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The Woman Who Stares at GeorgeBush Instead Of At Goats .. A Radical Pacifist’s State of the Union address <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />. . . ToadSpawn Ch 7
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There is actually (reality, actuality; matter of fact, sober reality; truth &c; stubborn fact, hard fact; not a dream &c; no joke; be the case; occur &c; extant; afloat, afoot, prevalent; undestroyed; indeed; ipso facto) a military occult cadre in America who are paid by us taxpayers to stare at goats with intent to kill.¹ A very occult project this, so secret in fact that you might say it’s oc:oc:occult. The rest of this report is both interpretative and factual, but this basic staring-at-goats-gig fact exists on the Planet you walk on and upon which you eat your Cheerios. Tremble and be afraid, very afraid – you’re paying for these people, and they are loose.
You are paying them enough to play golf more than once a week at Pebble Beach ($700 per round, not counting tipping the caddy), the most beautifullest golf course on the planet, teal-colored ocean views; white pelicans skimming the combers; velvety Bermuda-grass greens with duffer-flattering pin-placements; scrotum-tightening pleasure oiled in reminiscence by much Jack Daniels, a real guy’s drink. A real guy who spends his time when he’s not golfing or servicing the trophy wife staring at goats with intent to kill.
Now, the goats’ friendly bleats have been surgically excised because it’s hard to concentrate on the glaring-to-murder a goat cheerfully bleating for a scratch behind the ears or a nice handful of molassesy grain (which the goats who aren’t reaped by the grim gazes are given by their sweet Keepers at night.)
How bizarre the goats must find our species – they get death stares for 8 hours (It’s a job for the humans) while they mill, baffled, bleating earnest silence. Then at 5pm, the Starers put their uniform jackets (made in China) back on and button up the brassette buttons. At which point the tender and fondling and sweet-whispering Tenders arrive to whisk away the corpses and to give the remaining goats honeyed grain and alfalfa hay and cool cool water. What could a goat philosopher make of it all?
I don’t decry psychic powers – I have quite a few of my own.
But, dear reader, it never occurred to me not once to just stare at the Lizard-in-Chief, Mr. Bush, until – until boils do us part. Yeah, friend, as many eyes and teeth as George owes for, I just can’t do death. But if boils is good enough for God to job Job with, they’re good enough for me to do unto George. Amen and hallelujah, brother.
I wish there was a Boils R Us store nearby so I wouldn’t have to work so hard at this boils thing. On my groaning plate, I’ve already got daily praying for The Rapture to occur – win-win, they’re happy to go, I’m happy they’re gone, hip hip hullabaloo. (My friend, Fuerta, says pilots should have to sign a sworn statement that they are not Rapture-Ready – suddenly pilotless² planes are a clear hazard.) Adding this boils-staring voodoo at our Scaly Leader is gonna seriously cut into my sloth, snack, and siesta time.
Now, I only need two more of you with boils-erupting baleful gazes to join up so we can triangulate Mr. Bush with boils-wielding ridicule, BWR – if you ain’t got an acronym, what kind of weapons system are you really? FMD, for instance, Fantasy Missile Defense at $14,000 per minute. Now there’s a truly ridiculous notion that no one is sufficiently squawking about. How can citizens of a sane nation allow $14,000 per minute to be spent on a Fantasy Missile so-called Defense while we are paying fellow citizens $5.15 per hour, $206 a week – you live on that, pilgrim.
I remember the supercilious William Buckley on Larry King a decade ago intoning in his inimitable pontifical mannered manner, “Wull, Larry, you ask that [African, Indonesian; Peruvian; Alabamian] peasant if they wouldn’t rather have that 35¢ an hour?” Wull, yes, Bill, while you’re silver-forking down your lobster thermidor — over nothing, the pesky starving will choose 35¢ an hour. But that’s the wrong question, Bill baby. The question is how would you like 35¢ an hour? That’s how you sort the ‘we are all humans of equal worth’ equation; that’s the ethical calculus – prince and pauper – I would trade places with you right now. I have sufficient courage of my pompously pontificated convictions that I, William F. Buckley Jr, would trade places with you right now. Justice is blindfolded and can’t tell you from this happy happy poor person reveling in the 35¢ an hour you’re so magnanimously offering, no doubt with a daily watermelon bonus and a free turkey at Christmas. The Knights of Ridicule can set a basic Boils Team on you too, Bill.
My Martian philosopher-journalist friend, DanGero, from the South Mars Gazette, a cosblog linked to pogblog, said his 20 years in a human suit observing homo notso sapiens undercover was an assignment of hadal delight and of a five recent years revulsion so shuddering that Martian oneiro-shamans feared for his recovery of equilibrium and equanimity.
“Part of your species is pleasant, even jolly, fun, quite generous. The 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead You are so empathy- and agog-impaired that my Martian friends who’ve never visited your Planet have voted for a 100% Quarantine of your planet’s sentient effluvium from cosmic councils; cosmic trade routes; from cosmic museums; cosmic libraries, the whole Big Shebang.
“’How can they treat their fellow conscious beings so scummily?’ ask my Martian friends.
“On Mars we have an ancient story of a unicorn whose hide is the shimmering colors of the rainbow. Where our unicorn passes, there is music in the air. And where her golden hooves fall, the grasses are not bruised.
“It is with musical gentleness we are asked to treat our fellow creatures. The best way I could translate it perhaps for you Earthlings is Music unto others as you would have them music unto you.
“On Mars we hear all the songs — the stone’s song, the butterfly’s minuet, the sonnet of your soul. On Mars, your worth is weighed in the number of jokes you’ve invented.
“We are not aura-blind as most of you Earthlings are. We see or grok the aurora borealis of your being as it plays its concertos of actions and reactions, its woven songs. We love the ambush of practical jokes and the fierce dueling of satires.
“Your very real harshness to one another, however, your deafness to the other’s life song are so alien to us that most of us did ratify the Quarantine.”
When I look at DanGero, I hear him mostly in the tangerines and hyacinths of his liliacly lyrical soul. He’s helped train me to stare boils at GeorgeBush whose putative leadership sounds all static behind the clichéd bombast. “We are bewildered,” DanGero said, “by your exploitative hierarchies anyhow, but that you would allow someone to domineer you so unmusically is sick and senseless to us.
“Advanced worlds in the cosmos no longer require ethical laws, we have aesthetic laws. We weigh and measure actions and value in units of comedy. That’s why I gave you that necklace with the silver dogtag with carpe comedy stamped on it, as a token, as a reminder of your Martian blood, pog, that you are steeped in comedy and songfulness.”
My exile to Earth, my exile from song and mirth to deaf Earth had been part of the last desperate Expedition of the Healers Guild, the Clowns, to find a cure for GAC, the Greed and Creed soul-crippling condition, the epidemic of which had swept sweet Earth for 2000 years of arid desolation.
In his latest visit DanGero had told me that since I had foolishly fallen so somersault and devil dance with an Earthling, I could never risk bringing the possible contamination home again to the planet we do not call Mars, but Bylar, To Dance. That permanent exile from the laughing apple-sweet rivers of my home is, dear reader, a dazzling and damned story for another fire-light flickered night. Is what you dimly call love, the insane rage, the filigree of mad mirth he and I pitilessly feel with each other worth that exile? Filigreeis a dainty web of precious metal, an haunting elf song wrought into a tiny token, a lace of metal, a braille grail jewelry you could feel in the dark, that dark where all souls journey implacably alone sometimes, at times arranged by Fate’s deranged whim – that filigree to remind me in that doomed silence which may or may not end of our dread mirth which we dared, holding only each other’s hand over the uncalculatable abyss. So is it worth it, Digrif, my friend in obsidian mirth, my cruel ironist, this exile for which I paid my whole soul? Timelessness will tell.
So back to the goats whose plaintive and silent bleats remind us we’re in a surkafka land where people will actually spend $14000 per minute on a Fantasy Missile Defense system when they could fund universal health care for their fellow citizens in the beloved community with those same funds, as an example.
BWR. Boils-Wielding-Ridicule. Frankly, of course I would prefer long, slow skewered rotisserie over hell-fires death for the maggots-for-brains ghouls who rule us, but I have evolved in civilized past the mutilations-by-proxy which keeps them in the ‘excruciating bone-splintering pain to other people’s children’ business that they practice with lurid violence behind the veil of patriotic songs and tinnily noble sentiments which bring back no dead child’s laughter.
So on the 4th of July 2005, The Woman Who Stares At GeorgeBush Instead Of At Goats begins her BWR, Boils-Wielding Ridicule campaign. The end of Mr. Bush’s pinocchioing nose is the bulls-eye prize target. If just two of you can join me, we can triangulate and cast our blessedly mumbo jumbo voodoo boils spells upon his lying nose, the Lizard-in-Chief who will not offer up his own children to the Worthy Cause.
“Yankee doodle, stare it up/Yankee doodle dandy/Mind the music and the step/And with the stares be handy.”
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¹I wanted to write this report before I treated myself to reading Jon Ronson’s The Men Who Stare At Goats. I saw him on CSpan a while back and he spoke of the stranger bubbles we can slide into and of the 12ft Lizards that one guy was convinced ruled the world. I had been on this Reptile angle for years and this seemed a nifty ratification in neon of the theme. I didn’t want to read the book until I wrote The Woman Who Stares At GeorgeBush so as to have free rein to channel that idea without fear of imitation. Jon Ronson did tell us that the goats’ bleats were removed. Mr. Ronson has no association with or responsibility for even a gnat’s eyelash of my version of things. I’ll do you all up a review when I read the book.
²For those three people in America unfamiliar with The Coming Rapture – the Gist of it is that all the people who Truly Take Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior are going to be Raptured Up en masse into Heaven in their actual bodies, leaving the rest of us infidels to brimstonily stew in our own sulphurous juices down here. I can’t recall whether Trumpets Sound as The Rapture begins, but I’m pretty sure that the Heavens open. This Divine Hoovering is imminent, any day or year now. Thus planes being piloted by Born-Again pilots will suddenly be pilotless, cars driverless, trains will have empty locomotives. //There is doctrinal uncertainty about whether one’s teeshirt from Target or for the better-heeled Believer, one’s crisply-ironed, medium-starch blue shirt from Brooks Brothers will be Raptured Up with one? Likewise dental fillings? Should one dress for Rapture every day? I have no answers to these questions because believe me *I* a.m. g.o.i.n.g. t.o. b.e. left behind. Not only do I not take JC as my personal savior, I distinctly and specifically reject the lad. Boy, when I was 32 years old, I thought I knew it all too. But I’ll never have Mel to make a Passion of Pogblog and pour bucket’s o’ blood over me. I never actually used the word prayer before because me ‘n the multi-verse(many-poem place) are pretty tight as these things go, but I have taken to praying that The Rapture will come asap so they can go and we can be left behind to get about making it a fairer and jollier world without all the tedious preachy nastiness. The Shortest Book on Earth is Jokes in the Bible. (By the way, I’ll reiterate that I could care less what comforting hallucination anyone indulges in if they don’t force it and its consequences down the throat of others. That’s what’s got me riled.)
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