The Master Sign

Today's tidbit from the Poetry Bag may strike you as an obscene bag of snot. If so, a possible reason could be that that is exactly what it is!

On the other hand, I could claim that it was an "artistic experiment"!

Jeeze, that makes at lest as much sense as the Codpiece's latest definition of "success" in his "democratization experiment" in Iraq. Comparing Iraq to Israel, he now says that success doesn't mean the bad guys don't get off a bomb now and then as long as you can reply with strong forcefulness...

First of all, this makes success against insurgency sound like a game of "Smack the Mole"!

But worse than that, in Israel, most of the country is secure. In Iraq, it sounds like the Codpiece is saying that a secure Green Zone would be called success as long as you can bomb the shit out of any other place in the country where there is resistance to the Occupation, bulldozing the occasional residential for special effect.


I

It was built by Jackoff Jerry of the jam at Sears and Roebucks.
Full of see-thru underwear, it was the first choice
of choosy creamers everywhere.

As squiggles of delight jut across the nighttime skies;
images of panties and bras flash by -- but screams
are heard when the batteries run down...

The Rubber Grubber Lover Machine -- it's price tag alone
was declared to be so obscene, it was strictly forbidden
to even mention it in public!

As life became a desperate struggle to just get ahead,
young degenerates of every color and creed turned to
New Ways to find the sweetness they craved...

II

It was then Johnny Endpull drove into town in his battered, brown Buick.
His clothes were strange, as if they were "log cabined" from hundreds
Of "dirty-clean" handkerchiefs.

He was enema enemy of all hard-core azzholes everywhere,
and one of the few professional reusable ass-wipe
cleaners left in the "free" world!

What he was doing in Poosah City is anybody's guess!
Was he looking for a "quick-trick"? It was hard times for "his kind"
since the days of Rubber Grubber stickiness!)

In these times of Tortilla Madness, your guess is as good as mine!
Perhaps he was sweetly dreaming in nostalgia of
the long, lost love of his youth:

When he carried everywhere a bag of raw chicken liver.
"It's in the bag!" he used to giggle in his strangely, cracked voice,
spittle dripping from his chin...

His eyes were glazed for seven days when he lost his liver lover!
He'd gone to see a movie and all he ever found was a box
of brutally crushed, hot-buttered popcorn!


III

When the Poosah City Police spotted him with a carport canary,
They shouted, with flashing badges, "What! Are you doing it here? Again!"
Then they smashed he phone-booth he was in!

The indignant cries could barely be heard above the clanking sounds
of the steam-powered pooper-scooper used to crush the booth,
lifting it high into the air...

"We don't want your kind in town! You're leavin' in ten seconds -- flat!"
They had to shout above the roar of citizens who came
to applaud the Poosah City Police:

They held their nose shut with one hand and pinched their lips with the other,
They blow and blow and blow until finally the head explodes, and brains
are spewed high into the sky.

The chunks of meat rain down like the sound of the Mississippi mud
crawling from the river bed, craving revenge for the insults
of centuries of careless shitters...


IV

(They think they know, but all they know is how to drive to the corner,
grab some groceries and drive back to the house with arms full
of parcels, packages and tainted treats.)


V

Who writes the words on bathroom walls, composing the dirty sheet?
Whose the will and whose the need fulfilled by all of these
orchestrated obscenities?

The flashing neon lights proclaim the latest lines of
"Beat your meat!"; "Cheat your mom!"
"Eat some helpless creature!"; and
"Heat a fixture for a flaming finish
to the pain of being smart!"


VI

What the hell is going on, what on earth is really happening?
Why are these pearls precious being so casually thrown
at the feet of the Beast of Mud and Cream?

(Madness beckons!
Bony fingers, half-eaten by ants, then
mercilessly jammed into a rancidly juicy ham-hock
wiggle like strangulated hernias!)

They lie, they lie -- they all lie for the sake of putrid garbage!
Their only claim to fame is a fart they made in the Mind of Man!
I repeat: garbage and foul farts!

Some do it for pay and some for free and some for the mad joy
of being on a drunken spree. They clear their whiskey throats
and slyly stroke their sacred goat...

My stomach turns as I turn off the news
and yearn for an easier way to throw up!

VII

But who can say there was a better way to snatch the glass
of burning wax from the shadows, from the glades of shade
into a Better, Brighter Day?

The Master Mark, that which makes us stand apart,
pearl, upon the garbage heap: is the ability to win
the darkness for the day -- to wring victory from defeat!

The Highway of Life

[All this talk about genes the past couple of days reminded me of this pretty little ditty.

It's from around 1980, I think, when I realized I took a wrong turn somewhere and was never going to realize any of my dreams. So, I had to find some dreams I was capable of realizing...

We are all like busy little bees, buzzing around and, whether we will know it or not, we are all headed for eternity. In the end all that you do and all of your dreams "wear out your only pair of jeans". Before you ask, yes, the puns you may think you see are intentional...]


Going down the Highway of Life,
you find, sometimes you have to choose between
two courses, the results of which
are not obvious to you.
It's a fact, all that you do
wears out your only pair of shoes!
How strange -- but true!
All that you do wears out your best and only
pair of shoes!

When you see that busy little bee
fly around the cherry tree, you see:
she don't know where she's going, but
she's gonna get there because she's a bee!
It's a fact, all that you see
is headed for eternity.
How strange to be
that busy little bee and be headed for
eternity!

Going down the Highway of Life,
you find sometimes you have to lose the dream
that you thought you could never live without
or, at least, so it seemed.
It's a fact, all of these dreams
wear out your only pair of jeans!
How strange, it seems
all of your dreams wear out your best and only
pair of jeans

An Iraqi Wildwood Flower...

I hadn't thought I'd be continuing yesterday's theme about the so-called "criminal gene" and how it can be "triggered" by abuse, violence and other trauma in childhood.

Not only will I be continuing, I won't be able to confine myself to the Third Galaxy. It seems that events there continue, with increasing strength, to spill over into our world -- to tell you the truth, I'm afraid someday there be a Rupture between these parallel galaxies...

I'd been doing some translating for my wife and sat down to with a new guitar I got the other day and started playing Wildwood Flower. After all these years, I still haven't learned the words, so I googled up the Carter Family lyrics and started singing.

It went pretty well, but the second time around, I got so choked up I couldn't get the words out of my mouth, I had to stop playing to stop the hulking.

So, instead I went to see what Tom Tomorrow might have up and I ran into a 13 year old girl with walnut colored eyes and long brown hair -- her name is Marwa and she is an Iraqi Wildwood Flower.

She has been living in an orphanage in Baghdad since her parents were gunned down in front of her eyes but masked gunmen who broke into the house a couple of years ago.

You really should go read Tom Tomorrow's take on this and the entire article in WaPo, but here is a money quote:

With our limited resources, the societal impact is going to be very bad," said Haider Abdul Muhsin, one of the country's few child psychiatrists. "This generation will become a very violent generation, much worse than during Saddam Hussein's regime [emphasis added]

If you got an inkling of what I was trying put across in yesterday's post, you'll break down hulking somewhere along the way just like I did.

"Any one who harms one of these little ones might just as well take a
millstone around his neck and cast themselves into the sea" -- the Holy Idaho

The Crime Gene

In the Third Galaxy, before Ronald Rexona became the Supreme Hole of Arrogance and the more or less absolute ruler of that poor world, there was a lot of discussion about the "criminal gene".

The short story is that there had been found a statistical correlation between certain gene variants and the kind of behavior called "criminal".

Depending on their agenda, people referred to these gene variations as "bad", "defect" or simply "criminal" genes. However the information about gene variations had to be correlated with such things as neglect, abuse and malnutrition in childhood before a real statistical correlation could be found.

The public discussion addressed the actual scientific validity of these findings, but, the debate was more heated regarding what kind actions should be taken, if any*:

Should children with such genes be singled for special treatment so that the gene was not "triggered"?

Should they be incarcerated before they could go bad and cause harm?

Should they simply be "put down" like mad cows?

Should adults with such genes be allowed to produce children in the first place?

Or should we simply ensure that general good living conditions for every little girl and boy was the accepted norm?

For my money, I figured that they should have checked the genes of people who become dictators like Ronald Rexona and megalomaniacs like his evil companion, Mr. Snarly. Perhaps they could have decided not to ever let such people have the power of life and death over nations and even the entire Third Galaxy.

I know that maybe sounds a bit farfetched or even slightly crazy, but the fact is Rexona was pretty good at clearing out underbrush with a bush-whacker and Mr. Snarly, although not a first-rate telephone linesman, he wasn't bad at the job either.
________________
* Unlike our own world, there had been a terrible history in the Third Galaxy of violence, pogroms and even extermination of people of the wrong race or with "tainted" or "inferior" blood.

Let's Roll out the Barrel...

Even as the insurgents we fight in Iraq: the Sunnis, the Shias, the Salafis, the Baathists, the Takfirs and, yes even some Kurds and a few foreign jihadists -- all these people have suddenly, as if by magic, mutated into "Al Qaeda".

Every dead body found that doesn't wear a uniform now, as if on cue, morphs into a dead "Qaeda" terrorist with Ahsawyah been Lately's telephone number in their pocket.

Meanwhile: the House of Representatives passes a Resolution condemning Iran for "aggresively pursuing a clandestine effort to arm itself with nuclear weapons" passed, I say, by a vote of 411 to 2!!! [sound of hand slapping forehead]

Meanwhile, almost unoticed, a third carrier task force steams towards the Persian Gulf, while a fourth is being considering for deployment to a place nearer the Red Sea.

These and other things taken together, it looks like the band is getting ready to crank up and play:

"Let's roll out the barrel and have us a barrel of fun!"

It also looks like a lot more death is coming down the tube to turn human beings into shit and instant dogfood -- but what do I know?

If I really knew the truth, perhaps I'd speak
more succinctly to you. My problem is
the truth scares me -- when I utter the name,
I have to turn my away head in shame.

We all own our tiny share of blame,
through our diligent laziness, silence and negligence.
It all boils down to a pot of icky goo
that you share with me and I share with you!

A mighty fleet is sailing this very minute
to the Persian Gulf to join the Stennis and the Nimitz.
The Eisenhower, another Monster of War
with demon broods carrying more
Death than that delivered in the last World War.

How strange that people chide me for saying:
"All the bombs are in the hands of terrorists!"

In the Beginning, the Great Potato Made....

I made an error in a recent post about the Great Potato and hope you will forgive me if my humble attempts to clarify make myself muddy your understanding even more.

As you recall, I was only recently granted access to the 21st Edition of the Absolute -- this happened when my unemployed angel in the Third Galaxy got itself a job recently and was sent on a secret mission somewhere. As you may well imagine, the Absolute Truth is a rather large document and especially the 2nd and 3rd layer footnotes are giving me difficulty.

Since the Third Galaxy is a parallel universe to our own, I hope that none you will be shocked to learn that, although many people in the Third Galaxy have thought otherwise, the fact is that the Great Potato did not write the "Book" attributed to the Starchy One.

The Book is a collection of stories, tales and legends told and retold by evening fires over a thousand years. It is also a history of the People, as they came to know themselves. Furthermore it is also a history of the time of the Kingdoms. Therefore, one must also accept that some parts are outright propaganda -- what today, in our world, we call "spin".

On the other hand, there are also parts of the Book where people, angered by injustice, spoke truth to power -- this is what we in our world call "prophecy.

Secondly, there was much confusion about the Special Name, SPUD as opposed to the earlier term, Great Potato. SPUD is fellow who brooks no competition. However, in the original language, Great Potato is a plural form, just like "Elohiim" in our Bible. I can understand that the Keepers of the Keys, that is to say, those who can actually read the Book, gloss over this fact -- however, it led to not only unfortunate, but unneeded consequences.

One must start with the first chapter of the Book, known as "Beginnings". It says, "In the beginning, the Great Potato(s) made the ketchup and the chips..." The point is that the text could very well have been started with an "A" -- but in fact, starts with a "B", which is the original text has the meaning of "in".

Therefore the Book does not begin with the beginning but within the beginning. A small point you may think, but of greater later significance than first meets our understanding.

Later on, the Great Potato(s) make the first man, in their image, out of the red dirt -- and that is why his name was "Red".

The point is that, just as a photographic image depends on just how you take and develop it, so is the image of the Great Potato(s), in which the people of the Third Galaxy were made, is to some degree, dependent on how they developed it.

To put it in terms more understandable in our world, by our actions and the interactions with the world around us and other human beings, we define the image of the divinity we chose to develop in what I call our common humanity.

And that, my friends is why the Great Potato is a plural form. We can become, in our common humanity, a human race or a rat race gnawing holes in the fabric of Reality.

O, I'm sorry, I didn't mean in anyway to imply that the Third Galaxy can be applied to our own world!

Why just take the example of SPUD, the Special Name -- in my earlier piece I wrote that, in the original language it was written as !?!? -- this is the mistake I was referring to in my opening paragraph.

Actually, the religious authorities of the Third Galaxy were in disagreement -- some said it was to be written as !(?), while others held that had to be ?(!).
A small thing you might think, but kingdoms fell and rose and many people were slaughtered often in the most gruesomely imaginative ways -- unbelievable I know, because things like that never happen in our world!

But they happened in the Third Galaxy...

Saint John's Evening, 2007....

It was St. John's Evening last night and, being invited over by our daughter to enjoy the evening, I had to take a bath, trim my beard, put on clean underwear and make sure they weren't no spinach hanging between my snaggled teeth when I smiled...

Sankte Hans (St. John's Evening) is of course a rip off the priests did on the the age old Midsummer, the idea being it is 6 months to the other rip off the priests did on Yule where the age-old tradition has been to celebrate the rebirth of hope and light -- if you remember, St. John (aka the Baptist) was according to the texts, born exactly six months before his cousin Jesus. This of course, like so many other things is proof of Intelligent Design or of rewriting history so that it fits in with ancient prophecies...

All kidding and snark aside, Sankte Hans is a strange time -- it's just after the summer solstice and marks the long, slow slide into the the dark of winter. There is a strangely soft bittersweetness to this evening.

I read yesterday that the Chinese have managed to excede America in the CO2 pollution they manage to pour into the common resource we all share which we call the atmoshpere -- way to go China! Of course, this is total pollution and not per-captita -- if it was per-capita we'd all be choking right now, I guess.

Meanwhile, the American economy is starting to look like a fellow pissing in his pants to stay warm. If nothing else, the Codpiece should be doinbg hard time just for what his (mal)admin has done to the economy.

ON THE OTHER HAND, the idea that the Chinese could grab America by the balls and demand we pay up on the trillions they hold in IOUs -- that is RIDICULOUS!

What people con't understand is that when we went off the gold standard it was because we are now on the PLUTONIUM standard! That means is that, when push comes to shove, our leaders will say fug-you chinee azzholes, you want our monee? We blow your shit out of the water!

I'm sort of just kidding, but the world ain't always a nice place and our leaders are a flock of azzholes!

The Night is Angry!

[According to my notes, I must have written this in 1982. Assuming that I don't lie to myself, this must be true. However, I have no other recollection of having composed this piece and exactly what it is about is beyond me. However, from the internal dialogue and the date, I can surmise that it was when I was ending my study of Semitc Philology at the U. of Copenhagen -- where I had pretty much devoured the extensive collection of Holocaust literature in the library there.]

There is no way to say these things unsaid.
It's too late to play it nice and cool.
The frozen flesh in freight-train cars
sheds moaning tears between the stars.

The night is angry, and you screamed "Stop!"
far much too late, my friend.
Have you forgotten the lines were stripes
of red running down naked backs?

You stand aghast because of these
dislocated debaucheries?
And yet, their dismembered memory
still titillate your fantasy?

The night is angry, and you said "Stop!"
far much too late, my friend!
You can't forget the lines you read
were strips of naked facts?

Down the road, they were selling dope,
fifty pounds of antelope,
frozen eyes, beyond all hope,
were bulging from the hanging ropes.

The night is angry, and you said, "Drop
your trousers and bend over!"
"Twenty-five lashes on bare asses!"
"And all their clothes were full of lice!"

The long lines of tears are streaks
disappearing in the dust.
The underground parking lots
echo the unfortunate sound of rust!

"We only do what we must!"
"Her every limb is out of joint!"
"Is there a reason for all of this?"

Madonna's face shatters the morning!

Lusting Without Lust...

It struck me this morning that perhaps I am losing my mind.

All of a sudden I felt a shadow of the fear HAL 9000 felt as Dave removes his higher mental functions.

It was a passing moment.

But then, all moments are passing, are they not?

But still and yet, the kiss, the embraces we shared, on the bed, on the kitchen floor -- where are they now?

I wonder,
do you still remember how we sang
love's sweet melody?

Ah, the harmony!

Our limbs entwined in sweet embrace,
I were you and you were me,
pulsing,
a human anemone beneath the sea...

If only I could touch you again!

Hear your breath,
smell the fragrance of your love,
feel the opening of your tenderness...

Ah, but the memory
as well as the strength of youth fades in me...

And what remains?

A husk, a shell, a "dirty old man"?
No! Anything but that!

True, I oogle young women,
the curve of hip and bust,
but my lusting is without lust!

I wish them well and wish them memories
like those I have of the love we shared.

White Hats...

This poem kept me awake at night, bugging me, begging to be written, -- so, okay, are you happy now, you mess of word spaghetti, you poop of alphabet soup?

We come from the City that shines upon on the hill.
We are the good guys who wear the white hats!

We propagate freedom and more than that,
a thousand years from now, Our City will
be a shining beacon of liberty,
our legacy to posterity!

A charnel house or two along the way,
maybe more, may be necessary
to help Secure the Peace, perhaps a war
now and then, who's to say?

But, like the Snarly often says,
"It's better we fight them over there than risk
our chance for global hegemony"

The Great Potato

I recently had a comment where someone, whom I otherwise respect, implied doubts regarding the reality of the Great Potato -- not only that, he posed some belief in the illusory deity of that well-known apostate, Charles Schulz. I was shocked, I tell you, shocked!

First of all, I must point out that the Great Potato's efficacy as a know-all deity applies only to the Third Galaxy and, as I have told time and time again, events, happenings and unfortunate realities in the Third Galaxy [a parallel universe to our own] have no relation to our world [unless, of course, you read between the lines].

That said, it is very important to understand that, in the ancient texts, the Name of the Great Potato was four letters which usually rendered as "SPUD". Actually, in the original language it would be written as "!?!?", which, according to the authorities which I recognize as authoritative, is a peculiar form of the verb "to be" -- in fact it is a sort of mixture of past, present and future of "BE!".

In brief, the name of the Great Potato simply means, "that-which-has-been-is-and-always-will-be" -- which a simple mortal like myself would profanely call, "Reality" or "What-Is".

Okay, you got that under your belt?

In their course of history, for one reason or other, there arose two conflicting developments to the understanding of the Great Potato as put forth in the Holy Book. These are known as the Peelers and the Mashers.

I will confine myself here to the Peelers.

The Peelers believe that the Great Potato "sprouted" a single Spud. Known as the Holy Idaho, He was "peeled" and "french fried" in a most gruesome manner. This happened because of the Will of the Great Potato in order to keep the humanity [such as it was] of the Third Galaxy from an even worse fate.

Therefore, the Peelers believe that, unless one "accepts the Holy Idaho as ones Personal Spud" one will be damned to a fate ever so much worse than being French Fried Forever! I have not been able, even though I have looked closely into the 2nd and 3rd level footnotes of the 21st Edition of the Absolute Truth, been able to ascertain exactly what this fate must be. I figure that it is on the order of being confined to a McDonald's for eternity and forced to consume two, perhaps even three "happy meals" every hour!

The Father of Darkness

I had promised myself that I would leave off posting about events in our all-too-real world and devote myself to events in the Third Galaxy in general and the Godbiz there in particular.

My reason is that as horrible as what happened in the Third Galaxy,, at least I know that, with the arrival of the Alien Veggies, everything turned out for the better, with rosy pink mornings, green fields forever and all that good shit. Sorry to say, such an outcome does not even seem quite possible for our poor world and its confused and often quite detestable inhabitants.

There has been a bit of fluff in the national discussion here in Denmark, over the past year or so, as to what will happen to the Iraqis who have been working as translators for the contribution of the Happy Little Kingdom to the Coalition of the Willing, that is to say, a battalion of Danish boots. The question is what will happen to them when we pull out in August, along with the Brits, from our positions north of Basra.

The discussion has been: should we give them asylum and relocate them to Denmark? The answer of the government has been to downplay the danger they would be in for having collaborated with the Occupation -- to relocate them in Iraq, giving them new identities has been the government's standard line of b.s.

Well, well, well! We hear this morning that one of our translators has already been "relocated" and given a "new identity". He was abducted six months ago, tortured for three goddam fuggin days before the shits put a bullet in his head!

What happened six months ago, we first hear about it today? The government has been stonewalling on this question for a year and we leave these poor bastards in less than two months to the a of living death. Somewhere, I think I still had some measure of respect for the Bush Lite government of Anders Fogh Rasmussen, but I can't find it now, in fact I don't have the least desire to even try to look for it...

On the broader and even more ridiculous topic of "respect for the Codpiece administration", Digby points to Seymour Hersh's detailed report on what happened to Gen. Antonio Taguba and the reward for his investigation into the atrocities at the Father of Darkness [Abu Ghraib] prison was to be asked for his resignation. Digby has made "The General's Report" required reading -- that and a commencement address given by Mark Danner at the U of California this May.
___________
Update: In the evening news, the Minister of Defense says that he never heard about this until now -- well folks, you'll just have to excuse me -- I don't believe his b.s. one bit. I saw how he wiggled and CYA'ed out of the facts brought forth in the movie, "The Secret War" -- what they do is say, "I never saw an official document that I had to sign that I had read"...

The Muddled East

I've got good news and bad news, although, which is which, or whether both are both, that is both good and bad, I'm not quite sure I am prepared to evaluate.

First of all, my unemployed angel from the Third Galaxy, Man-u El Ishman has got itself a job -- where, I don't know. Perhaps it is being coy, or maybe it really has, as it has implied, been given a secret assignment by the Great Potato.

The second is that I have been granted, personal access to the 21st Edition of the Absolute Truth -- and that includes access to the 2nd and 3rd level footnotes!

What follows are my first efforts at researching this tremendous document.

Hardly knowing where to start, I decided, on a whim, to delve first into the Muddled East and the Balastinian conflict -- after all, it was the assassination of Prime Minister Icky Rabid which lit the fuse that some years later led to the conflagration known in some circles in the Third Galaxy as the Ultimate Wars.

Icky Rabid was the Prime Minister of Getreal and it was his deal for peace with the Balastinians which led to him getting blown away by four shots from a handheld gun at close range, even though he was surrounded by security guards,. The problem was that the peace deal included the surrender of certain lands which hard core elements in Getreal politics felt was not only treason but blasphemy to the Name of the Great Potato. The reason for that is because, in the Book of the Great Potato it is writ these lands had been "given to His People for all perpetuity". These hard core elements looked upon the Book as if it was both title and deed from the Great Potato. That other people, the Balastinians, had been living on the Land for a couple of millennia, well, that unpleasant fact was that it was just too fuggin bad for them!

True, not all, in fact not even most Getreal citizens held to this extreme view, but this was of little consequence as the fear of terra from the Balastinians was not only generally perceived but was in fact quite actual and real.

The policy of the hard core then was to discredit, make impossible or outright eliminate those with whom real negotiations for peace were possible -- that is, if the peace settlements included the surrender of any of the Holy Land which had been given to the People by the Great Potato. This is what happened to Icky Rabid and probably Yessir Pylacrap who died in a manner suggestive of poisoning.

Yessir Pylacrap had been the leader of the Patah movement which, although corrupt and autocratic, had the backing of most Balastinians and, although the term terraist was not inappropriate to apply to his personage, at least he was a fellow one could negotiate, in fact cut a deal with.

Therefore, the hard core did something real cool, they helped spawn and, in the beginning at least, nurtured the Humus movement. The Humus [lit. Party of God] was, in the beginning a religious and social welfare movement. However, as time went on and it became apparent that Getreal had no real intention of giving up the "occupied territories" [this is, in itself a long and complicated story which I will not talk about here], that is, the Eye Strip and the West Bank, the Humus movement became, not only a rival to the Patah party, but exceeded it in militancy.

With the death of Yessir Pylacrap -- however he came to die, he was dead and his position was taken over by his assistant, Mommy bin Poppa. The Arrogant and Getreal governments put great pressure on Mommy bin Poppa to hold free elections -- ostensibly, this was to enhance his legitimacy. Poppa agreed only after some serious arm twisting and lost the election. The Humus party won by a landslide because the Balastinian people were sick and tired, in fact pissed off at the Patah movement -- while they lived in squalor and poverty, Patah officials had gold faucets in their bathrooms.

The reaction of the United State of Arrogance was that, democracy is fine as long as you elect the people we approve of and almost all aid was stopped, which, in turn resulted in even more poverty, squalor and an unemployment rate of more than 60%.

It also resulted in more conflict between Patah and Humus until, after a weeks long mini civil war, Patah was thrown out of the Eye Strip and later the West Bank. The result, whether planned by Getreal or was simply the abysmal incompetent arrogance of Ronald Rexona, was two fold -- there was no longer a party which the Getreal government could be expected or could negotiate with and, because of the increasing squalor and misery along with the military incursions into the "occupied territories, many young Balastinians began to join the Al Qube movement of Ahsawyah been lately.

That is a most brief introduction in the reasons many say that the murder of Icky Rabid lit the fuse that later exploded into the Ultimate Wars.

[As always, remember, these events from the Third Galaxy have nothing whatsoever to do with our own world -- Jeeze! Don't you think we have enough problems on our own?]

George Quenzelbutt -- Camp Brackwater

[We first met George Quenzelbutt a few months ago, when he was recruited by EndRun Enterprises for training in Coercive Interogation.]

Camp Brackwater is where George Quenzelbutt received his first training in Coercive Interrogation. A skill at which he was later to excel in when the State of Enduring Emergency was declared to Protect the First World Peace from numerous dangers as they were perceived by Ronald Rexona, when he invoked the Directive he himself had promulgated almost unnoticed by the mass media -- this directive gave him the authority to assume dictatorial powers in order to "ensure the Ground Law of Arrogance" against any (unspecified) danger...

The training camp was about twenty five miles outside of Poosah City.

They were transported there in a large, dark green bus. It was a comfortable ride. The weather was lovely, the sun was shining and the flowers of spring were in bloom. The fantastic thing was that Threnody Jones was also in the group. It made for a song in his head and a thump in his heart. There were sixty new employees on the bus and only five of them were girls, the rest were guys about his age.

He didn't know any of the guys, but he sure as hell knew Threnody – you could have knocked him over with a feather when he'd called her and told that he'd gotten a real good job, "What's the name of the company?" she'd said, "EndRun Enterprises" he'd replied and she'd just about set his ears ringing with a squeal of delight, "O really? How super cool!" And now she was sitting in the bus with him on the way to Camp Brackwater* Training Facility. Along with the spring that made for a song in his head and a thump in his heart, the thought that he might just get to know Threnody better put a lump in his jeans.

Actually, George did know a couple of the other guys, Joe Pardass probably was the one he knew best. But he wasn't what you'd call a friend really, he was more of an acquaintance. He'd worked with him for a while at the MacBarf on North Street in Poosah City. He'd drunk a couple of beers with him after work a couple of times so he knew a little bit about him. He'd been a football player in Poosah City High School, played guard, he was a big hunk and he was a pretty good footballer. He was supposed to get a scholarship to play in college, but then there was that incident with some girl and him and a couple of other players and the scholarship sort of disappeared. No charges were actually brought but like I said, the scholarship** kind of scuttled away and he ended up flipping burgers at the MacBarf and stuff like that. He was okay to work with but there was something of a mean streak in Joe and being big as he was he wasn't somebody you'd want t' cross. It was kind of puzzling in a way, with the background checks and all, they took on somebody like Joe...

The bus arrived at the training center early in the afternoon. The camp was surrounded by a double row of three meter high chain link fence. The lady dressed in desert fatigues who called herself Ms. Mangle had been going on and on about the Camp like a damn tourist guide the past fifteen minutes and something she said (or was it the razor wire glinting in the sunlight on top of the chain link fence) set his mind wandering…

He recalled the test a couple of days ago that Dr. Churrin had given him. Actually it was he who had given the test. Some guy was supposed to answer questions and if he answered wrong or not fast enough, George gave him electric shocks – well, actually, all he did was push a button – but that guy sure did holler! It was his own problem though, he was a volunteer. Anyway, Dr. Churrin had been there in his white doctor's gown with a stethoscope hanging around his neck. If a doctor said it was okay, it must be okay. It was kind of funny when he pushed the shock button labeled "DANGER!!!" and the guy he was testing screamed real loud, kind of gurgled, collapsed and slumped over in the chair to which he was manacled and strapped. But Dr. Churrin said it was okay and anyway EndRun was working for the government, so even if there was a problem it wasn't his problem. He had to admit it was kind of fun to see that guy flop around in his chair every time he pushed the button when he didn't answer before the red light came on.

It was kind of like a computer game, if he pushed the button before the light came on he lost points and if he waited too long, he lost points also. Dr. Churrin had said he'd made a real good score and "had talent" for this kind of work. Had Threnody also taken the test? He hadn't thought to ask, well maybe later, but there were other things he'd like to talk with her about than electricity and pushing buttons for Dr. Churrin. Shit, he'd lost complete track of what Ms. Mangle was talking about, but how could he keep his mind on her? Ms. Mangle was a stocky, broad, round headed with her black hair cut real close and she had big tits that looked like they'd been glued on. Actually, it was the pug nose stuck between the close-set eyes that had his attention.

"…so, anyway, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Brackwater, you're going to learn a lot here in a month, we'll be at the compound itself in a few minutes, we'll show you where you will be staying and tonight we'll have a little welcome party and get to know each other better."

The compound itself could not be seen from the road, the gates swung open and the bus drove for five minutes before reaching a cluster of white buildings connected with gently curving sidewalks. A swimming pool glinted blue in the sun and there was a large building which they soon learned was an auditorium and teaching area as well as indoor gym. The place was nicely, albeit recently, landscaped and they could hear birds singing in the trees as they disembarked from the bus. They could see some training exercises going on at training fields not far away.

* * * * * * * * *

The new EndRun employees were seated in the auditorium on red and green plastic chairs. Actually, they were more recruits than employees. But the Company, which was actually a semiofficial paramilitary organization (funded from secret governmental slush funds) preferred to maintain the fiction of being a Company and, although an undercurrent of military esprit ran through the organization, there were no military titles. People of importance were simply referred to as "Mr.", "Ms." or "Dr."

When the new employees/recruits were seated in good order, Ms. Mangle got up on the auditorium stage, took the microphone, gave it a tap a spoke in a sharp crisp voice, "Once again, I welcome you all to Brackwater – are you all glad to be here?"

There was of course no answer from the audience, so she repeated herself, "I said, are you glad to be here?" Silence, "Well, dammit, maybe you liked the lunch you just had? Yes? No?"

There were a few mumblings from the assembly. "What's that? Did I hear somebody say 'Yes, Mamn'?"

There was a mumbled chorus, of yes mamns. A brief smile flicked across her face, "Well, that was kind of polite, but I'd like to hear it maybe just a little bit louder?"

"Yes, Mamn."

"Louder!"

"Yes, Mamn!"

"LOUDER!"

"YES, MAMN!"

"Well, that's nice to know! And thank you so much for saying so, and now I think you all are ready to meet the Camp Leader of Brackwater Training Facility in the way that he deserves, everybody, I mean everybody please stand!"

There was a bustle as sixty young people got out of their seats and stood more or less at attention.

A tall, athletic figure strode briskly down the aisle. He was also clad in desert khaki and his hair, although cut short, was not short enough that you might call him a skinhead. He was an impressive figure as the spit-shined combat boots clicked against the auditorium floor.

He bounded up on the stage and with a brief bow took the microphone handed to him, "Thank you, Ms. Mangle and once again to all of you, welcome to the Brackwater Training Facility – welcome to all of you new EndRun employees. My name is Per Nicious; I am your Camp Leader."

"In one brief month you will learn the kind of security EndRun specializes in and you will be trained in the techniques of Coercive Interrogation. Ms. Mangle here, whom you have already met, will be your main instructor. You will be divided into three squads and when you go over to the barracks, you'll meet the three instructors who will be assigned to your particular squad. After you get settled in you'll all come over to the mess hall and have supper. Then we'll have a little get together and get to know each other better kind of informally."

You have all heard the term "Coercive Interrogation" and wonder just what it is. First of all you need to know why it is necessary or rather it rapidly becoming necessary – our beloved country is threatened by forces both outside and inside. There are people who hate democracy and freedom and the Arrogant Dream. As you know, we have run background checks on all of you before inviting you to join EndRun to do very important work to help safeguard the National Security of Arrogance. The thing is, there are things which need to be done which the government cannot at this time be openly connected with. Therefore, our democratically elected government has contracted a select number of private companies to do what needs to be done. One of those companies is EndRun – and you fine, young people have been selected by EndRun!"

"This is the problem. We need information from people who won't give it to us. These people are plotting and planning to overthrow our government and destroy every thing Arrogance stands for."

"In the bad old days, people like this would have been tortured until they told us what we need to know. But torture is disgusting, illegal and something no true democracy would engage in. Therefore, in conjunction with doctors and scientists, EndRun has developed and perfected a series of techniques known as 'Coercive Interrogation'.

"Coercive Interrogation is a suite of methods which can quickly get uncooperative subjects to divulge information. Although there can be some physical discomfort for the subject, actually, it is the interrogator who suffers more as it is the interrogator who must monitor the subject – but enough of that! The point is that Coercive Interrogation is a scientific and medically approved system which has absolutely nothing to do with torture."

"Finally, you should know that our dear leader and Prez'nit, Ronald Rexona, has given his personal approval to this project."

* * * * * * * * *

It was one damn good meal they had and the "get together" afterwards was a bang up party and George got to know Threnody a lot better – but not as much better as he would have hoped. He woke up the next morning not only with a throb in his head but a tender case of blue-balls, which caused him not a little difficulty in the exercises Ms. Mangle and the other instructors put them through the next day and the rest of the week.

George didn't realize it, but the new recruits/employees were put through a crash course version of a military boot camp, the purpose of which is to hone off the edges of individuality which every normal human being has so that they could meld into a group prepared to do whatever was required of Authority.

As a private contractor, the activities of EndRun could never be a burden to the office of the Prez'nit and, as they were hired by agency responsible for the National Security, EndRun could not be held responsible.

It was a real sweet deal, the money went down and kickbacks were quietly made and everybody, that is everybody on the gravy train was happy.
____________
* The reader must not think that there is any resemblance, reference or connection here with the Blackwater Company in our world. Blackwater recruits their employees from ex-military, usually elite soldiers and they are basically mercenaries, but not in the classic sense. Basically, they do clandestine and some times "off-color" work the would prefer not to be directly connected with or liable for. EndRun of course was similar in that regard, however, as it’s focus was on other areas of security, preferred to recruit young people who are more malleable to their purpose. Thing is, if you get young people inexperienced in the ways of the world and tell them what you’re doing is for the sake of God and country you can train them to do the darndest things to other people – you just to label them "enemy", "terrorist", "traitor" or whatever suitable word with a pejorative connotation comes to mind and your recruits will gladly twist an arm or two.

** I appreciate that some may find it hard to understand that Joe could lose his scholarship over something as silly as a gang-bang. But the reader must keep in mind that some things are less parallel than others in the world in the Third Galaxy which Ishman has transmitted to me. In spite of the terrible things which unfolded there, it was in many ways a happier and less hypocritical world than our own. In the end, the Alien Veggies did land there and put things straight which is not likely to happen to us.

Watching the Fuse Burn Down...

I am not going to write about some very dangerous developments in America -- most dangerous, but ignored by the Bankers of Illusion!

I am not going to refer to the "National Security and Homeland Security Presidential Directive" -- why this has gone under the media radar is beyond me. This directive, promulgated by the chief executive gives the chief executive access to whatever degree of powers the chief executive thinks is necessary for "...ensuring constitutional government in the event of some unspecified "catastrophic event".

I am not going to mention the "chatter", not [simply] from terraist wannabes, but from various levels of governmental sources as well as media pundits of a likely terra attack on the homeland "sometime soon". The first time I know of a balloon being sent up about this was when Gen Tommy Franks nearly three years ago opined that, in the event of a second major terra catastrophe on the Homeland, martial law would have to be imposed and the constitution suspended -- if you know of any major media personality or political personage who has questioned this Orwellian logic, please let me know!

Although I am crazy, I'm certainly not so crazy as to mention how dominionist evangelicals have taken over the Air Force Academy in particular and are taking over the military in general. The goal is to turn the armed forces into soldiers whose first commitment is, not to the American constitution which they have sworn to defend, but rather swear fealty to the Great Potato and His Spud, the Holy Idaho.

Finally, although I did comment about the mad desire of Joel Rosenberg that the human race should end in apocalyptic orgasms and that might make you think I might also comment on the wickedness of Mike Evans and his perverse wet dreams for Total Ultimate War and the end of humanity -- why, if you thought that, you would be wrong, because I'm not!

Ha! Ha! I fooled you! None of these things are happening in America!

These are all things that happened in the Third Galaxy long ago when Ronald Rexona, with the help of "Big Dick" Snarly and a multitude of other azzholes achieved his ascendancy as the Supreme Hole of the United State of Arrogance!

Nothing of the sort will ever or could ever happen in my beloved America, the home of my birth so many years ago.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it!

The Great Potato, Prayers and Pork Rinds

Yesterday's post ended with reference and reaction to the news bite that a governor, because of drought in his state, had brought forth the idea sending state officials out to get farmers and other good folk to gather and pray to the Great Potato for rain.

There were a number of people who were, if possible*, even more bemused than I at the incredible inanity that an elected official could not only make such an idea public, but use state officials to implement it! It's the sort of thing I'd expect in the Third Galaxy, but the Great Potato forbid that anything of the sort should happen in my beloved US of A!

However, my bemusement is more nuanced than some so, I am in no way an opponent of prayer as such.

Something the Crazy Bird wrote many years ago explains my position better than I ever could:

Some think that prayer is a sort of wish list we can send off to the Great Potato while we're washing dishes or scratching our butts. Others say we have to assume certain positions, be in certain places or make our requests at specific times. I'd rather not comment too deeply here, but it's as if they've gotten the idea that the Great Potato a sort of souped up Santa Claus, fairy godmother or divine Welfare Office.

Then there are those who look at prayer as spiritual sit- or push-up exercises. It's as if repeating a string of words should somehow remove flabbiness from the soul. Despite my sarcasm though, I do recognize there may be an element of reality to the idea -- it is not the words, though, but the silence they can lead to, that is to say, contemplation, even meditation.

Finally, I know that many labor under the unfortunate illusion that prayer is like the punishments Bart Simpson does after school where he has to write 100 times on the blackboard, "I will not pick my boogers in class..."

To be as clear as I can: prayer is not something that will please, appease or coerce the Great Potato to alter Reality.

My position is that prayer is an instinct as basic as those which urge a baby to suck milk or adults to desire the embrace of love with another human being.

Is it possible to accept Reality and, at the same time, ask that it change? Perhaps, but it does seem like there is a disconnect somewhere, like when the bicycle chain hops off or the gears strip when you reverse while going forward.

The bottom line is that not only does the Great Potato not hear prayers, but if It did, It's reaction as well as that of It's Only Begotten Spud, the Holy Idaho, would be to wonder if we were ever going to learn to listen to what we were, in essence, saying and understand the consequences of what we were expecting to happen, should that actually occur.

It's kind of like saying, "Thank you for the glory and wonder -- gimme a bag of pork rinds!
______________
* If it is of any interest, you can see the comments of others here and here.

On Toothpaste and Praying for Rain

[Sometimes I think I'd prefer the Third Galaxy to this crazy place -- at least I know that, in the end, things there turned for the better when the Alien Veggies landed.]

Some many years ago a fellow who was running for president said that you can't sell a president like you would toothpaste.

Well, that fellow never got elected, even though he tried twice for the job. It may not be right to sell presidential candidates like toothpaste, but it can be done. Not only can it be done, it has been done and is one of the several reasons that our experiment in democracy is in such deep crisis.

Well, perhaps not quite like toothpaste -- there is a bit more "truth in advertising" required than when selling toothpaste. If the makers of toothpaste were allowed to use the tricks, obfuscation and outright lies and misrepresentations political operatives can get away with, they would be sell us complete bullshit to brush our teeth with and we would just smile and say, "UMMM! Fresh taste!"

One ingredient that has always puzzled me, even as a young boy growing up in Poosah City, is the apparent need to always add the secret ingredient "Gawd" to the political products being sold to us. Not only that, but it seems that the more corrupt and hypocritical the candidate, the more "Gawd" they have to add!

I would have thought that by now, nothing could have surprised me or made my jaw drop. We have had to listen to crapola that certain catastrophes in the past few years happened because some people were not embracing each other in ways that don't piss off The Great Potato and His Only Begotten Spud, The Holy Idaho -- that and not praying in the schools...

Well, hear this: a governor wants to use prayer to end the drought in his state and plans to send state officials to get the farmers and other good folk to gather and pray for rain. The governor says that only an act of GOD can quench the ground's thirst.

A fellow doesn't know whether to laugh or cry!
_________
BTW, the link to the Governor's plan was gotten over at Lurch's pad.

Where to From Here?

We saw the last of our guests off this morning and they got on board their ferry with no hitches. So, I guess I'm back in the blog.

It was just a year ago that I started these daily postings. I figured it would improve my writing and communication skills to wrap some words around some thoughts that have been bouncing around in my noggin. I really do think it has helped somewhat and I want to thank those of you who have given me the occasional word of encouragement along the way.

I have gone to the small trouble of creating an off-line copy of my postings for the first ½ year -- the sequence is reversed to make it easier to read chronologically. When I have figured out how to do the trick, I'll have it up here as pdf files.

I suppose for a while at least that I will leave the snark to those who are better at it than I am. What I intend to do now is concentrate more on the themes I have been developing in "Third Galaxy", "Running Away" and "Godbiz".

So, there will be more about George Quenzelbutt and what happened to him after he was hired by End Run to be trained in coercive interrogation, stories about growing up in Poosah City, small observations about the Godbiz and, of course, the occasional tidbit from the Poetry Bag.

We Got Guests

We got guests in the house the next two weeks.

I may find time to put up some tidbits from the old poetry bag.

On the other hand I may not bother -- I really need the chance to sit and sing some songs and chew the fat with old and new friends, recharge batteries and draw the creative juice up and reach down into the roots.

Right now, I'm listening to a most lovely CD my friend brought me: Iris DeMent, "Infamous Angel" I like her voice, her music and her lyrics. I'm the kind of old coot who prefers Emilylou Harris to Dolly Parton (not a bad word meant about her, though!), but I prefer Iris to Emilou.

I think I'll leave a couple of my bon mots hanging here:


We all know it's not a perfect world -- so, there's no need working so hard to prove it!

Love Being Aware!