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Ing-Ing .. ToadSpawn Appendix B

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ToadSpawn Appendix B

 

Ing-Ing is deceptively simple. Grok this fable and your life will be dna deeply changed forever.

 

for the solstice .. the sun:ing luckily being a verb, not a noun! 

 

Ing-Ing 
 

    Jolly Ing is one of the few elves left in the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />New World. You didn’t know there’d ever been any? Well, perhaps you don’t quite know it all after all? Ha. Ha.

    Jolly’s brother, Chortle Ing, Esq., Chort, for short, is known far and wide for dancing, romancing, and chancing.

    You have that dubious rational look I hate. Yes, I’ve met them myself or I wouldn’t be telling you this tale. They are my zards. Zards are a cross between wizards and bards who teach a lucky few the astonishing joys of Ing. Jolly Ing is 4' 8” tall, not as portly as Chort, but a stout fellow nonetheless. His face is a glossy beardless chocolate hue, his eyes a dappled forest-glade hazel, his hair as russet as a robin’s breast.

    The Ing are a guild of gerund folk who teach that all that exists, from a stone to a clown juggling four balls and a dinner plate, is a verb, nouns being only a convenience of language, not truth. It’s all alive, living, throbbing. I spell this out to appease your Rational Dubious Self. The Ings explain little and show much.

    To decide whether I was enough fun to be apprenticed, fluid and druid enough of mind, I had to spend days ing-ing. I had to put i-n-g on every word I thought and said. I-ing am-ing eating chocolat-ing for-ing breakfast-ing. Verb think. More rightly put: verbing thinking.

    As much as we might wish for a break, wish to just stand still, we can not. Living is an irrevocable process-ing. The sea ceaselessly sloshes. There is no way out, however persistently we pout. Y’may as well swim.

    You feel panic when you first learn the verbing lesson. The wild energy of life blows through you like a hurricane. Jolly Ing taught me how to get into the eye of my own hurricane, to feel the energy but not get blown over. After awhile the energy gets savory and comforting–just as you cannot stop, you also cannot in fact get stuck. You may, and many do, become brilliant at sequential stubbornness and serial sulks, but you actually have to work at it, it is not the universe’s natural modus operandi.

    Chortle showed me many of noun think’s evils, or stupid sadnesses as he called them. No plurals or collective nouns actually exist. No plurals or collective nouns actually exist. There are no giraffes — only one giraffe + one giraffe + one giraffe. There are no gooks, no men, no women, no ethnic blurs. Ah, betrayed again by my belovéd language. In truth, we must consider each one, one at a time.

    Jolly said that language is a splendid and useful tool as long as we do not imagine that it displays the truth. Here he would say to me slyly, poking me annoyingly in the ribs, “How fast you forget, my little turtle dove,” his hazel eyes glinting like a splash of sun off a pool in a forest glade, “Not truth, but true-ing!” He would guffaw. Chort, of course, would chortle. The Ings are certainly bloody exasperating. They did show me though how to feel the heartbeat in each living thing, its pulse, its scent, its flavor. They introduced me to the companionship of the whole world.

    It was at first daunting. Heeded, every thing had a story to tell. The world positively chatted, gossiped, jabbered at me. Undrugged by anything but air, I was drunk with stunning sensation, poetic overload. It also all writhed which was shall we say disconcerting. Jolly taught me to steady the writhing to a pleasing shimmer or radiance and to turn the cacophony tuneful. “Blink,” he’d say. Apparently the poets who go mad, stare — forget to blink.

    Afraid perhaps that the glory will go away, is a trick, a ruse, a lie. The Big Lie. They try religion, drugs, drink, anything to pry open the Door to Wonder. Jolly likes to say, “I am a lert — being a lert is all that’s necessary. Alerting.”

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6-21-05 1:54:52a.pdt.us  ../ 7 Light . Ahau . Flower  tzol 20 montues
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The Arsenic Of ReligioPatriotism .. ToadSpawn Chapter 4

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ToadSpawn, Be Gone! the Exorcizm of GeorgeBush From America's Soul, a blogovel 

 

” … a mad dickensian masterpiece of serial venom..”

 

(You can check pogblog's Glossary on the Main Page on left under Topics, as necessary)

 

<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />3:37:34a.pdt.us 06.13.05 12 The Road. Eb. Rattlesnake Tooth tzolkin 12 sunmon

 

Chapter 4 .. the Arsenic of ReligioPatriotism

 

    “Arsenic,” Myrth mused. “On Earth, about 120 years before the end of linear time in late 2011, women in England wanted a prized translucent-skin look, bluish, supernally, hauntingly perhaps necroishly nacreous, like fine porcelain. This eerie lucence was achieved by taking tiny doses of arsenic.”

   “You better remind our dear reader about the end of linear time before you finish up the arsenic story,” said Bleu. “Don’t be too alarmed, dear reader – or rather, do be alarmed, but be alarmed about the right thing. By the way, dear reader, how are you, you your very self this very hour? Treat yourself to something mildly wicked this 1400 minutes. You have 864,000 seconds in this daynight and they should preen and jolly you. Check out The Squirrels in ToadSpawn Appendixes if you need a tonic.”

     Myrth laughed, “The end of linear time. That’s a leitmotif of ToadSpawn Be Gone! Exorcize Mr. Bush. The Brimstoners would have you believe that it’s the ‘end of time,’ the ‘end of the world.’ Piffle. That’s Brimstoner cheap melodrama to keep the sheeps in the pews. Nope. It’s a sursurreal rollercoaster ride on Carnivale Earth, but it’s the end of the dominance of linear time, thru the neck of the hourglass into the jollier reaches of holospheric time. Or you might think of linear time’s having been the bud and holospheric time will be the blossom.

    “It’s vexing that you’re reading this just a few years before the blogovel technology allows your own name to appear where we say dear reader, but it would help if you could imagine that your name is also there when you see dear reader [dear reader Jamie; dear reader Jane; dear reader You] because ToadSpawn is one of the Handy Manuals for the coming time-rapids the Earth Adventure is going to go thru in the next decade. It will be funish or hellish depending on your preparation. It’s our job together to keep the 12ft tall Lizards from getting us down. Remember that Your Comments are ToadSpawn’s Appendix C! If you think you’re too shy or too technologically confused to join in, if you think you’re more comfy as a techno-wallflower, email pogblog@yahoo.com and she can get you situated with a Reader Account. We’re all in this together for fun or hell. Except for gratuitous attacks on the infamous Fuller, we know that pogblog prefers the fun option.

     “We’ll tell you more about ClownSchool InterDimensional along the way, but it’s one of ClownSchool InterD’s jolly jobs to get you to send your Inner Perfectionist on vacation to Fiji to chill out so you can take some perhaps small but significant steps in trusting and nurturing your own creative life. Your Inner Perfectionist should only whisper encouraging sweet nothings into your shell-like (ear), or you should fire that Inner Perfectionist and get a funnier, friendlier one.

    “So,” Myrth continued, “the fine ladies of olden times would take a grain or two of arsenic and with their skins so white they were tinct with blue, the arsenic ladies glowed all but radioactively. But – but there was a grisly price to pay for the slightest miscalculation: death. Similarly Religiousism and Patriotism must be taken in the tiniest doses or you will lethally poison your own consciousness — and often lay waste upon your neighbors.

    “Personally, I just avoid those arsenics entirely, but like any addictions, religiopatriotism is not just a fell morass muddying up the Wellies, but a mental and emotional quicksand which can suck you inexorably down and down. When you succumb to the adrenalins of religiopatriotism, the ground under you is not sturdy. You can find yourself hating a neighbor who embraces a different book. It’s a book! You can find yourself whooped up to kill folks in a neighboring nation. You can get your heart distances all screwed up. Compared to star M Dwarf Gliese 876, 75 trillion miles away, China is in the next room. Compared to the cold silent dust between the stars, anyone who’s heart beats is a brother. Light is colliding with you at 186, 000 miles per second – yet its illuminating impact is a caress of such complete sweetness that we welcome dawn, or we would welcome dawn if we hadn’t seen it in a year, with tears. Could we not touch each other’s hearts thus? Why not? If we grokked each other’s tentative, secret unbearable vulnerability, the fawn looking into the eyes of the wolf, should I not cascade you with honor? How not?

    “I myself do not have the ability to contain an iota of religiopatriotism without sliding into abstraction or division. My country. Your country. Only Jesus. Only Fill-In-The-Blank. Hungry Gods willing –or demanding – to eat dead children.”

        Myrth reached into the back pocket of her pink polka-dot jeans. She saw Quetzal glance at her tight levis and raise his eyebrows. “My little joke,” she shrugged. “Velv sent me an psymail for Chapter 4,” she said, and handed a shimmering paper to Quetzal to read out loud. Both he knew and she knew that she just liked to hear the sound of his voice when he wasn’t dueling. They spent most of their time dueling. Everything they did was fraught with assignation.

     “I fear 11/02 more than 9/11.” Quetzal read. “9/11 was a nasty day perpetrated by Insane Religious Zealots, IRZs. 11/02, the dismal day of the USofA Inc election is murkier, more hadal, perpetrated by IRZs blessed with armies, and marines, and air forces with dozens of death-wielding planes, helicopters, and tanks, instead of 3 commercial airliners, an unlimited number of molotov cocktail equivalents, rpgs, ieds, and IRZ suicidal youths willing to blow themselves to kingdom come, they hope, for 32 or 72 scantily-clad virgins, depending on which sect is making the offer. I’m not sure what our suicidal youth are willing to be blown up for (this is a third-rail topic), but as insane deals go, 72 virgins seems a more rational enticement to a 20-yr-old guy in heat than the old Big Lie, pro patria and a few strips of colored cloth mori. The hypnotic techniques are truly breathtaking. Boot camp, shave all the hair off (cf Samson), severe fraternity hazing, and the post-hypnotic suggestion is so powerful that people will kill for it and die for it. It’s satanic in sheep’s clothing.

    “Now, our side is noble — because we are better equipped to kill? What’s the equation here? What lethal mathematics apply? Once you’ve slipped inside the ‘It’s Not Murder, It’s War’ Bubble, you can ennoble hideous acts and excuse Gitgulag, and Abu and Bagram perversions. Our side, their side are both flayingly sad and vile.”

    Myrth shook her head and sighed, and they all four reached for the half-empty bottle of the USofA Inc export Sangre de Niños at the same time. “After you.” “No, after you.”

 

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6-20-05 2:06:30a.pdt.us  ….6 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird  tzol 19 sunmon

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Put An Icepick In Nice

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<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />le Bleu = the Blue out of which come the comets of ideas; see pogblog's Glossary for fuller definition;

 

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Put An Icepick In Nice   

 

    A friend whom I treasure as much as one might treasure one’s next-to-last breath or the sudden sight of the red bird in the dogwood tree just after one first learned the word scarlet – a treasured friend knows to a tedium how beowulfianally besotted I am with assonance.

    When you’re standing on a cliff looking down way across a beach at the froth of breaking waves, you can perhaps hear the concussion, that muted thunder of the waves. You climb down a steep staircase of many small steps to the beach and make your way across the sand. Now after a wave crashes, that lace of foam that slides up the beach purrs over the small pebbles in a glistening glissando that you couldn’t hear from back up on the cliff. It is that woven song of more intimate sound that is assonance, the echoy sweet nothings of vowel sounds that privately and with wicked whisper seduce you.

   Staccato consonance is the other wing of alliteration, the condor of sound whose high flight mesmerizes the reader.

    So when le Bleu dropped the condor feather, “Drive an ice pick into the right eye of nice” at pogblog’s feet this morning as she went to hand out little pogblog posters at a farmer’s market, the assonance seemed whipped cream on the meringue of the deliciously unpleasant sentiment. Drive an icepick into the right eye of nice.

    Beowulf, the ancient epic, was addicted to alliteration. It’s like in the Depression of the 1930s – you had to put all the sugar you had into the teacake to show your hospitality. Alliteration showed that the poet bothered, cared fully that you’d come to visit.

    Of course in the mid-late 20th century, like the harsh architecture – gods forfend you have a turret – any playfulness with the language was haughtily frowned upon. (I am sure Hemingway shot himself in metaphysical recoil at being forced by the fashion he created to write another corseted sentence in a writer’s world in which slutty decoration had become sin. That puritanical tyranny of enforced spareness was an aridity that parched poor Ernest in the end and death became preferable to the desolation.)

   Anyhow, pogblog has a good friend we’ll call Velv Eeta who has gone out in a nearby city carrying a Teach Peace sign every day since <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />October 9, 2002. Velv has guts in her own doggéd, eccentric way. She says that a vesuvial irritation out on the protest-hustings is that if you say something tart, least of all a remark flagrant with battery acid, one of these birkenstock people will say, aggrieved as if deceived, “How can you carry that Teach Peace sign and be so mean? You should be nice.” No, the sign doesn’t say Teach Nice, you tepid cow. I’m out here every day nudging people to quit letting their tax dollars be spent on blowing kids’ faces off. That’s the not-nice to worry about. It’s about bombs, triple imbecile, not the normanrockwellian horrors of being compelled to listen to Larry Whelk with you.’ Velv doesn’t say that but it runs through her mind.

   “I know it’s awful,” Velv told me, “but I find myself longing to give them a single swift jab to the nose just to wake them from their cottoncandy daze”    

    What cathartic solace may a pacifist have except the stiletto satisfactions of verbal violence? (From which, unlike the bombs thing, the victim may rise from the crypt in the storied three days to have a banana split or mow the lawn.) Niceness can be a vice.

   Actually, most people aren’t smart enough, full of care enough to be skillfully, jocularly mean. Vile as an excess of belligerent niceness certainly is, the bludgeon most amateurs wield as wit is even worse. But we’ll flay them another day. Let’s stick with the nazis of nice for this tutorial in the glories of assonance.

    So, my devilish darling dervish, let’s drive an icepick into the right eye of nice, and all manner of things will be well.

========

 

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6-18-05 7:59:39p.pdt.us  ….4 Earth . Earthquake . Heron  tzol 17 sat

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Memogate .. actions, &, horribly, hope .. new link

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<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 06.17.05 dawn //06.18.05 3:32a.pdt.us

   Gosh, pogblog is severely undernapped. Ended up staying up all night watching the Conyers hearings and doing actions re Memogate.

   I’ll tell you more later, but in a thimble, Memogate is the building effort to start a Resolution of Inquiry wherein the Big Lies of the BushWhackos leading up to the Unnecessary War would be examined under oath and with subpoena power.

  The “Memos” are minutes of  high-level meetings leaked by some Brit deepthroat. The key being that the Memos say in living print that the intel should be “fixed” to fit the policy – months before they claimed they made the war decision.

 

 actions:

 

Hit the e-pavement for a while and look for ‘conyers hearing’ news items. The more this stuff gets clicked, the higher up the food chain it’ll bubble. If you, as an example, clik News on Google Search page, put conyers hearing in the search box, hit enter, and you’ll go to that news.

——

06.18.05 I just revisted Michael's site.

The Michael Moore site is brilliant in so many ways. They have a place where you can send an email that goes to all your very own Senate/House reps. It's bloody magic. It allows you toinclude a Comment to them. Ye owls, it's terrific. Go there or be square!

http://www.michaelmoore.com/

My blurb:
John Kennedy was shot on my birthday. It *matters* to me that our country is honorable. We must shine light on the Big Lies that led us into <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq so we can get on with the single payer health care; multinational planet care; and a global human wage. (We should require by law that any elected official live on minimum wage and take public transportation for one week of every month of their term.)

 

Investigate the Downing Street Memos. Have the hearings in the basement room. Have them on the lawns in front of the Capitol if you must. (We should raise money online to help if necessary.) We must not be bamboozled by the Big Lies any more ever. Thank you.

““““““`

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

06.17.05

sign petition at

http://impeachcentral.com/ [Petition is on the left column of page, 4th button down.]

 

Contact your representative re impeachment also at http://impeachcentral.com/.

 

Here’s some contacts pog made last night.     

Democrats.com, the aggressive progressives

http://www.democrats.com/

Bob,

    I'm in California & still up at dawn. Oh, how I hate hope. I have hope this morning that Memogate may be the chink in the armor at LAST. And then we can get after a human wage; single payer health care; multinational planet care; & etc.

     I'm not sure I can stand the nerverackingness of hope. These 12ft lizards-in-human-disguise, as pogblog likes to satirize them, are so cunning. I thought nixon was bad; I thought reagan was bad. Nah, they were merely Minor League. These folks own menace. 

   Gosh I hope Memogate can get traction. THANKS for all you do. Stay strong.

pog  

===============

 

AfterDowningStreet.org — http://www.afterdowningstreet.org/index.php

Dear David,

I know you're swamped. I'll be quick.

   I'm submitting http://pogblog.myblogsite.com to join the AfterDowningStreet.org coalition.

   I suppose my biggest credential is that John Kennedy was shot on my birthday and that makes one profoundly political for a lifetime, trust me. Now I have that lifetime of experience as a grassroots political organizer, teacher of community tv, and political satirist.

   Pogblog supplies distilled good sense in an Absolut Venom mode. We supply a lot of Vitamin Irony and Vitamin Droll for the activist. Trenchant are us. There are political activists who need some comic fuel to keep their spirits bright. Tho brutally funny, pogblog is never cynical.

    I would love to join you. I think Memogate may be the chink in the armor at last. I have some very concrete ideas about progressives using community tv. But more on that later.

    Please enjoy the following vivifying confection from pogblog's Glossary:

LQ .. Lizard Quotient: If we say that Mr. Cheney’s LQ, or Lizard Quotient, is the platinum standard, a perfect 100, the Grand Imperial Lizard, the benchmark, then the rest of the Lizard Cabal ranks down in scalyness from that apogee.         

      When in the USofA Inc Nation, our Emperor George is defrocked in your insight, in her insight, in his insight, one by one we will see clearly that the ghastliness is that his naked scalyness is revealed. It’s like the Gorgon of yore, if you glance upon the unclothed Lizard, you may turn to stone. You will certainly be petrified. Better to keep your rose-colored glasses on. 

 

[This makes you queasy? Goes too far? What is far? Pogblog didn’t blow up any kids today on your behalf.]

====

Stay strong, David.

Thanks,

pogblog

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

pogblog@yahoo.com 

 
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6-16-05 7:49:03a.us.pdt  3 Owl . Cib . Vulture  tzolkin 16

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Is the Armageddon thing happened yet?

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“Is the Armageddon thing happened yet?”

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

On my way to pick up my meds (Tazo Organic <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Darjeeling Tea), I was at the edge of the sidewalk about to jaywalk across to Whole Foods when off to my left in the dimly streetlight-lit dark, I heard a woman’s voice ask someone, “Is the Armageddon thing happened yet?”

 

 ======

Well, there is nothing one can possibly say about something so sublime, so terrifying. But that’s never slowed down pogblog before.

 

1. It really happened, in a kind of cross between poe & kafka. I whirled whiplashilly to my left, agog, hearing my telltale heart beating in the night made crepuscular by the eerie strontium-vapor streetlight.  

 

2. “Is the Armageddon thing happened yet?” [sic]  Sic means ‘thus,’ implying that a mistake in the sentence just written is from the original deliverer, not a typo of the scribe. Sic should be put right after the offending part, but jeez, it makes it so yucko to read then. It's also supposed to be italized, but then so is the Catholic Mass. (Yes, I know you know about sic, but we’re trying to reach a range of folks not all of whom are among the arcane-minutiae zealots of English-language giga-elite.)

 

3. Suppose she was right, the ancient street mariner? Suppose the Armageddon thing has already happened and we’re just not aware of it yet, not aligned with the Shining Truth yet? Maybe it’s like that before Enlightenment ‘wash the rice bowl'; after Enlightenment ‘wash the rice bowl’ thing?

 

4. The gods are fond of this sudden icepick made of ice hit tactic. They murder you with an icepick made of ice. Then the murder weapon melts and you’re left with a small hole and terminally out of breath. This give them the usual deitific deniability.

 

5. Samuel Johnson, lexicon artist, one of pogblog’s mentors, drank 60 cups of tea a day. My guess is that tea in those days was ‘organic’ by default. Pogblog doesn’t slosh down 60, but probably 15. You can’t chaindrink that much milky tea if it’s some harsh stomach-dissolving crud. The Tazo Organic Darjeeling (teabags) is fine stuff. (Their own regular Black Tea is a battery-acid equivalent.)

 

5a. How can doornail Sam be pogblog's mentor? (It's that same tone and sneeréd curl of lip you use when you say, “Yeah, and I bet you've seen unicorns too!”)  Just because you don't do time travel and have ghostly guests doesn't in the slightest degree inhibit pogblog from same.

 

6.crepuscular sounds scary which is its overwrought irony-boosting purpose in the fablet, but means: like twilight or dim;

 

7. Maybe the Armageddon thing is past & we lived? We could let the patient people on the tedious Armageddon Watch go home to their famlies [sic]? We could just get on with the rest of Eternity after a restorative nap? Pogblog will cogitate on it for you.  

 

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6-16-05 3:20:12pm.us 2 Eagle . Men  tzolkin 15

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family values? piffle!

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    Good morning, ClownSchool, this today's topic is Corporate Porn in Sunland, now called USofA Inc. You should note this material under TheoFascism/USofA Inc.

    What should give you a Sign that the Reptilians are a different species is how remarkably serious and self-important they are

   If you study them in the social wilds, in their habitat like a herpetologist, their fanged tendency to strike out, to spew poison even is one of their most vivid serpental behavioral patterns. The Democrats, as mammals, are ill-adapted to respond in kind.

    The ViperLizards, the leaders of the lizardsnake pack, have a kind of lidless vigilance for offense, for being offended. The cheney viperiens (chay-knee vie-pair-ee-ens) species that dominates on the Eastern Seaboard and <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Midwest of the continent of Sunland, now usurped by USofA Inc, has a particularly virulent venom. These are very aggressive reptiles.

    But what is offensive, what is obscene is not a janetjackson duskybosom, but a version of competition run amuck, of accumulation so midal that the definitions of corporate porn have to be shockedly rewritten.

    I’d institute a salary cap because the present game is heading for ruin. It is in the interest of Greed itself, surprisingly enough, for the henryford dictum to be widely spread.

   First, under Clown Rules #1-#10, it should end up being fun (x 10), we get Clown Rule #11: Each person’s life is as valuable to her/him as yours is to you. Juan is not worth 30 cents an hour. He's worth what you're worth. You can screw him with conditions so onerous that he’ll endure the 30 cents an hour, but it ain’t right and you know it. While we’re still unimaginatively locked into a wage framework, we need to talk about a human wage not a minimum wage.

    This is really, in strictly economic terms, haha, as if there could be any such thing, directly related to the henryford dictum: pay your workers enough so they can afford to buy your cars. This is not some namby-pamby altruism, you pork-fed, slavering Fat Cogist who treats your poor (and I mean poor) workers like cogs and lunches on Filet of Worker. You could prosper instead of foiegrasing yourself, stuffing money down your throat until your liver bursts. 

    All of the gains we achieved in the 20th century to lift the lead-heels of the Cogists off the throats of the workers have to be fought for globe-wide. But we know enough now so we should instantly begin a basic Workers Bill of Rights in order to get imaginatively without the blood to where we would be in a coming century of blood. On PBS Global, in addition to the Nightly Business Report, there would be would be a Nightly Workers Report anchored by Paul Krugman and Jim Hightower and pog. We need to have a very smart global commission studying the integration of the several virtues of competition with the many virtues re happiness-pursuit of  a prosperous workforce.

   Get over shuddering about ‘failed communism.’ Take your meds, ViperLizards. We are now looking ‘failed capitalism’ right in its black eye. Get eclectic. Weave the best from all possible sources.

    //pogblog’s gotta run off and put out the new pogblog posters and buy Trader Joe’s keylime pie and Tazo Organic Darjeeling, upon which one can live, apparently. Can’t transcribe any more ClownSchool til later.

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6-15-05 12:58:53pm.us 1 Jaguar . Ix . Panther tzolkin 14

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LQ .. Lizard Quotient

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LQ .. Lizard Quotient: If we say that Mr. Cheney’s LQ, or Lizard Quotient, is the platinum standard, a perfect 100, the Grand Imperial Lizard, the benchmark, then the rest of the Lizard Cabal ranks down in scalyness from that apogee.         

      When in the USofA Inc Nation, our Emperor George is defrocked in your insight, in her insight, in his insight, one by one we will see clearly that the ghastliness is that his naked scalyness is revealed. It’s like the Gorgon of yore, if you glance upon the unclothed Lizard, you may turn to stone. You will certainly be petrified. Better to keep your rose-colored glasses on. 

 

[This makes you queasy? Goes too far? What is far? Pogblog didn’t blow up any kids today on your behalf.]

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<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />6-16-05 3:20:12pm.us 2 Eagle . Men  tzolkin 15

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living hog ..

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   There’s a difference between living large or even living hog — and living obscene.

    Arnold Schwarzenegger is very short, very orange, and owns nine SUVs. This is vile.

  Now, short is fine, all my best friends are short. But elevator shoes? He is deeply orange from all the years of ManTan use, one supposes. Or maybe it’s just his inner wickedness radioactively glowing? When you are summoned to his governor’s office for a meeting in the evening, you don’t go through the closed great ceremonial doors that the public would enter during normal business hours. You are sent down a hidden corridor, and there is short, orange <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Arnold, toadesque, behind his desk, lighted exclusively by hundreds of scented candles. (“Please don’t tell him you like the candles!” the cringing staff said plaintively before sending you alone to the eerie audience.)

     Nine SUVs – after the initial reeling, the mind collapses in a coma, a catatonia. One SUV is already grotesque. (Yes, dear reader, if you succumbed to the machomoronic SUV craze, this vehicular viagra, – this lapse of yours is the least cool thing you have done.)

    Living clown like pogblog may lean you precariously too near to living culvert, but some self-examination in consumer gluttony might not go amiss. (I’m not against indulgence. Butter is better. Belovèd Julia Child lived on butter –just not too much in any day.) Shame. People who drive an SUV should feel shame.        06.05.05

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For informed & only slightly politer rage, see

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/gate/archive/2005/01/07/notes010705.DTL

 

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06.05.06  4 Lizard  tzolkin 4 sunday 

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President George Bush — Tin Ear, Tin Heart, Tin Soul?

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Please note: Some names, dates, and non-essential details have changed to protect the innocent. Eveyone's innocent in this except BushCo.

 

    My friend whose only son, 28, was killed in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq one year and ninety-four days ago told me a story that I will never get my mind around, not ever.

    There was another woman I’ll call 'Jane Smith' whose son ‘John’ also had been killed in Iraq. Jane was in a group of families meeting with President George Bush.  Before the meeting, she had sent a long and anguished letter to Mr. Bush trying to describe the particular reality of her son, that he was not just a number, this complex and unrepeatable darling, daring life whose unique loss was unbearable to her. One of the details that she mentioned was that when anyone asked John how he was, he had this motto: he always said, “Life is good!”

   Eventually it came Jane’s turn to have an audience with President George Bush. He said that he’d heard that she had especially wanted to talk to him. As they talked, the subject of John's motto came up. George Bush leaned, as my friend described it, “right up in Jane’s face, way too far into her personal space.” And then President George Bush said, “How do you know his life would have been good?”

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Who, what, could possibly say such a thing to anyone? Least of all the President of the United States to a grieving mother who just buried her only son? I have spoken the essence of this ghastly encounter as starkly and unvarnishedly as I can.

    In the conversation, the Mother translated this as saying, “Your kid got killed on my lying watch, but his life probably wouldn't have been so hot anyway.”  “How do you know his life would have been good?” Chilling. 

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8 Rabbit . Lamat  tzolkin 8  06.09.05  2:30:54 am

ff

 

 

Speciation, a pleasantly nasty confection

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Speciation, a pleasantly nasty confection 

   You think the vile & violent must win, but belligerence becomes too dangerous and tediously wasteful, & some day quite soon we’re gonna collectively say, “C’mon, grow up, get over it, this paranoid merde de crapaud is a steaming, screaming bore. Take your meds!”

    Ask yourself if you’re really the same species as George Bush and Karl Rove? Suppose for every thousand, oh make it ten-thousand people they are directly responsible for having mutilkilled, they grew a saberfang or a wart-covered horn? So about now they each would have four saberfangs and seven wart-covered horns. If we could see the differences between you and BushRoveCheneyRiceRumsfeld, homo theofascistiens, you would know they were a new and malignant species.

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crapaud = toad in French; crah-poh;

 

05.31.05 12 Rainstorm . Redbird tzolkin 259 montues

1:18 pm

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