Friday, September 28, 2018

Fiction! Not a grain of truth. It's Happy Horseshit.

Drop Me Some Place Awful


You don't have to get into this matter.  It was in the late 70s.  One of those missions where they drop you out of a plane over the Yucatan and you have to eat lizards while getting a start in the local status mill.   Even aboriginals vie for blue blood privilege  in their own really different type of culture.  American bigots think everyone's loin cloth all looks the same.  Ha.  Primitive tribals are an ambitious and highly enterprising cuss.   People don't realize how much they are like the Stepford Wives.

It was a combat mission.  There's still a spot on my left calf where  hair does't grow, from the parachute landing.  The Incas got their dun muscular heinies on the US radar because they were meeting in a centralized location.  Just that.   I don't speak Incan.  No one does.  I do a mean sign language of I'M AN ANGELIC MISSIONARY FROM EAST KABUTTFUCK, gain their confidence, then hike my heinie home to US, with a classified report in a leather wine skin.  There was some other shit.  What's that saw, (ha, ha) about cut off the head and the tail dies.  They say it in most gangster movies.   Some short OC figure had said it somewhere in Florida around the time Kennedy got whacked. Or else some intelligence agency thought it up.  One thought up my visit to the Yucatan.

Me, me,me.  I got to machete a couple committee leaders.   Wet work, titter, titter.   We rag each other about it.   Then, since I don't feel guilty, same as most, I have to find a Jungian myth that fits what I did.   I cut one head off the Hydra.  According to the fairy tale, two heads will grow in its place.  And you know what that means to everyone living in dreamier places then where I was.  It means it isn't really a big deal.  Two heads will grow in its place, exponentially the thing will get more gigundous and successful, we might have to drop more angels of mercy down there.  We may have, but I lost track of the place soon as I got back here.  So did everyone else.  I'll bet they're A-okay.

Wednesday, September 26, 2018

You will enjoy reading the output of my rotting mind



I'm still mulling that stupid Brett Kananaugh no-handshake with bereaved gun control advocate incident.   I already said the attempt may have been prohibited on the basis of a security arrangement.  Allowing the two swains to lock hands is an opportunity for Mr. Guttenburg to bite Brett's shiny little  nose off.    It's not freaky for security guards to forbid physical contact.

 There are some desperate assholes out there, and some of them  have a perfectly appreciable agenda.  If I wanted to enact gun control I might not have been as even tempered as Guttenburg.  Brettster isn't anything close to my kind of person.   The reason for my limp wristed centrist position on this matter and loads of others is the sheer and shitty human capital that might otherwise wind up on the Supreme Court.  At this point, shit is shit.   Perhaps  when all options are bad, one tries to be the most pragmatic little shit one can be.   It's what I do.

Happy days, 45 turned in a grade A performance plastering over sex allegation #3.  When a fifth victim comes forward, I think Channel should name a perfume after her.    Okay.  I'm sick.   Maybe I'll get help.   Don't let me have you believe I support any politician.   I'm urging pragmatism with regard to actions that 45 is taking.  One can despise the First Shroomdick  at the self-same time.  Philosophers have spoken of the divided self.  People can compartmentalize this crap. 

Woolly Bully, by Sam the Sham and Pharoahs, is the song of wacky hocus pocus.   Jean Paul Sartre believed everyone has the right to go insane.   One  can keep one's marbles in a tidy sack, as well.   Shroomster has been taking a number of actions we all should be eyeballing critically.  I believe in fair play, the Prez is a first rate bullshit artist, and I don't mind recognizing the brute for it.  Another song comes to mind, goddamit, It's Only A Paper Moon.   Blanche Dubois was singing it in the bathtub, in Street Car Named Desire, shortly before being carted to the state hospital.   What may have seemed normal a few decades ago is only a paper moon.  Maybe our Shroomdick is bullshitting us all someplace nice. 








   

Saturday, September 22, 2018

Cofidentiality Might Be Getting Dicked

It's hard to be pompous.   Deep breath.   Turning red.  I'm being a prig about confidentiality.  I read a news article supposedly exposing 45 as a raving, unfit horrible hephalump from Poo Forest.  An alternative perception of the Rosenstein circle jerk is that it's a deceptive and unethical breach of confidentiality.   The shit said about the 25th amendment may have been a joke or hyperbole. Maybe they were both blowing smoke.

 The article described nutty behavior on the part of 45.   This rounder opines that loose talk spoken with the expectation of confidentiality cannot be regarded as a basis for action against a mop jockey.  The Prez likes to to bullshit.   

The garbage about wanting to fire Comey before he was elected was angry talk, but probably not a genuine position on that matter.  Things people say behind closed doors are usually not identical to that which one goes public with, unless one is very fucking Amish-like.  It's fun to cuss out people who piss you off.  What's wrong with a little happy horseshit?  

The crap about Rosenstein having considered recording conversations is a clam out of season, to say the least, if he actually did discuss it.  Mitigation, dear readers.    Talking about it  in private isn't too fucking far off the grid.  Even shit behavior may be logical.  All kinds of pricks record conversations illegally, all over creation.  Lawyers are peckerheads.   People fib.  One may wish to prove someone fibbed for a spectrum of reasons.   If the jerks were  upset over something, and people get J.O.ed all the time, one or both  might have mouthed off like a punk, but it wasn't intended to be publicized.    That goes for both 45 and Rosenstein. Look at the shit Nixon got caught saying on tape.   Where has everyone been?

A description of Rosenstein's supposed state of emotional distress in the article gave me some agita.  People get jizzed.  Maybe he's a nervous type.  Barney  Fife.  He looks sorta' like him, no?   Anyway, I don't want to cloud up your morning with too much of my bullshit.  I just like to hulk out an alternative point of view.   Why the fuck not?







Please give this a read, and don't let it put you off your waffles. I'm jiving.

I feel like a oogy ogre for scaring up a few paltry counterpoints to the Kavenaugh fracas.   It's possible that a history of sexual assault has nothing to do with his ability to serve on the Supreme Court.   The Constitution  doesn't have tits to squeeze.  The way it may apply in a court case has nada, zito and diddly to do with a possible juvenile offence of any kind.  All right, Rowe Vs. Wade is a big red flag to my counterpoint, and I support all feminist positions with regard to reproductive freedom.  That aside, and if he did grope her, it still doesn't prove he can't render fair verdicts.  

Shitsky, I'll have to back-slide again.  Anything pertaining to the disposition of sex crimes could be compromised if the judges have more skeletons than Ted Bundy.  But Peckerhead Kavenaugh hasn't been convicted of anything, statutes of limitation zipped off, and here's maybe  something, okay, cheesy, maybe relevant:  The victim is a psychologist professor, Ph.d.    Problemo. 

 If the assault even took place, the perp was a juvenile.  I'm not citing law, but it could be an ethics issue that a mental health professional would go public with a juvenile offence.  Those cases tend to be handled with much greater confidentiality than those of adults.   The university to which she is attached could incur damage if she turns out to be a lying sack, and if it's opined her conduct is poor professional conduct for a Ph.d level shrink.  I hate myself for bringing this up, but wouldn't a psychologist be able recover from trauma by now, if the therapy works as good as hoped for one and all, patients at large and her?  I haven't heard one public personality mention the issue of public confidence in head shrinkers.   She could be making them look like assholes.

Another thing. My personal experience with those professionals is that they are quite, quite capable of lying, acting unethically in partisanship, and of course, of being a dirty snitch who is being paid to lie.   Universities and the medical establishment, alike, are  a vast weasel city.  Look what a cunt Big Pharma is. 

That's all the shit that's fit to opine.  Don't let me give you a headache.   I'm just a circumspect  little munchkin.   Try to be broad minded.




Monday, September 17, 2018

I'm still cloning people who deserve it (fictitious BS)


Got it, got it. It's in my locking tweezers, surgical stainless steel artery clamps off ebay, it must cost nothing to get your kidneys retreaded in China, I have some of Virginia Woolf's DNA. It's a very prim, anti-structuralist Kotex, those old limeys used to make the things out of parchment, like the Constitution, and it appears she was a heavy hitter on the monthlies.

I stole it. Dressed up all Brooks Brothers. Rented a dip-shit looking sedan. Made out like I was from the Cape area. Limeys eat that garbage. Now my picture is up at the post office. Cocksucking legacy group hates me bad. One of those bogus Bloomsbury Groups. I can't stand those histrionic posers. They're planning to put my eyes out with a pitchfork. They'll never get past my F 150 with turbocharger.

It appears she menstruated in a flow of consciousness format. There's more than enough hair and  Chef Boy R Dee to clone one of the most important ideals of feminism. Woolf is a literary icon. She was ragging up a storm just before she hiked the sea weed mile and checked out. I may be in posession of the last hurrah.

I got the chemistry set spread out on the kitchen table. I got all these nice things for the spare room in the back of my trailer, too. Shouldn't be any problem explaining why all of sudden there's a kid that seemed to come out of nowhere. Most people in this park have worse explanations for themselves and family. If I told them I brewed up Virginia in a mason jar, it would beat their curriculum vitae, I can tell you that. She's going to be president of the United States in just. maybe, thirty five years and change. It's going to be significant. What I'm doing right now is significant. Its for you. I'm doing this for you.

Saturday, September 15, 2018

We need to get cloning.  There aren't any people fit for the presidency left, at least for the next thirty five years, but if the right dead stalwart could be Xeroxed right fucking now, there might be hope for people tuning ten in the next century. 

 I'd clone Malcolm X and groom the little gridder for slightly more centrist world leadership.   Maybe Malcolm didn't choose his friends all that wisely, but he had guts and a rip-snorting good political platform.  I'd vote for him now, but he's dead, so if he still has some DNA to pitch into the stone soup, that would be nice. There are other paradigm shifts to program through practical bio-engineering.  Poetess Sylvia Plath.
 We need to clone Sylvia because she is the only alternative to the current model of feminism that could possibly sell.   By the time Gloria Steinem goes senile and Linda Sarsour retires to a penthouse in Dubai everyone here will be ready for the more diffident Sandra Dennis type of progressive.  We need a Smith/Vassar type.  It's going to be the 60s all over again, with casting couches for all sixteen gender sub-classifications.  Can't wait.  Taking vitamins.   We all need more sex and poetry readings. 

Here's a prima fascia case:  Mark Twain.  There must be a few snippets of his mortal coil persisting against  long entropy.  There's a good old boy I think everyone would vote in, no questions asked.  Clone Mark Twain.  The prick was unimpeachable.







Fresh Intellectual Blithering...same subject as last.

Lord knows I may be a compulsive-ass motherfucker.  Obsessive-ass, too.  Here's a rehash of some dookey I want to go on record saying:   NYT columnist Paul Krugman has shit for a brain, Noam Chomsky is a devolving  sellout and a victim of globalist infantilization, and Tom Steyer is cancer of the do-gooder project.    In his case, it's a community sing-along to get Trump impeached.   He's a puke. 

Vicious and incompetent parasites turn up in all social classes.  Krugman's economics is a fairy tale that excludes most of the middle and all of the labor classes.   It excludes ordinary tax payers who pay for all the programs.  By endorsing guaranteed unattainable wage scales, wage earners don't get shit.    Chomsky and Steyer have been on the inside of a super plush luxury petrie dish for so long that neither can conceptualize reality. 

Steyer trades on wealth for him and unattainable hopes for the poor folk.   He is your space commander, you are his space cadet.   Mean ugly capitalists are persecuting you, and he's using his billions to liberate you from Trump.  It's asinine. 

Daily life since 9/11  has been like Orwell's gloom-orgy novel, 1984.   We are all in a global studio wrestling match with foreign and domestic faces and heels.  I wish Trump was an even mix of JFK, Margaret Thatcher, Virginia Woolf, Malcolm X, Eldridge Cleaver, and Laurence Olivier, but he's what's at bat.  Opinions will differ, no problemo.   Impeachment is asinine, since the whole White House and legislature  is a permanent state hospital for the criminally insane.  It's like jailing a shoe salesman for selling shoes. 







Monday, September 3, 2018