Category Archives: TOADSPAWN Appendixes

Political Meth and Crop Circles

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Political Meth and Crop Circles

 

   Now a lot of you political junkies are used to pogblog’s political meth so don’t get whiplash withdrawal here. The whole point of the political hyper-alert and super-zing of synapses is to end up with our pretty planet being more just and generous and cheerful, saving savagery for satire and Grand Theft Auto. So we can end up having lots more art and lots more sloth. The greatest sloth for the greatest number. At least that’s a part of my subtext. Integrate lucid waking and lucid dreaming and enter the holospheric future that’s coming whether we like it or not. Clutching onto linearity and excess-stored wealth will look quaint in 50 years. Invest across the multi-dimensional boards in any-&-every thing holo.You’ll get rich in all the ways that matter. Really. The linears lose.   

     I like to think you find the best political invective on the planet on pogblog – what some nice person called an alloy of platinum and plutonium — but it’s meant to be usefully ruthless, not just jerkoff self-indulgent. Analysis should be bloody fascinating to read as well as ice-pick piercing. We’re not giving up on scathe and flay til we have a bountiful minimum wage, more sloth, and stop calling nationally-sanctioned child mutilation in foreign countries ‘collateral damage.’

    Luckily unlike the Wretched Fevered Theofascist Opposition, we can chew gum and walk at the same time. So I hope pogblog’s earned enough linear cred from you to give this crop circle entry a one-time try before you clik out. I know you think it’s all crap. But suppose it isn’t? The inescapable point is, is that it is the most glorious modern art on the planet however it gets here. At least go look once and then decide. You can go look and come back here or read this to inform your looking. Scroll down to the middle of the Crop Circle Connector page and clik on early July.

    So unclench your brain and let’s think energetics. Wheat and barley and butterflies and you and me and parrots all store and transform the energy, the radiance, of the central sun. We’re nifty alchemists on the hoof (cloven for the Republicans) or on the wing or in our kernels. Humankind and humanunkind have stored more knowledge energy per unit than ever before in ourstory. Part of the all-but-weightless massive and magnificent patterned energy accumulation is in our memories of art.

      Sometimes on a very hot day you can go outside and feel the pressure of sun upon yourself. Sometimes when I go to the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Museum of Modern Art and stand stunned in the room with Thiebault or Klee or Miro or Rembrandt or a Michaelangelo Pieta, I feel the pressure of the art upon me. My all-but-weightless mind stuff is impacted, is alchemically changed and rearranged but not of stuff on a periodic chart, but a stuff none the less also real.  

     The crop circles are pattern-stuff-shifters. Now, you can be more conscious of what’s happening to your self-substance when you engage with art and crop circles, or you can piffle out. We haven’t got instruments (other than our own brains and skin &c) to measure this all-but-weightless interaction yet, but we can attest to it. If you haven’t gone and looked at a dozen crop circles yet, do it now or you’ll dwell in unswell ignorance because we’re going to take a quantum leapfrog here.

      Now that you’ve seen the touching and glorious crop circles and been frankly amazed and startled and less dogmatic (unless you’re dumb or zomboid), consider that these astonishing and simply huge works of art tweak your dna. By seeing them, your energy absorption capacities, you as capacitor as it were, are spatially enlarged. The way I like to think about is that you can absorb or discern more colors of blue, say. As the Eskimos have 25 words for snow, you in collaboration with your fabulous space suit can operate in more ranges of ‘colors.’ The crop circles are like hieroglyphs (oneiroglyphs really) that impress or tattoo or brand your energy self with an increased alchemy-aesthetic capacity. This isn’t trivial. It allows you to arrange and form and transform much more data. Hamburger data, icecream data (i.e. kinesthetically stable data); emotional data (a different frequency that intellectual data); cultural data; and so on. You’re being eased into becoming a more super-bio-computer than you already fabulously are.

     The crop circles are part of the keys of flame that are igniting a quantum jump in spherical consciousness. To glimpse this, imagine any crop-circle as a crop-sphere and let it zephyrically rotate around you or if that’s too big a spheric leap, imagine it outside yourself as if that particular pattern were gently shifting like a spherical kaleidoscope. That way you can get more used to flying around in the upcoming energy like a parrot instead of cowering underground eating roots and dead spiders like a Republican or a mole.

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WalktheTalk Solution to the daily hell of poverty

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WalktheTalk Solution .. ToadSpawn, Be Gone! Appendix T 

  

    My solution is simple. Let each paid elected citizen-servant from the president to the mayor live on minimum wage and take public transportation for one week of each month for the duration of their term. You’re too important? Nope. Don’t like it? Don’t run for office. (By the way, there won’t be any hoarding Samuel Adams for the WalktheTalk Week. You drink what you can afford that week.) Hard on the kids is it? Yeah, well.

    How fast do you think our leaders would change the minimum wage and the frequency of trains and buses? Yes, within a year society would be magically transformed. (We could always start with using that pesky $14000 a minute 24/7 we’re spending on the fantasy Missile Crackpot Scheme aka StarWars.)

   WalktheTalk Week. That’s the solution. Let’s gander at a snapshot of the problem. As of 07.22.05, in Ciudad Acuña, at the Alcoa maquiladoras (assembly plants), you make $1.21 an hour according to Bill Tucker’s report on Lou Dobb’s Business Show. You work six days a week. You may be lucky enough to live in a really horrible hovel instead of a refrigerator cardboard box. (In 1999, Mr. O’Neill, Alcoa’s ceo, who went on to become Mr. Shrub’s Secretary of Treasury until the neocons over-disgusted him, ‘had exercised $33 million in stock options beyond his $3 million salary.’)

    No one can live on the meager (emaciated) wages the actual workers make, but, God be praised, you can go across the river to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Eagle Pass, Texas and sell your blood for $45 a week for pin money. Alcoa says they are very “aggressive in cost containment.” Yep. Now, if you are a troublemaker and you don’t like this what-the-word-exploitation was invented for, they remind you that they can go to Honduras and pay the peasants there 65¢ an hour. Or Nicaragua for 41¢ an hour. And if they get uppity, there’s always Haiti for 30¢ an hour.

   The courageous work done by American unions in the 20th century which led to a greater middle class and the weekend has to be done all over again globally so the corporations which don’t give one fig seed about you, pilgrim, are forced to have a facsimile of a soul. A proto-soul. Requiring ceos to live on the lowest wage in their company and take public transportation for one week of each month, the WalktheTalk Solution, would fix things fast. Ideally your imagination should supply you with the empathy, but if not, the actual experience will treat you to a transforming insight. There is a direct relationship between your obscene heavenless eye-of-the-needle riches and the daily hell of their poverty. If it’s so acceptable, you do it. WalktheTalk.

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1 Cane . Ben . Reed . East  tzol 53  07.24.05 sun 8783§24d8h36m59s

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Chief Injustice Karlsputin Rove

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ToadSpawn, Be Gone! the Exorcizm of GeorgeBush from America's Soul 

Appendix K .. Chief Injustice Karlsputin Rove

   

    Et tu, Morford? Karlsputin Rove has tu too? I knew that the 12ftTall Lîzards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead Us had intimidated, paid off, or drugged almost all of us – but you Morford? This is an icepick in the eye. You write a salaciously delicious column ostensibly, almost erotically trashing Karlsputin – I felt like I should be wearing black leather boots to read it. It was swell. It was magnificent in moments. Wary as I am of even my own reflection in the mirror these fateful days, I was drawn in like the little bird following the trail of tasty crumbs. I felt safe.

     Even past little-bird-eating-crumbs-safe in my totem, I felt otter safe paddling gleefully in the oceanic elixir of your offerings of tsunamic comeuppance for the pinguid pipsqueak at bloody LAST. I was frabjousing in splashing joys. You were my Prince Felix Yussupov, the assassin of the original Rasputin, my assassin with the excaliber of ridicule, kill ‘im with unkindness, and I was all but on the wings o’ love, Morford¹, certainly a few feathers of devotion. I began to hear song again. I remembered butterflies.

       Oh brave new world, that has no spouse-trasher Karlsputin in it. No one to make Lee Atwater look like Gandhi. No one to play maggotball. No one to pushpoll, the insidious insinupolls that infamously felled Ann and John & Cindy. No one to Willie-Horton Max with sinister Saddam grim-picts. (Of course I suppose the reason why Karlsputin couldn’t walk in Mr. Cleland’s moccasins is because Mr. Cleland who did go to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Vietnam got both his legs blown off in combat and can’t wear moccasins any more.) No “double super secret” leaking to reporters to intimidate whistleblowers saying, “We'll even go past you to your family, Chuckles — When you choose to blow the whistle, you're not just risking yourself, but also your family. Wanna think thrice about it?” No more Mr. Rove, an official with zero scruple – with no scruple or ethical pebble in his shoe. Bete noir, be gone!

   I was skipping along the yellow brick road in ruby slippers. Maybe now we could quit spending $14000 a minute(sic) on the fantasy Missile Crackpot Scheme aka Star Wars. We could raise the minimum wage, offer universal healthcare, and all the other fair and lovely humane things that could be done by sane people undrugged by that potent hallucinogen, the drug-cocktail of religiopatriotism. Tra la tra la tra la. As I read your column, my heart opened trustingly like a flower, seeing the  Buenopia where things aren’t perfect, but are good enough for the pursuit of silliness.

   And then through your very pen, you Morford, ye gods, Karlsputin Rove struck with his terrible swift malice – there in boschian technicolor on the most gigantic inner screen I have ever seen while screaming was Chief Injustice Karlsputin Rove with his red and bulging little piggy eyes glinting in triumph at me, the necrotic glisten of his soulrot sweat increased by the weight of his judicial robes under which he, as we later heard from an attending clerk, wore nothing but a sequined solid-gold codpiece.

    He reached with his hell-slime tentacles even into your brilliant brain and made you a tool of his mad devices. I am now blind from that gruesome and clearly indelible sight – it is the last thing I saw before I was felled near to death, surely preferable to this vision now playing ever in the Times Square of my once-jubilant brain. Karlsputin always wins. His the evil the evil always outmaneuvers any hope or ebullience we might have mustered. Chief Injustice Karlsputin Rove. Doom’s thunder has sounded.

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¹Morford's terrific column America's Big Malignant Tumor

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04:26:44a.pdt.us  11 Dog . Oc . Wolf . North  tzol 50  07.21.05 thur 8783§24d8h36m59s

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General Ization . . . 4 Star Error

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    General Ization . . . 4 Star Error .. ToadSpawn, Be Gone! Appendix G

 

    Why is General Ization more horrible to the human experiment and experience than even the grotesqueries of fragment bombs and nerve gas?
    General Ization poisons the precious, possibly impeccable, unrepeatable daily life. General Ization is a pusher of lethal illusions.
    Metaphysics is the study of what is real. (Epistemology of how do we know? Ethics of what is good?) Generalization is a fundamental metaphysical failure of fact. Not one generalization actually exists. The secret revolting ugly rationales for prejudice all shatter on this reef. Contempt and disdain are bolstered by bold and glittering generalizations.

    The truth does lead to a stark, sweet humbleness. The truth is unbearable — and dangerous. But until we dare understand and act in the boggling, singular truth, our actions must be false.
    The truth is that there are no giraffes. No fill-in-any-ethnic-slur; no men; no women; no butterflies. There exists only one giraffe plus one giraffe plus one giraffe. No plurals actually exist. No group. All collective nouns are a convenience of the language, a sleight of hand, a legerdebrain. When we act upon them in prejudice or contumely, we act in as great an hallucination as if we had ingested synapse-tangling drugs. General Ization leads us hurtling off cliffs of patriotic propaganda or religious exclusivity or racial prejudice.

 

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the Ultimate Cult

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the Ultimate Cult

from Planet NU .. Numera Una

    The Planet NU awoke on <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />16 July 2005 in a planet-wide frisson of gossip and delicious palaver. The Planet NU was new. It was ashiver, it was agog. Jamie Hill Fuller was the toast of the town, the marmalade, the jam, the butter, the honey of the town – all the towns. Tetra String Quartet, “the best chamber music ever heard” had aired on Radio New Classiq at 11:00pm on Thursday 15 July 2005. Wars ceased. Peace grew like fleece on sheep.

   We’re all so used to the now-legendary cult of Jamie Fuller, like Elvis, on every lip, but this was when it began. Fun escalated. Ill will evaporated – poof, like a busted soap bubble. All human beings greeted each other, “From one human being to another, you’re pretty cute.” “Igualmente!” Heels were clicked, somers were saulted, sees were sawed, teeters were tottered delight reigned like rainbows, soft and colorful, impossible really, but magical and actual; dances were danced, romances were chanced.

   The hubbub and hullabaloo the morning of Friday July 16 made whales write new deep and more sonorous songs. Made everyone rich enough to be comfy and jolly.

   Because I had known Jamie Fuller ‘when,’ I was vouchsafed one of the rare interviews that this shy Cult Figure ever granted. I was enchanted. I mean, weren’t we all? It was clear that violinist Clyde Mills, ole Sly Eyes Clyde had stirred virtuoso lust in all the little ladies of the Planet NU, but Jamie Fuller with his milk-chocolate-colored eyes and bittersweet-chocolate cello playing slouchily stirred a ferocious fondness in the matrons and maidens.

     Tetra String Quartet acclaim spread across the Planet like psychic lava. Emergency rooms were filled with people who were dying of joy. Everyone remembered where they were when they first heard Tetra String Quartet, whose hand they were holding, whose ear they were nibbling. Widdershins and triple sixes were all the rage. All 666,666 tv stations played an outlaw tape of Tetra exclusively, 24/7, because no one would bear to watch anything else ever again.  

   All religions melted and merged and splurged into one gigantic choir of lovely and longing song. Planetary anguish was extinguished. For centuries Tetra was played on the Jumbotrons of all 30 baseball teams during all 162 games. Rightness was ignited. The Raiders always lost. The 49ers always won. We were all excited and delighted. None of us shouted loutily. None of us shouted or doubted or pouted anymore. We were free. We were glee. We were pagan and ebullient. We were freed from need except the need for song and for the Tetra String Quartet.

    Because we rode on magic carpets now, instead of gas stations on corners wee taco and burrito stations where La Bamba and Burrito Real competed benignly to provide us with al pastor and chile verde, subsidized with the money that had gone for the now universally seen as absurd Missile Nonsense system. Hedonism became the word to watch. Irony the only necessary vitamin. Flowers and lovers ambled amiably along rivers of sweet summery song. Tunes festooned the summer air. The moon sang too. Power to the peaceful became true and immediate and undeniable. ‘Laughter ever after’ began and ended all prayers – giving the deities a break from the previous endlessly needy whining which tended to have been the hallmark of praying on the old planet.

    Nine crows cawed in the surprising bliss of minor keys. Languorous levity kissed our cheeks like zephyrs. The Bartholomew Empire of Sloth Lazy Susan Company led the Fortune 500, which now became the Fortune 5 Billion because we learned how to share the 1644 million dollars a day saved from the disappeared military budget to subsidize absurdly generous grants for both wild and mild practical jokes. If you were funny or aspired to be funny, it was pretty much “Apply ‘n Get Money.’ Funny money for real, at last. All practical joked could also be deducted from your income tax.

    The sunlight poured over all of us like honey. How sweet and complete we became. All full of quirky mischief. There was no margarine after the Tetra String Quartet, only butter.

 

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02:21:11a.pdt.us  6 Serpent . Chicchan . East  tzol 45  07.16.05 frisat

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9/11 Horrible Truths UnVeiled ..

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9/11 Horrible Truths UnVeiled .. ToadSpawn, Be Gone! Appendix 11

 

mon su garplum,

   Serious rabbitholeism. Finished Jon Ronson’s Men Who Stare at Goats & realize how staid I have been, Riffie. If you’re ever worried anywhere along the line that you might be mad, fret not my most dear, we’re not nuts, we’re just cute, sexy, and quaintly eccentricky.

   These folks are nuts. We aren’t even on the charts. These neonutcons & their ilk & servants have sprung every sprocket. The stuff I don’t make up, their stuff ranges between spooky and terrifying on the Sprung-Sprocket-O-Meter.

   The day began with a big banner on the top of the Frisco Chronicle (on the front page!) saying Lîzards in Your Backyard. Vrai — I swear it's true. (LIMBY). Now, that’s fun but exceedingly maybe even scarily synchronissimo since I've been writing so much lately about the 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead Us. Late evening I mis-timed (so I thought – or was I just guided by Unknown Forces) when the new show 30 Days was on, so was surfing and landed on CSpan Beach idly at first listening to David Ray Griffin who’d written a book triple-snoringly titled 9/11 Commission, Omissions, Distortions. Mr. Griffin was a mousy-looking theologiany emeritus professor at <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Claremont College I think. He could not have been less of a firebrand, axgrindy kind of guy. Dishwater is Dom Pérignon to this frayed tweed gent. Gray on gray. At first glance of listen, he was tediously and monotonily listing errors of the 9/11 Commission.

     It was only slowly that an invisible hand of disbelief and horror began to tighten the strangle around my neck and every rasping breath and every creak off in the kitchen became as distinct as of your rabbit heartbeat when you smell the tiger, see the dread glowing eyes poised three feet from paralyzed you in the forest of the night. Or — the flood of fear-water rose slowly as he spoke. I was lying in the comforting and familiar squalor of my dear couch with the wages of  professional sloth tumbled about me – half a glass of milky black-tea; an indigo blue plastic bowl streaked with traces of Ben & Jerry’s Magic Brownie Vanilla & Raspberry Swirl IceCream on the floor; another dark blue plastic bowl (these wonderful plato’s ideal-bowls are my ‘china’ set) streaked with traces of Trader Joe’s Key Lime Pie. Silver Lucy Furr and bittersweet-chocolate-colored Rowan yin-&-yangily curl together on their special cat heating pad to the left of my head on the ‘shelf’ of the couch back so I can have them as close as possible to me. The myriad artifacts of our howling hilarity yours & mine, our wry mischief happily clutter my heart. All these familiar things become more luminous as Mr. Griffin slowly turns up the darkness.

        Either Mr. Griffin is a complete lunatic or I am completely naïve. The gist follows in my translation: Those Lîzard Pustules, the neonutcons, have a megalomaniacally inflated notion of the Absolute Rightness of their Versions and Visions. They are hellbent upon the establishment of American complete Global Domination. America (by fiat of God as a subtext) is the last remaining superpower left standing. In order to weaponize space, the real goal of the otherwise Fantasy Missile Nonsense project, huge funds are needed, which the fat, happy budget surplus left by Clinton and a prosperous citizenry will never provide and permit.

   An actual neonutcon document of 1999-ish requires a “new Pearl Harbor,” a Pearl-Harbor-equivalent to mobilize the citizenry to allow the Gigantic Sucking of funds and the bestowing of Emperorhood upon the Presidency, granting the Appointed and Anointed by God clearances to do whatever they deem necessary (from war to body-cavity searches) sans consultation except with said God.

    The veneer of, the facade of democracy – well, they barely bother to maintain that any more. The populace is so bovine that the Lîzards hardly have to even pretend the trappings of democracy anymore. Even the sheeps who think the occasional non-lock-step thought don’t do anything, don’t quantum it up to write a letter to the editor, give $10 to MoveOn,  clik on michaelmoore's site and send a letter to their Congress people out there. The natives are not restless enough to disturb the slurping of mint juleps on the veranda of the new-slave-holding Lîzards who have us all in thrall, all in invisible fetters of fear and consumer-drugged apathies.

   They cruise in the juggerHummers along the yellowbrick highway to Global Domination and the occasional pogblog is roadkill and the rest of the sheeps have long since had their baaas surgically removed.

    Mr. Griffin showed point by gray point how the Demolishing of the World Trade Centers buildings was irrefutably arranged or allowed as a New Pearl Harbor by the 12ftTall Lîzards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead Us Cabal.

   In order to understand how we are so deeply duped, you need to know about RaceHorse Haynes; Ralph Reed, Karlsputin Rove, and the Mechanism of the Big Lie; and how an Incredibly Smart Woman like me was taken in by a pathological gambler for 15 years.

    First, here are some of the slithery details. The maneuver that led to the inexplicably light hit on the Pentagon could never have been performed by the putative one-way pilot of Flight 77. Only deliberately planted, designed-demolition explosives could have collapsed the three buildings in New York in the manner that they fell. A Secret Service not-in-on-the-game would never have allowed the POTUS (president of the united states) to sit unprotected in a second-grade classroom for 10 minutes. How did the Secret Service know that the very well-publicized photo-op Florida school event would not be also targeted by terrorists – if they didn’t know? High officials are always instantly bundled off to undisclosed safety at the first whiff of danger – tackled if necessary. The Secret Service is in instant and complete and legal control. Unless there was a deliberate stand-down, the Pentagon is the best protected building on Earth and there is zero way that a plane gets through those myriad missiles which ring the Pentagon and the 24-hr-on alert fighters &c.

            How are the naïve, thee & me, so easily duped? Well, there’s the RaceHorse Haynes Factor. 30 years or so ago, I was watching the Dick Cavett Show, like Larry King, but smarter, wryer. It’s important to this fable, this parable to remember that Dick Cavett had a Tom Sawyer, boyish, good American lad appearance. RaceHorse Haynes was a dashing famous superlawyer of the time. He was from Texas and oozed charisma by the bucket. One was, as I’m sure his juries were, spellbound. The shocking, nay shattering, point he made that has stuck with me all these years came when he said, “Dick, if you had murdered – minced —  your sweet old granny, I could guaranteed get you off in spite of ironclad evidence. You do not fit the unconscious inner picture that each juror has of what a murderer must look like. To them, you look too handsome, cute, baby-faced, blue-eyed to be a killer.

    “On the other hand, this gentle soul who has never so much as bruised a fly, if he has a certain dark and creepy look, they’ll convict him every time on the flimsiest evidence or no evidence.”

     So Karlsputin Rove and Ralph Reed and George Bush don’t look evil to the casual observer. And even Dick Cheney sounds all but irresistibly avuncular in person, so they say.

   The reason the Big Lie works on us sweet sheeps so effectively is that the words are spoken in the Form of Truth. (Like the demeanor of killer, we think we know what lying looks like.) I thought repeatedly for 15 years that my pathological Gambler friend was redeemed, cleaned up, telling the Truth this time because if I looked and acted like that, I would be telling the truth. He tells a seamless Lie better than I tell the truth. You believe the bastards because you’re not a bastard. (Well, you’re not that kind of bastard, dollface . .)

   Cynicism is not the response, tho it grows daily more flypaperly tempting. Alertness is. Trust but verify.

   What worries me now is the New Pearl Harbor booster-shot. (Note that this was written on July 4, 3 days before the London bombing but I didn’t send it because I was So DamnMad at You for not grunting at my latest droll email.) Clearly their Crying Wolf and the 'We’ll be greeted as Liberators like in the streets of Paris at the end of WWII' (dubya dubya 2) – the New Streets of Paris gambit – is wearing off. You beat the Fear Drum long enough and people just learn to live with that level of Fear. It’s clear we need a booster-shot of New Pearl Harbor. Remember the Enron-summer 2001, the Shrub poll numbers are being defoliated with the agent-orange of Enron/World Com. Boom.

   I’m worried that the pavlov’s-doggism — ‘beat the 9/11, New-Pearl-Harbor fear-drum’ and we’ll roll over for more narrowing of rights and stupid foreign wars and $14,000 a minute being spent on the fantasy Missile Nonsense — is wearing off in the citizenry. We aren’t drooling on cue and wagging our tails in time to the Star-Spangled Banner. The ied’s red glare and the rocket-propelled grenades bursting in air are smelling a tad too acrid for us to ignore even tho we aren’t allowed to view the star-spangled-banner-draped coffins forever silent of song.

     The “New Pearl Harbor” vaccination of fear is wearing off; I dread they will think we require a booster-dose in the ides of July or of August. Before or after the Supreme Court confirmation fight?

    Ye owls, mon prune de sucre, Mr. Griffin’s thesis was a growing chill hard to describe. I kept thinking I can’t really be hearing this not as an Something Awful joke. The chill seeped through my flesh, through my bones, into my marrow as if in the presence of something so undeniably not-mammal, not-Earth-born. On this one, I feel dropped down the rabbit-hole nothing but net.

   I bazookaed the info at the Housemate who went to his morning coffee folk who said, “You didn’t know that?”

   The amount of time the FAA and the Air Force had to react after the first plane was hugely more that the time that they have reacted 100 times a year to much less compelling alerts, not the once-in-the-last-two-years the 9/11 Commission claimed.

   Anyhow, wolfcake, there seem to be two main hypotheses still standing. I have been naïve, gullible, and ill-informed. Or Mr. Griffin is a lunatic full of crap.

   Well, they lied about the Gulf of Tonkin; they lied about the Maine; they lied about the WMD; and we should always remember what they did to Max Cleland. Max Cleland lost three limbs in Vietnam. Baby-Face Rove and Baby-Face Ralph Reed ran 200,000 Large bucks worth of tv ads with Max Cleland’s ‘mug-shot’ next to Saddam Hussein’s ‘mugshot’ – they nailed the traitor coonskin of Max Cleland to the Saddam Hussein wall and defeated him in the Georgia Senate race. They have no scruple, not one. No ethical pebble in their shoe. At least if you’re Already-Born.

   You in the juggerHummer’s path on the yellowbrick highway to Global Domination, you bug on the windshield or you roadkill, but you splat, and that’s that.

 

toujours et un jour, ami de ma vie

     o7.o4.o5  7 cane .Ben . Reed . East tzol 33 sunmon  2:34:02 a.pdt.us

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Visions of Karlsputin Frogmarching in My Head

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  Visions of Karlsputin Frogmarching in My Head 

 

   I long for someone in the Administration to out or plame Karlsputin Rove as the mastermind of pushpolling in Texas to insinuate that Gov. Ann Richards was a lesbian; and in the South Carolina primaries to say Mr. McCain was the father of a ‘colored baby’; and also past disgrace to disgusting having destroyed Max Cleland’s career by suggesting that he was ‘soft on Saddam Hussein’ with $200,000 of advertising in Georgia.

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

   Mr. Rove is an official with zero scruple – there is no scruple or ethical pebble in his shoe. Of course I suppose the reason why Karlsputin Rove couldn’t walk in Mr. Cleland’s moccasins is because Mr. Cleland who did go to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Vietnam got both his legs blown off in combat and can’t wear moccasins any more. 

 

   You might object hither & yon that my acid remarks about Mr. Rove are ad hominem— but that would assume he was hominem rather lizardem. Anyone who euphemizes dead children as ‘collateral damage’ is lizardem to me.

 

I’m going to sleep with visions of Karlsputin frogmarching in my head. I  long to spring from my bed to see what is the matter. Away to the CNN I fly like a flash, I clik the remote and throw up the sash. And finally my teeth end their 5-year gnash, For Karlsputin’s being frogmarched Across the White House Grass.

 

Sometimes hallucination get you through the night . . . America’s dark night of the soul. 

 

 

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Planet Asylum .. hissing disbelief

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

hissing disbelief .. rabbit:blackhole help!

    I’ve been toying with the notion that Ï might be going a tad mad? Staring at Goats? Overwork? Not enough oxygen down the rabbit:blackhole? Too much heat on my melon? Forget that noise. I am as sane as a water jug. I am as sane and placid and sturdy as a plain apple-green water jug. I am very sane — and ëxtrëmëly naïve.

    What I’m trying to say if I could figure out a way to say it is that you & me are boringly normal, reassuringly ordinary and familiar rather like a pair of comfy old slippers. Thêse Lîzard people, on the other hand, are hurricane insane, teeth-chatteringly, eyes-bulgingly, skin-crawlingly insane, Category 5 when all the roofs blow off. They are disguised as human beings. They are not. This is what trips you up, takes you in.

    Where to start on today’s Lîzard Exposé? Steinbeck, I suppose. I had this starry-eyed notion that art is cathartic, that artists might be brutish, nasty of word and of plot to make an icepick point or two, but that in actual life, they are at least bittersweet and rather roly-poly of soul, like me.When I found that Steinbeck had been writing LBJ to suggest even more excellent ways of maiming the enemy, I quailed. It’s 1984-&-½ — the rats are chewing off your face.

    These particular fricots are from the July 2005 Harper’s Readings, passim pp.13-28. (Do subscribe to Harper’s – it’s not a Rock of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Gibraltar, there’s no ground left; but it is a raft in the seething Sea of Crazy.)      

    In the Galactic Councils when they consider lifting the Cosmic Quarantine of the Planet Asylum(as we are known), the Wise Old Turtle from Antares always — rather wistfully actually, he always longs for redemption – says one word, “napalm,” and they pass onto the next agenda item. Mr. Steinbeck, says LBJ to McNamara, writes him “from time to time . . . with an imaginative flair for war and its weaponry.” Oh good, that’s what that lambent gift, the imagination has been given us for: “What I suggest is a napalm grenade packed in a heavy plastic sphere the exact size and weight of a baseball.” A napalm grenade. “There isn’t an American boy over thirteen who can’t peg a baseball from infield to homeplate with accuracy. And a grown man with sandlot experience can do much better. It is the natural weapon for Americans.” He proprietarily and proudly dubs the napalm grenade, “the Steinbeck super ball.” Let’s ‘peg’ some napalm. I swear to gods, my synapses can’t take this boschian¹ stuff.

    I’m not telling you this to torment your reeling mind so much as to remind you to rejoice in your relative normality. I may be eccentricky, but I don’t even think about pegging napalm grenades, so in this equation I can be considered wise enough to say a thing or two.

   Ǿ So let’s proceed down the rabbit:blackhole of Malice in Wonderland.  Paraphrasedly, some European military intelligence reports say that some American physicians in Iraq are “extracting human organs from the dead and wounded. … The Europeans have noticed the absence of organs from the cadavers dealt with by Americans and have reported to their commanders, who instructed them to maintain silence and to avoid discussion of the subject due to its gravity.” The absence of organs from the cadavers. “Iraqi guides to dead and critically injured individuals are paid $40 for every usable kidney and $25 for an eye.” As a commentator remarked, “Y’might as well save them American rich people. A life is a life.”

  Ǿ From Kuttab al-Battar, a jihadist online manual, Exercise 3. “Suppose you are with the mujahedeen in the Philippines, and you are in the jungle, starving, with nothing to eat. You see a bright, colorful frog. Will you feel forced to eat this frog? Or will you waive this appetizing meal:)? Mention why it is possible – or impossible—to eat this frog. Answer: This frog cannot be eaten. Colorful frogs and very big frogs hiding on dry land are poisonous and must not be eaten. If you eat it, you will go to hell:). Better to stay thirsty than to drink poison only to wish your thirst and yourself farewell:).” These are the first smiley faces I have ever allowed out of my typewriter – have the courage of your convictions I say, don’t try to soften the blow – but the quirk of their being used here is so sublime that I couldn’t edit them out.

  Ǿ From Kathmandu, Nepal where unrest is ratcheting up,  “Clean socks command respect in our society, for there are very few indices by which we can measure prestige. The people living in impoverished districts cannot afford socks. They are a heavenly luxury.” Socks are a heavenly luxury and us oft-spoiled Amuricans ought remember that.

  Ǿ  Another tidbit mentions Wagner saying in essence that “the pursuit of power destroys love and leads to degradation and downfall.”  This relates to Mr. Griffin who exposes 9/11 complicities saying that we usually misquote the “Power tends to corrupt; absolute power corrupts absolutely.” The ‘tends to’ is deliberately missing from the second clause.

   Ǿ Now, my favorite soupcon from this Readings Section of Harpers July 2005. 68 million Chinese people who belong to the Communist party were asked to reflect on their short and strong comings online. (Hmmm, an interesting idea in a, er ah, democracy, no whoops I mean a communist country.) There are two I want to tell you, the second of which I’ll do a whole article on soon.

   § “I don’t take the pain of the people to heart. I don’t try to feel the will of the people. In March a migrant from the Three Gorges area asked me to give him a special permit to recycle scrap metal. Even though he had already come to see me four times, I still used all sorts of excuses to get rid of him. My determination to serve the people wholeheartedly was not strong enough.”

   § “I found it more practical to be humane, to give my staff higher income and benefits, and to solve their problems with housing, employment, schooling, and health care, than to talk about the usefulness of Communism.”

   I would only change a single word: “I found it more practical to be humane, to give my staff higher income and benefits, and to solve their problems with housing, employment, schooling, and health care, than to talk about the usefulness of Democracy.”


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¹ Hieronymous Bosch .. see pogblog's Glossary (left sidebar) and clik for illustrative pict.
 
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“I Take My Stand With Satan Today” — Toad Spawn, Be Gone! Appendix L

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Toad Spawn, Be Gone! the Exorcizm of GeorgeBush from America's Soul,  Appendix L

 

I Take My Stand With Satan Today

 

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6-24-05 12:38:25p.pdt.us 10 Hearth . Akbal . Night  tzolkin 23 fri 

Digrif mon chair, 

   I just read in the June 27, 2005 New Yorker p. 47 that these previously home-schooled students who enroll at Patrick Henry College, a feeder school for future 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings Reptilian Party congressional interns and politicians of our “Christian Nation,” have to “sign a ten-part statement of faith, agreeing that, among other things Hell is a place where ‘all who die outside of Christ shall be confined in conscious torment for eternity.’”  

    At that exact mo-ment it was decided by Le Bleu et moi that my cat-friend, the Stunning-Rulerette-of-Milky-Way and Bealach na bó Finne (Way of White Cow/Irish) and Umthala(Zulu) and Marin Shimbireed (Way of the Bird/Somalia) and caer Arianrhod(Castle of the goddess Silver Wheel/Welsh) and Ngân-hà(Silver River/Vietnamese) – that my cat-friend’s nom de purr is Lucy Furr from henceforth. I take my stand with Lucy Furr and with Satan (<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />1:04:07p.pdt.us) now.

     'All who die outside of Christ shall be confined in conscious torment for eternity'? How do they come up with this stuff? Conscious torment? No naps?! They are going d.o.w.n. You heard it here first. Grenade Girl and Lucy Furr are ON the case!! I no longer breathe air; I breathe brimstone(S16/3206). Let's romper et rumbler! Both sides can play with this conscious-torment game. Conscious-torment this, ScalyOnes.

 

Friend Fuerta says I'm [dangerously] “messin’ with their denial structure, girl.” Yeah, I'm going after their deep denial structure, with weapons of cold irony, my favorite and only cher Ub. They shouldnae hae messed wi' me, Riffie, what was a lil ole Southin' gal like me to do? Pass the smelling salts.

 

Digrif, ami de ma vie, pour toujours et un jour,

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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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