A very good recent look is Josh Green's Nov 2004 Atlantic article. (Mr. Green has zero association with the opinions in this post, of course.)


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ffwofw
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The theo-Military Budget & Militant Ridicule

The theo-Military Budget & Militant Ridicule

the Marshmallowists ..

the intergration of lucid waking with lucid dreaming  

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

    Purrs Nicety addressed a seminar of clowns about to be deployed into the Dream Scheme to terrorize the Insane Leadership of the USofA Inc with sneak barrages of marshmallows.

     Purrs was a master strategist of guerilla Ridicule. “The RovBuCondRumsChenian Ilk can be howitzerily guarded in the K1, the full kinesthetic, solid-density, daylight plane,” said Purrs with a sly, if not snide, chuckle. Purrs sported the Puss in Boots look, complete with large blue hat with swashbuckling pink feather. Feline-pirate chic. She was, however, a Ridicule Assassin who fought fang and fought claw to embarrass the Putative Mighty.

    “Do you realize,” growled Purrs, “that they steal the happiness of their kittens to build weapons systems?” Her hackles bristled with furry fury. “No one – and I mean no one – dares speak out against the bloated, obscene, insane military budget. Not a chirp, not a squeak, not a bark, nor a howl. Either the hypnotism or the intimidation is complete.

    “Last class I told you all to memorize the Far Looney Bleeding Heart Extremist Agenda. Lobosuave, can you recite it for us?” Lobocake was something of a teacher’s pet, it must be said. Purrs clearly preferred him to any other comrade-in-marshmallows.

    Lobocake gave her his taunting wolfish grin, “That pesky Far Looney Left Extremist Agenda is universal healthcare; a superb, public K-College education for every child; a treasured and revered environment; a robust living wage; and nationwide free wireless internet ultra-broadband. We’re asking those who generally agree to memorize these and blurt them out to friend and foe at every opportunity. Healthcare, Education, Environment, Wages, Ultraband.”

   “Thanks, Lobo,” preened Purrs who was clearly smitten. “Now, these jerkbeciles are talking cutting Medicaid and the prescription drug benefit, closing schools, and gutting American civil rights, and we may not talk about – even mention – the next-generation DDX destroyers or more Trident submarines or more D-5 missiles or F/A22 fighters or V-22 Osprey aircraft or the strangelovian Robust Nuclear Earth Penetrators or any of that fantasy Missile Nonsense aka Star Wars program? Their present destroyers, submarines, aircraft, bombs are going to be challenged by whom?

    “We could put a non-maintenance moratorium on all Weapons of Mass Mutilation development for 5 years. Simply buy out all the workers and companies affected and re-deploy them to build super schools and the infrastructure of the WiFi Nation. We’re spending $820,000 per minute on theoMilitarism, not counting the extra $200,000 per minute on rubbling the rubble in the quagsands of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq.

     “Fundamentalist Christianity is an anti-jesusian, virulent sidebar. The real 8000 lb gorilla in America is the Church of Militarism. To speak out against it is a burn-at-the-stake heresy-equivalent. They do you with the gatling gun and finish you off with a flamethrower.

    “Dare to suggest that 99% of military spending is a colossal waste of money and in come the bunker-busting bombs, soon to be nuclear for cruds sake.” Purrs derisively settled her bright silver fur with a quick shake.

    “Sir Nickety,” said Lobo with that insolent droll drawl, “Before you outline the Dream Scheme marshmallow raid, Operation Pelt, can you elaborate on the stealth psychology of theoMilitarism in 21st century USofA Inc?”

    Purrs cheshired. The clowns at Clown School InterD were a droll rowdy and raunchy lot. The nice thing about traveling in OtherLand was that you could change your body style as handily as the earthbound could change from a denim workshirt to an Hawaiian shirt. Last night she and Lobo had shapeshifted into human guise for some claw hammer and tongs recreation. Because their passions were medieval, he called her Sir Nickety as a kind of petitchouism.¹ Last night between bouts of smackdown, they’d discussed the sickening dangers of theoMilitarism.

    “ It’s probably easier to use the magic glasses of the view back from Y3000,” said Purrs. “In the Year 3000, we do not mutilate the children of strangers to solve adult disputes. We do not allow overwrought young men to drive suicide cars, the cheaper death, nor suicide tanks, the expensive death. The accumulation of stockpiles of WMM, Weapons of Mass Mutilation is seen as obscene and stupid.

    “The cult of Militarism is a very very virulent disease, and sadly its extirpation takes all of human and cosmic ingenuity to accomplish. It takes a drug cocktail of 3 parts Ridicule, 1 part Kindness, and, for the caretakers, huge doses of Vitamins OH and DD. Vitamins Obsidian Humor and Vitamin Damned Doggèdness.

    “All addicts’ hallucinations hijack the basic bio-survival circuits. Similarly the paranoid is unshakably convinced of the perils because the seamless internally-generated evidence is so intimate. External evidence does not access the theo-romanti-spiritual-sublime circuits where the self-generated molecularly-intimate tinctures are enzymily oozed, igniting a conviction for which people will actually end their existence. When these constellations of hallucination are lemming-amplified by fellow cultists, koolaid will be swilled.

   “Even most of the white-hats in 21st century America are either semi-infested themselves with milder forms of the theoMilitarism disease which are still potent enough to distort vision — or are clear-eyed and justly damned afraid.

    “Luckily, in OtherLand, Marshmallowists can be deployed with Weapons of Mass Ridicule and begin the psychic rehabilitation these hijacked entities, the Ilk, need to begin recovery. Their oneiro-security is negligible. We invade their sleep with our improvised marshmallow devices, our IMDs. Into each doppelsleeper’s gaping and snoring mouth, the Ridicule Counter-Militarism squad leader drops a marshmallow. The rest of the clown troops glide by, and marshmallow by marshmallow bury an Ilk’s dreambody in derisive marshmallows. The caboose or last clown out leaves a small keyring-sized plastic pineapple as a sign that it could have been grenades instead of marshmallows, but the uninfected soul goes for k-suave.

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to be continued .. ..

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quik Glossary .. petitchouism = petit chou is little cabbage in French, an endearment; extirpate = uproot; k-suave (k = K1 or solid earth day-density/suave – soo-ah-vay  = sweet, mild, smooth, gentle, harmless, uninjuring);

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6 Vulture . Cib . Owl . South . tzolkin 136  10.15.05  sat

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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