ANDY ROONEY'S LAST, UNAIRED, SEGMENT

The opening scene shows Andy Rooney naked, in restraints, with a Hooker sitting beside him holding what he has been told, by his co-workers who hate even the sound of his shuffling steps, is a hot new sex device, an electronic inner penis warmer. All of Andy's body, with the exception of a few inches of neck below where his chin once proudly stood, has been blurred (network exectutive's decided to do this when everyone's eyes exploded who saw his barenaked body, though of course only after six months of intensive talks, during which countless ambitious young 'assistant's' were rendered blind, and countless lawyers determined the lawsuits would cost exactly eighteen cents more than the 'wow' factor of being associated with what would almost certainly be a fad, even when they celebrity factored
by being associated with countless people worthy of yellow press).

Looking into the camera and trying to cock his head this way and that despite his throat being secured by a large black collar with sparkling silver spikes, Andy talks in his usual stilting manner, pausing for effect in his tradmark (branded) manner, even after words such as 'is,' and 'the.'

"Didja ever wonder... why they stick.. hot molten . . . wire in penises? I, Andy Rooney, have... and the thought just won't go away... hasn't since I first heard the boys at the office discussing this new fad with the kids. So here at 60 . . minutes, we've hired . . a hooker, to just do that. I've just snorted a huge mound of coke to prepare for the pain, and make room for what has been assured to me will be pleasure, by all my good friends in the newsoom, who have also . . . assured me they all do this on . . . the . . . weekends with their wives... though mine acted like I was crazy when I even brought it up like 'something the neighbors were doing.' We are of a different time, I guess... Hey, that kind of hurts... Oh, my god!! This is what the restraints were for?? You said it was atmosphere!!! AHHHHHH!!!AHHHH!!! OH, MY GOD, NO!!!!"

Various well known voices, who have officially been declared 'not who they sound like,' by the no less an ultimate authority on all that is important than TELEVISION INSIDERS, can be heard in the back ground mockingly calling out, "DIDJA EVER?? DIDJA EVER?? DIDJA EVER??"






HONEST TO GOD I LOVE THIS MAN LIKE A DISTANT, POSSIBLY CRABBY THOUGH LOVABLE UNCLE.

SHE...

always dressed in faded black jeans with the knees torn out and sleeveless T-shirts emblazoned across the chest with the logos of famous rock bands (who inevitably, mother said, seemed to have the word 'death' in their names). Basically, She was a good girl, who did all of the things that good little girls in her land did. Like worrying about problem-things.

Indeed, on the day that our story takes place, She was very embroiled in a problem-thing. She had just come from a lecture about a problem-thing that was altogether new to her and was having quite a struggle wrapping her thoughts around it. New words were all floating around in her mind like a bunch of little problem things that she could not make into the very big problem thing that the lecture had actually been about. It was all very confusing, but she was sure that if she concentrated real, real hard, she eventually would understand. And concentrate real hard, she did!

Why, she was concentrating so very hard on the problem-thing that when she got home she ran in the front door and right through the living room, moving so fast and thinking so hard that she didn't even notice her family waving at her from their very favorite spots in front of the television. She just ran into her bedroom, slammed the door shut, put on her favorite CD, The Dead Lovers In Potato Crates, pulled out a cigarette, lit up with her unicorn lighter and started smoking furiously--like she always did when things needed thinking about.

Now, though She did not notice her family when She passed through the living room, they most certainly had noticed her. And when She turned up the CD as loud as it would go, they noticed her even more. The strange music pounded out of She's bedroom right in the middle of Father's very most favorite part of the whole game -- the important half-time talk, where famous sportscaster's express views of interest to sports fans everywhere. Father was none-too-pleased with the development.

He cast a stern look down the hall when a creepy, screechy voice screamed, "Death is a cool old fool, a kinda?, sorta? thing, baby. Baby, baby, baby, my little baby thing."

This was not the first time that She had turned the stereo up so loud that weird noises drowned out the television. Normally, father would just cluck his tongue a few times and use his bemused voice to tell little Skipper-Do that he should go into his sister's room and tell her that 'She better turn that music down if she knows what's good for her;' but not that day. That day Father was very, very angry and he jerked his very favorite hat off his head -- the one with his very favorite team written across the brim -- and just threw that prized possession right down into the middle of the living room floor.

Mother looked down at father's favorite hat laying on the mint-green shag carpeting and said, "I guess that it's time to teach that little girl some respect for other people's feeling." Then she reached down into the bottom of her knitting bag and pulled out a long, nasty, old, gray chain.

'Yes,' father nodded, as he pulled a lasso of scratchy looking twine out of his pants pocket and said through gritted teeth in a hissing voice, "I'd say its well past time."

Mother got up from her chair, straightened the lace doilies on the armrests, then looked down at where little Skipper was laying in front of the television with his face just inches from the screen.
"Come on, little Skipper-doo. "

"Oh, all right," Skipper said, but as he got up from the floor and followed his Mother and Father down the hall, a dour expression showed his continued displeasure. As they came up on She's door, the creepy voice fell silent.
Suddenly from the living room, they could hear a sportscaster's excited voice saying, "Now, Herb, that is the craziest thing that I have seen in my twenty fond years of being associated with this wonderful, wonderful game. Let me send this back over to you, Herb, as I ask, in your four years of proud association with this game, isn't that the craziest thing that you have ever seen?"

At the sound of sportscasters, Father smiled and turned around and started walking back toward the living room . . . but then, before the sportscaster Herb could even answer the important half-time question, the weird music started up all over again! This time it was louder than ever and sounded like metal rods crashing and screeching against each other in some terrible, industrial machine. Father stopped in mid-step and grew all still, his face and neck became fire engine red and his eyebrows shot way, way up on his forehead.

Skipper watched father closely, because he thought steam was going to shoot of Father's ears like in all the cartoons, but it didn't

Father pushed mother and Skipper away from the door, grabbed the handle and said, ?I?ll take care of that little missy!"

When he threw that door open, right then and there, three jaws dropped to the ground! She was waving around a cancer-causing cigarette and bouncing up and down like a satanic pogo stick. She had her eyes closed, so she just kept bouncing around, even though everyone else was mortified by her aberrant behavior.

Mother covered her eyes with one arm, threw the other hand behind her head and stumbled backwards in a near faint. Skipper jumped behind Mother to stop her from falling, but mother was so very much bigger that he was knocked back against the wall, where head bumped into Father's most very favorite painting in the whole world; the one that he bought at the Starving Artists sale at the Ramada Inn, after going to all of the trouble of scrapping a chip of paint off of the hallway to compare to the browns in all the various landscapes. The painting swung this way and that, this way and that . . . then came crashing to the floor! They all three watched aghast as the corner of the Genuine Maple Frame hit the shag carpet and broke into two pieces. Father looked down at that sad sight and said, "You know, and this is a fact, mind you-it's cheaper to buy a whole new painting at the Starving Artists sale than it is to go to Sears and buy a Genuine Maple Frame."

All the while, She had no idea that she was causing any mayhem, let alone that her very fate was being decided as she danced around, smoked and listened to The Dead Lovers in Potato Crates.
When Mother pulled herself back together, the first thing she did was pat little Skipper on the head, then she turned to her enraged husband and offered him a perky smile as she said, "Tie her up, boys! Go on and get to it."

Father rushed into the bedroom and reached for his bouncing daughter just as she shot up, impaling her throat on his long, sharp nails and tearing bright, red gashes in her pale, white flesh.

"Ouch," She cried.

Father used the scratchy twine to tie her hands behind her back, and then he forced her down onto her knees. Mother came into the bedroom happily strutting like she did just before her and father went to bed early for noisy intercourse, pulled that CD out of the stereo, got a grip on each side of it, and start smashing the disc over her daughter's spiky orange hair. And she kept up that smashing until The D.L.I.P.C. 's second album, Monkey Vomit on a Leper's Little Toe, broke into pieces that flew all over the room! Skipper could not believe how cool things were going! All he could say as he watched his mother was, "Cool. This is so cool."

When Mother was done pummeling, she threw what was left of the CD into the wall,
crossed her forearms over her pert breasts, threw back her head and laughed like a Jackal,
for a long, long time. Skipper was more than a little creeped by the time Mother stopped,
put her index fingers on her daughter's temple and said, "Let us all silently pray."

She had just stayed quiet up until then, because everyone in her family was acting so weird, but things seemed to be calming down, so she said in her nicest, politest little girl voice, "Hey, I'm sorry about the cigarettes, alright? I've been meaning to bring it up with you, but you're all so weird about everything. I mean, it would be like the tattoos and weed all over again, and I don't need it, alright? When you guys quit trying to drag me back in time, then we can talk, okay? Aren't you guys about done praying? And why can?t you just see it?s a waste of time, for god?s own sake."

No one paid any mind to She, as they were all deeply embroiled in their own individual discussions with the Lord. Skipper felt particularly driven to seek the comfort of a deity, because he wanted to be forgiven for the sin of breaking father?s very favorite piece of art as soon as possiWhen Mother was done praying for the lord and all his grace to fill the vessel of her child, she cleared her throat to signal everyone that they should finish up, or, in father?s case, quit pretending, then she looked down at her daughter, smiled and said, "This hair! Lord help us, but that is the first problem we are going to have to sort out." Mother spit into the palms of her hands and began rubbing them down the sides of the spiky orange head.

Now, She liked her hair just like it was, so she started tossing her head from side to side and going all crazy. Mother tried to keep straightening the spiky hair into something more flat and normal, but it was darn near impossible with She squirming and trying to fling her head from side to side. After a few moments of struggling with her daughter and heavily moussed spikes, Mother finally stepped away from the struggling She, put her hands on her hips and said in a very, very angry voice, "You will have normal hair."

Mother looked at Skipper and Father, put a smile back on her face and said in a much, much nicer voice, "Keep a firm grip on her, boys. I'll be right back."

As soon as mother was gone, She tried pleading with father and Skipper, but they both just held her tight and stared straight ahead, acting like nothing she said mattered at all. No matter what she said, they just kept staring straight ahead at the wall and pretending like she wasn't even there. It seemed like Father and Skipper had been replaced by people She didn't even know and that made her very, very scared.

Mother returned to the room carrying the re-chargeable curling iron that Father had bought her for Mother's Day, reached down and grabbed a handful of the orange spikes, jerked back She?s head to expose her throat, then clamped a thin fold of flesh with the searing, red hot metal.

"Ouch," She cried.

The skin in the curling iron sizzled and sputtered. She was struggling very hard indeed but Father and Skipper held her tight. They could see by the look on Mother's face that she was bound and determined to keep burning that neck until she was darn good and ready to stop.

"This hurts me more than it hurts you," Mother told her.

After what seemed like forever to She, Mother finally had enough of that curling iron, but when she tried to pull it away the red metal stuck to the black skin. Mother had to jerk and pull and twist and jerk some more, until finally, with a look of sheer determination on her face that warmed Father's heart, she gave a very strong tug that ripped the curling iron right off. A big patch of flesh tore free, as well. Before mother could do anything about it, the bloody flap of flesh dripped red gunk on the white shag carpet. Mother looked down at the mess and said in her frustrated voice, "Oh, now look what you made me do."

"Ouch," She cried again.

"Are you going to mind me, young lady?"

She had not liked being scarred for life one little bit, so she tried to say just what she thought Mother wanted to hear, "Oh, yes, Mother. Now, please, can I get up?"

"Well, first we have to do something about these bumps of hair on your head, then we'll see." Mother began clamping orange spikes of hair into the curling iron and twisting and jerking, until one after another they became perfect curls. When She's entire head was transformed, Mother stepped back and got a smug look on her face and she said in her tough-gal voice, "Well, at least I managed to get a little bit of that orange mess under control." Then her voice became very, very nice as she looked her daughter right in the eye and said, "Oh, really, that's so much better, dear. You'll like this new look. Especially once you get used to it. I'll bet the boys are going to like you a lot better, too. Why, we have two boys right here, so we can ask them what they think? Say, boys, is this some juicy trim, or what?"

Father made a show of looking into She's face and smiling, then he gave her a peck on the cheek and said, "I forgot how pretty you are."

Mother turned to Skipper, "And what about you, Mr. Skipper-doo, don't you have something that you want to say to your sister?"

Without even looking, Skipper just kind of muttered, "Okay, yeah, it looks better. You're some juicy trim, Sis."

That wasn't good enough for Mother. She looked down at Skipper and shook her finger right in his face, "Now, Skipper, you go on and take a really good look at your sister."

Skipper was not about to disobey Mother when she was shaking her finger right in his face, so he looked at his sister, and when he did, boy was he surprised -- She really did look better. Skipper sounded all excited as he told her, "Gosh, you look great. Mom, she is some juicy trim! From now on you can come to all my games, okay? You and mom and dad! We?ll eat hot dogs."

She had never cared for the games and had been a vegetarian since her cat died in August, but everyone was just being so weird that She went ahead and told Skipper that she'd love to go to his game and eat hot dogs. Then She looked up at Mother and asked, "Can I get up, please?"

"After that little display?? Mother shook her head, ?No.? ?I'm afraid that you've done nothing to show me that you know how to behave around your elders. You know, we do all this for your own good, dear."
Then mother said in her tough girl voice, "Keep her tied to the bed boys, I'll be back soon,'" and left the room.
The chains were so tight on her wrists that blood was flowing down between her fingers. "Please loosen the chains?"
Father came out of his daze, or whatever, and answered in a voice that She had never heard before; it was a strange and breathy sound, "You just lay there and take it."

She couldn't believe that her Father was going to let chains cut her wrists. That day was so weird. Blood was seeping out around the nasty chain, bright red and glistening, flowing in thin tendrils down into the cracks between her fingers. She was ready to try to say something else, but just then a loud whirring sound blasted into the room and startled her to no end. The whirring came from the blades of the Cuisenart, as Mother placed things into the clear container and hit the Puree button.

Mother spread a white dishtowel on the kitchen table and began laying out on top of it all of the ingredients for a very special batter. There was a handy calorie counter, no bigger than the palm of your hand, just the right size for a purse, yellowed copies of Dear Abby columns that Mother had always thought were just so right, pictures of models cute enough to make her melt, and lots of other stuff -- even a few things that her own mother had given to her on a day that had been a lot like the day of our story, though a lot different.

After listening to the rise and fall of the whirring Cuisenart for a few minutes, Father got such a hankering to out into the kitchen to see what was going on, that he did just that. When Skipper saw Father get up and start silently creeping out into the kitchen, he just had to follow, because he liked to do everything that Father did. Mother had her back to the door when father entered, so he snuck up behind her and gave her a big hug. Mother snuggled back into Father, rubbing her ample buttocks back and forth over his bulging crotch, before turning around so that they could embrace properly.

Father reached around behind her back and tried to slip something into the Cusinart, and though Mother did not even look like she knew what was happening, just as father's hand neared the batter, her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. She pulled his hand out into the open and they all looked down into his palm at the little blue and white Madonna from the dashboard of the Buick. When mother saw that little blessed virgin, she just broke out laughing, let go of Father?s hand, pointed at the batter, and gave father the old ?thumbs up!?

Skipper watched the Madonna fall down onto the chopping blades and get pureed, and he wanted to put something in that batter so bad that it felt like he might pee. He grabbed the closest thing, which happened to be a big mop with a wooden handle that was a good two feet taller than Skipper. He held that mop up in front of his parents and asked them, "Can I put this in? Please, can I? Please?"

Mother looked at the size of that mop and she just had to laugh, and that laugh was still in her voice as she said, " I think it would be pretty hard to get that in the Cusinart, honey."

"I can make it fit, Mom. Remember, the puppy, mom? He was bigger than this mop."

Father had to say something about then, because someone had to change the subject. ?You know, honey, I think you're underestimating the men in this family. Skipper, you go ahead and give it a try." Then with a wink to Mother, he added, "I might have something else for you to do before you have time to finish the job, though. Go ahead, Skipper, show your Mom that you can get that thing in there."

Skipper climbed up on top of the counter, put his feet on either side of the Cusinart, shoved the gray, swirly mop head down into the batter and used the toe of his sneaker to hit the ON button. The silver blades began slamming into the wooden handle, hitting so hard that it was all Skipper could do to hold on. Twice he lost his grip and the mop went all crazy, banging into his thighs and the cabinet (but not his peter, which is what Skipper was kind of worried might happen).

As Mother and Father watched Skipper struggle with the mop, they exchanged proud and amused smiles, but it was obvious to both of them that the job was too much for the little boy, so finally father stepped up to Skipper and gave him a friendly punch on the arm as he said,
"Son, I have something more important for you to do.?

Skipper knew that Father didn't think that he could get the mop into the batter, but he was determined to do just that. He used his most confident voice to tell Father, "No, I'm big enough! I am! I am!"
"I know you are," Father told Skipper, "but I have something more important. Go out into the garage and get the funnel that I use to put transmission fluid in the Buick, then take it out in the back yard and rinse it out real good with the hose, okay? This is important, every speck of oil has to be gone - we don?t want rogue lubricants getting into the batter, by god no. Rinse it out real good, alright?"
"Dad, first I want to do this. I can do it!"
Father's voice became sad, "Oh, I know that you can, son . . . it's just that, well, I guess that I can try to get that funnel clean . . . I don't know if I can, not with these eyes of mine. Getting that mop in there is a lot easier than cleaning a funnel, so I guess you should just do the little boy work."

Skipper thought that Father was being honest. He jumped down off the counter and started running for the garage. "You go ahead and take care of that stupid mop. I'll make that funnel so clean it'll look just like new."

"Son, I know you will." Father called out after the disappearing Skipper.


By the time Skipper came back in and proudly displayed a clean, red, plastic funnel, the batter was done. Skipper had meant to tell his parents about getting tangled up in the hose and how the wet spot on his pants wasn't what it looked like, but when he saw the batter he forgot everything and his face filled with a look of wonder. "It's like green snot, but it smells great! Like a fish stick shake, or something! Can I have a taste?"




Mother picked up the bowl and held it out to him, "Go ahead and take a little dab on your finger." Then she turned to Father, saying, "I know you're just dying for a little taste."

And Father was.

Both put the green slime between their lips at the same time and then let out long moans of satisfaction. Skipper liked the batter so much that he even stuck the tip of his tongue under his fingernail to get at a tiny green glob.

"Oh, that's good, dear," Father told mother.

"I could eat this stuff everyday!" Skipper added.
SHE THE END (edit - delete)

Mother blushed warm at the compliments. She took a certain pride in her cooking and commenting on it was a sure fire way to just make her melt. She looked down right delighted as she picked up the bowl of batter, held it over her head and began a little dance out of the kitchen and down the hall. Skipper and father joined in the little dance, though Skipper quit pretty quick, because he was sure that he looked nerdy.

While her family was in the kitchen, She had been laying in her bed, her wrists and neck wracked with agony from the cutting chains. She had no idea what was really going on, but she had seen lots of movies about weirdo?s doing really sick things and could imagine all sorts of stuff that she didn't want to happen to her. She was so scared that she started shaking like she was cold and making a sound like a mouse, "Errrrk, errrrrk."

When She heard her family come back into the room, she opened her eyes and started to ask to be let up. But before she could talk Skipper and Father jumped on the bed, grabbed her by her hair and twisted her head until her ear was pointing up toward the ceiling. Then Father pulled the funnel out of the waist of his pants, took a firm grip on the red plastic with both hands, and, with all his might, slammed the thin nozzle down into her ear. Red and yellow gunk squirted out, covering father?s arms all the way up to the elbows. She?s eyes shot wide open and her mouth started opening and closing real fast, her lips making a circle that grew big and small, big and small--like a goldfish gasping for air in a filthy bowl. Mother poured the lime green batter into the bright red funnel, and it flowed inside She?s head.

The green gunk seeped through her brain dissolving all of the problem things that she had fretted over, and sometimes even cried about; suddenly they didn?t seem so important, like they had lost some obscure power over her. They were almost gross. Like they were bad things to even think about. She could finally see them for what they were -- buzz killers, to be avoided by looking at pretty things and being pretty and making things pretty.
The old gray chains somehow melted into thin air, and the bloody wounds on her wrists and neck were all gone. Why, even her clothes were changed! She was suddenly wearing an outfit that She was pretty sure came from the Gap or their bastard child Old Navy, but right then she didn?t even want think about child labor. What did it matter where her clothes came from, anyways?

Laughing and carefree, she jumped up from the bed, bounced her head from side to side in a parakeet manner that everyone recognized as mothers, then turned from one face to another, and offered one and all as cheery a smile as they had ever seen. Then to father, She said, "Gosh, I guess it's time to dye this crazy hair back to brown. Will you take a chip of paint off the wall in my room, so that I can make sure that I match?" After She explained that she explained that this was a joke, they all laughed, and there were big old bear hugs all around, too.

They bridged the generation gaps and all that stuff, and then they all lived happily ever after... REALLY.

COCKROACHES PROVE SMARTER THAN REPUBLICANS

Cockroaches Live in a Democracy
Jennifer Viegas - Discovery News




Cockroaches make decisions as a group, new research shows. (iStockphoto)
Cockroaches govern themselves in a very simple democracy where each insect has equal standing and group consultations precede decisions that affect the entire group, indicates a new study.



Why are the roaches happy little achievers? They work together for the good of all. If this is programmed into cockroaches, it makes one believe that we too are acting out biological impulses by usuing democratic principals... which adds me to think that some individuals who are only pretending to do this while actually acting like predators have fucked up the whole dream....

BEATING OFF FOR GOD

or, beating off religion...


An MRI can document which part of the brain goes off when we think about god -- basically the ones that release a pleasing chemical brain bath; a little more evidence for that whole 'opiate of the people' arguement.

I am sure that some people will take the mild buzz effected by having/thinking about religous experiences as a reason to find a religion, and others will think god hardwired us to worship him... I don't know which disgusts me more?

Can humanity ever be stripped of their gods? Not as long as they remain the primary means for humans to deal with 'The Overwhelming.'

This is I suppose why cults are so popular -- they give people a 'high.' I mean, humans live for a small set of feelings and then put up with the rest, right? And they are always looking for ways to feel better that don't involve outright self-destruction...

There are other ways to stimulate this part of the brain of course that do not involve cocaine or god or the neighbors soiled dainties. People should start just whipping out their genitilia during tense business meetings and masterbating as they tell co-workers, "Stress. . . reduction . . technique..." When they bitch , the five finger frolicer could just say, "Hey, you guys pray, right? Well, I am just tapping into the same brain area to get a similar effect."



God spot' researchers see the light in MRI study

Ian Sample, science correspondent
Wednesday August 30, 2006
The Guardian






Brain scans of nuns have revealed intricate neural circuits that flicker into life when they feel the presence of God.




The images suggest that feelings of profound joy and union with a higher being that accompany religious experiences are the culmination of ramped-up electrical activity in parts of the brain.





The scans were taken as nuns relived intense religious experiences. They showed a surge in neural activity in regions of the brain that govern feelings of peace, happiness and self-awareness. Psychologists at the University of Montreal say the research, which appears in the journal Neuroscience Letters, was not intended to confirm or deny the existence of God, but set out to examine how the brain behaves during profound religious experiences.

Mario Beauregard and Vincent Paquette used functional magnetic resonance imaging to scan the brains of 15 Carmelite nuns who were asked to remember the most intense mystical experience they had ever had.

















When the scans were compared with others taken beforehand, the scientists found electrical activity and blood oxygen levels had surged in at least 12 regions of the brain. Some regions, such as the medial orbitofrontal cortex, are strongly associated with emotions, while activity in the right middle temporal cortex is believed to be responsible for the impression of contacting a spiritual entity. The scans showed different brain activity from those taken when the nuns were asked to remember intense emotional experiences that involved another person.







The findings contradict previous suggestions that human brains may have evolved with a "God spot" - a single region that lights up in response to deeply religious thoughts. "Rather than there being one spot that relates to mystical experiences, we've found a number of brain regions are involved," said Dr Beauregard.

As Candidate, Obama Carves Antiwar Stance

from the nyt


By JEFF ZELENY
Published: February 26, 2007
WASHINGTON, Feb. 25 — Senator Barack Obama is running for president as one of the few candidates who opposed the Iraq war from the beginning, a simple position unburdened by expressions of regret or decisions over whether to apologize for Kate Phillips and The Times's politics staff report on the latest political news from around the nation. Join the discussion.

Iraq remains a defining topic in the opening stages of the 2008 presidential race, but it may prove easier for Mr. Obama, Democrat of Illinois, to revisit the past than to distinguish his views in the future. The current Iraq proposals of Mr. Obama; Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton, Democrat of New York; and former Senator John Edwards of North Carolina share more similarities than differences, including a gradual withdrawal of troops.

Though Mr. Obama is framing his candidacy to appeal to Democrats who have long opposed the war, until recently he was not among his party’s most outspoken voices against it. He campaigned strongly against the war in his bid for the Senate in 2004, but when he arrived in Washington he waited 11 months to deliver a major speech on Iraq.

And only after Mr. Obama opened a presidential exploratory committee did he introduce legislation to withdraw American combat brigades from Iraq by March 31, 2008.

In an interview last week, Mr. Obama said he intended to continue using the authorization of the war to distinguish himself from fellow Democratic presidential candidates. In addition to Mrs. Clinton and Mr. Edwards, Senators Christopher J. Dodd of Connecticut and Joseph R. Biden Jr. of Delaware voted to authorize the invasion.

“The authorization vote is relevant only because it gives an insight into how people think about these problems and suggests the sort of judgment they apply in evaluating a policy decision,” Mr. Obama said. “There are people who sincerely believe that this was the best course of action, but in some cases politics entered into the calculation. In retrospect, a lot of people feel like they didn’t ask hard enough questions.”

Mr. Obama was not always so critical of the Congressional vote, taken on Oct. 11, 2002. In several interviews before the Democratic National Convention in 2004, where his national political ascent began, he said he did not place blame on Democrats who had voted to authorize the war, conceding he had not been privy to the same intelligence information.

Now, he appears intent on drawing the contrast between his early opposition to the war and the Senate votes to authorize it by Mr. Edwards, who has since repudiated his vote and apologized for it, and Mrs. Clinton, who has not apologized but has said she would not have supported the resolution had she known then what she knows now.

These days Mr. Obama dismisses the suggestion that it was easier for him to speak against the war because he was not serving in the Senate and therefore not obligated to vote on the matter. He recalled worrying, at the time, that he might lose his Senate primary election because of his decision to oppose the Iraq invasion.

“It certainly didn’t look like a cost-free decision when Saddam Hussein’s statue was being pulled down in Baghdad,” Mr. Obama said in an interview. “I was in a hotel room in the middle of my Senate campaign, watching that happen, and President Bush’s job approval rating was at 60 percent. Those who voted for the authorization felt pretty good.”

In a Senate debate on Iraq last June, Mr. Obama voted to oppose an amendment seeking to set a specific timetable for withdrawing American troops. His current position on a withdrawal mirrors the conclusions of the bipartisan Iraq Study Group, which recommended a specific time frame for troops to leave.

Now the politics of the war seem to be working in his favor among Democratic primary voters.

As Mr. Obama has introduced himself in the opening weeks of his candidacy, few subjects have garnered more applause than his criticism of the war. He does not refer to the conflict as Mr. Bush’s war, which antiwar candidates in the Democratic Party did in the 2004 election, but rather is seeking to expand the circle of responsibility to those who supported the invasion.

“We continue to be in a war that should never have been authorized,” Mr. Obama told an audience in Iowa last week, making a not-so-subtle reference to Mrs. Clinton and other Democratic rivals. Two days later, at a Texas rally, he said, “I am proud of the fact that way back in 2002, I said that this war was a mistake.”

As if on cue, the crowds of Democrats cheered with gusto.

Nolden Gentry, a lawyer in Des Moines who has been in audiences to see Mrs. Clinton and Mr. Obama in the past month, said Mr. Obama’s position on Iraq was one of many factors setting his candidacy apart in the eyes of Democrats. “He’s more pure on the war,” Mr. Gentry said, walking from a town meeting where he and 2,200 others had seen Mr. Obama.

1 2 Next Page »
Staci Semrad contributed reporting from Austin, Tex.

ths is the new... bible... yes, bible

Along with south park, greg the bunny, rumble fish, white noise and karl marx... we need to cull and gather and discuss every line as we pray through these keys to the creature of savage grace... wake up to the agenda of the very words themselves -- they want us to train and school and practice until we can gonzo up some sacred words... ask barton fink, johnny got his gun, cold mountin -- they will tell you they are part of a never-ending, huge, awesome, endless discussion leading to the sacred now, this bible everywhere -- on tv's, computers, radios... we'll know the prophets by how much they inspire us to the right path.

Somebody had to do it, and an over-educated atheist with the genes of generals and crusaders and monks and the fight of the streets and the night's brand of wild, is about as qualified as anyone. I think I mostly qualify by loving myself and you and forgiving everyone for everything. You taught me that. Thank you.

DA BALLAD OF john da booFIST


Can't imagine myself moving through crowds of lepers
manifesting the prophecy
that goes along
with this

HOMECOMING


BAPTISE YOUR OWN NAME
NEED NO ONE

become a FOOTNOTE
in a computer buried
in a nuke withstanding mountain in Utah
why not?

MAYBE u can save the dead

as long as you take into account all the other
unweildy tombs SCREAMING in the libraries
the faces in the tv's and computer
that made epic on the silver screen

AND THE SACRED GONZO


B proud
to be
acknowledged
BY ALL
as
one
who ponders great questions

not one who comes up with great answers
WE DON'T NEED ANY MORE GREAT white MEN ANSWERS
for
now
just
learning to listen will take tens of decades


so we're pretending real
in this pipedream of peace
this toddlertext teetering
uncertainly
through the
infinite jest

JIHADS END


OSAMA BIN LADEN
laughing at A PSYCHEDELIC PEACE BEAR
in his LAP TOP
as he HITs A HOOKA on A WEBCAM
and blows some sweet smoke into MY PARTY!!!!!


WE NEED ALL
EVOLVING beasts
IN THIS ONE SILLY ASS TRIBE

STAY IN YOURS

JOIN OURS

WHATEVER

CHILL


ARTISTS AND WARRIORS
YOU HAVE DESTROYED

NOW
YOU CAN FINALLY CREATE
HELP THE CHILDREN


HEROes

CIRCLE THE FORESTS and animals
BAYONETS DRAWN
let no enemies pass


LET the ragged soldier's GREAT FAMILY LEAD the desert
let his gentle smile be their true reward
softening our hearts and opening our minds

WE NEED TO FIND OUT
from bin laden
WHY THIS HATE EXPLODES ACROSS THE GLOBE


DON'T YOU WANT TO TAKE A CLASS WITH THIS DUDE

PICK HIS MIND
HAVE A DOOBIE AND ENJOY HIS GENTLE SMILE SIDE

HE FOUGHT FOR YOU
ONCE
BEFORE YOU LEFT HIM FOR DEAD
LIKE WE DID SO MANY
TO THE UNKNOWN HEART BREAK OF SILENT SPIES
AND POLS AND WARRIORS AND MOTHERS AND MONKS AND MAD MEN AND

PAIN here marching through the carnage
trying not to wretch again







LET HIM GO HOME

LET HIM ADD HIS WORDS

TO HISTORY

HE HAS EARNED HIS REsPEcT

HE IS A WARRIOR

LET HIM SING

I LONG TO HEAR HIS SONG




DON'T LET HIM DIE
ALL CRIPPLED AND DRUGGED
AND MYTHIC
THIS IS NOT THE TIME
FOR ANOTHER ABUSED CHILD
TO DIE FROM OUR LACK OF TEARS

let the hunters go home

Bin Laden is stranded on Jacob's Ladder




holed up and tired and sick and feeling like he has already died a thousand heroic deaths
and what's one more?

lot of people feel that way
are born feeling that way
longing to explode in rightous anger
dreaming of going out taking down enemies
killing off as many as the good lord allows


HE CAN BE SAVED
BY a creature
of SAVAGE GRACE

by

OUR TRIBE
THEY GREAT THEY
NOW
IN these
the last moments
of OUR TIME




FIGHT FOR PEACE
BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY*







Let the eagle sing love into osama bin laden's name


Let our poets weave his smile into

MIGHTY SONGS OF PEACE





*jacob's ladder: film about dying vet's learning their fate.


*our god GENERAL MALCOM X... if you have not read his SACRED WORDS, your ignorance is probably sickening to the CREATURE OF SAVage GRACE... THAT CAN BE DANGEROUS TO ALL INVOLVED. GET WITH IT, GIRL.

eagle turned on Saddam and Attacked






Saddam was one of our warriors way back
we crowned him a prince

he fucked up and we fucked up
hell everybody was fucking up
it was war & shit never goes the way anyone really wants

son went all mad dog in the end
when we decided
to use the kurds
to take him down

HE HITLERED UP
for security purposes
went to war

saddam's head was so dangerous
the executioner ripped it right off
the crowds screamed and cried
tried to drive his mighty spirit away from the gallows
rightly so trembling in fear
at the horror of his coming wrath

His spirit surprised everyone & no one
with a wave and a tear
he forgave them their place in history
as great men do

as
great men

expect



sorry old soldier left hungry alone in your fox hole

wish i could have told you

we are praying
for you


to all enemies we sing: our hearts are still open
our minds are still free

we were not effected
by they great they's
enchantment spells

we too are sickened
by
the
rotting diseased cloak of these lies







we are coming for you

i am
a man of my word
the word
your word
our word



YOU ARE FORGIVEN

forgive us


We just didn't make it in time saddam
this stoic crusader was still marching silently
through the carnage
seeking rank on missions top secret
waging war from under deep cover
pretending always to go along



waiting

waiting

waitng

for the order

to come down




you know how that is

I

salute

u



we all salute you

bin LADen's FATE WILL BE DECIDED IN YR NAME



ARE YOU READY FOR HIS WRATH???

FOR HIS SPIRIT TO inspire THE YOUNG
ALL OVER THE WORLD
INTO BEING rightous, SENSeLESS bombs?


somebodies GONNA DECIDE THE poor soldier's FATE

HE WORKED FOR YOU ONCE
before we didn't need him for a few years
we were sure he was would
lose our religious brainwashing
the fervor of war we stirred up in him to fight the soviets
and settle back into his family's capatil



will they MURDER
OR FIND THE GRACE
TO LET HIM GO HOME

LET HIM TEACH
US WHAT HIS LIFE IS LIKE
AS A CRUSADER FOR THE RIGHTOUS

fart splatter and the skid marks...




yea, you are not going to hear this name everywhere soon... of course we are talking about the latest incarnation of my Billy Idol cover band, Really Idol, which did his stuff before the age of six, before he ever sang any songs.

The new band will continue our policy of playing non-music. This is because we are the first band to have the fucking nerve to confront the noise pollution problem. . . . people are going deaf, and like no one cares except our band, man... we gotta do something, cause being rock gods makes you all knowing and all seeing, like Bono (in private, he has all of his assistant's calling him Jesus and preparing to drink poisoned Kool aid... you would think no good could come from this, but their last album shows he just might be on to something . . . at least if you don't play it, like we don't).

Come to one of our concerts and we will loudly introduce the songs that we will not sing. Crowd pleasers include, "You Light Up My Life," the entire Barry Manilou collection, as well as new favorites by the latest winners of american idol. You should hear the wild roar of that crowd when we do not play these songs.

FIGHT THE MOWER!!!

The w spent the hour before the weekly briefing



.... thinking about ways to get back at what he thought of as, Them damn quoters. He hated people who used quotes more than anything else that he could just then think of that pissed him off. As soon as Cheney and the others sat down in their chairs, he opened his official writing pad, the one he had put the presidential seal all over both sides of the blue cover, and read, Here is the damned problem, you seee? Quoters. Those bastards who think it is cool and learned to memorize some damn passages. Next time I am talking to some bastard head of some bastard state, and they throw a quote out at me, I want to be able to quote right back at these bastards. Quotes? Yea, quotes, damn them. They¢re like snapping some guys ass with a towel in the shower. You got to fight sting with sting in a situation like that, and I say so with, do not forget, the full force of the frigging army, of the states of united America!!



Sir, umm, not to beat a dead horse, but I have to say again, it is, The United States Of America?



"What I say, dammit!"



"States of the united America. "



"Is that one of them god damn hand held phones?"



"Yes, sir. I can play this back to you, when you deny? well, when we discuss this."



"Goddamnit, give me that? The W pointed down at the recorder, his face showing a look of disgust he usually reserved for enemies of state."



"Sir, it has got a lot of notes on there."



"Are you refusing a direct order from the commander and chief, which is an act of high treason and I have read recently, I can have any body shot, if shotting is needed."



"What?"



"He can do it!" Cheney barked out from the largest chair in the room, He can have you dead, now. I¢ll do it. Strangle your ass. Don¢t test me, I read a few books about Vietnam.



"Vietnam, huh?" The W interjected. He stood up and walked over to the window, clasped his hands behind his back, and in a voice which the W considered heavy, he told the gathering, I'm been thinking maybe I'm, uh, yeah, you know, having flash backs to Vietnam?"

The group of suited men sitting around the table all looked up from their notes and computers. W¢s words had stunned the assembly into silence. No one wanted to be the first to speak, since none of them had actually been in any wars, though all had profited heartily in some way from them in the past, and actually going to vietnam was not a topic any of them liked being discussed. Yea, it¢s hell. The W added. Pure hell.



The Cheney, as he thought of himself, finally had to speak up, Sir, I . . . didn¢t know you were in Nam? The Cheney asked him in a very wary voice, as he silently went over in his mind the plan he had to assassinate the w and take control, should the w ever get too insane to handle. He had been watching for signs of this dementia since he entered the oval office, always prepared for his chance to take control? he once wrote in one of his secret journals that he had masterbated to the thought, much to the chagrin of his ¡not often enough for her tastes¢ serviced wife.



"Yea," the W told them, "we'll just see. I think I was in Vietnam, whether I remember it or not. I was drunk a lot, probably doing other shit, like doobie smoking, toot, whatever
the hell they had over there to get a good one on, you know? "

A General to the W's right also had a plan to get rid of the president, though only in the case of that being absolutely necessary and his wife agrees. His wife had forced him to agree to the last part, one night after he told her about the plan. He got off on taking orders from her while she vacated her bladder over his feet, and since they actually both enjoyed this experience, they felt like they were meant for each other. The general could not be happier, and wanted to hold on to that woman at all costs? and he was pretty sure the w would go crazy, and cheney and the others above him on that oh so short chain of command who get unfortunately bombed by some crazy arab kids he was keeping in a van out back of the local ROTC building, all hopped up on coke and meth and chanting death to America pig breathed infidel buts. He put his hand on the but of his gun and felt a tinge of electricity cross through his right testicle.



"Mr. President, uh, I mean. W you were not, according to existing records, in Vietnam. However should you wish to have such paperwork delivered to your office, that can be arranged asap, Sir. Dammmit, I forgot to say sir all those times before this? so, here, let me just say, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir."



"I think you missed one, hoss."



Uhmm, yes, mr. president sir. Sir.



"Now, as far as my time in the jungles of that hot hell. Remember them jackets that said something like, I been to Vietnam, so hell ain¢t so bad. Something to hell like that. Get me one of those. A couple, for when I spill stuff. My time in those dear, forgivingly jungle hostels. Eatin, rats. Probably. Everything is classified about this topic, all need to know. I was doing secret fucking missions. Nobody used. Hell, I had a double that filled in for me here."



"Uhm, sir, is this a joke?"



Are you saying Viet-fucking-nam was a joke?



"Well, no?"



"W. The w. I was one mother fucker over there. Hell, I may have killed some babies or something when I was drunk. Man, I could tell stories, and I will. I got me a source feeding me the true stuff, shit you guys don¢t even know. That's what it's like to be the president of only the whole free fucking world!!"











Cheney put down his reading material, the latest tv guide, and asked, "Who told this to you, sir?"



"One of them CIA guys."
"Which one, sir?"
"They all look the same. I have told you that so many damn times, Dick."



"Sir, it is possible that someone has played a trick on you."



"Cheney, listen, I can rewrite history, right? Like we talked about. So, why not this too? Make them believe goddamn it, and make it a law that no one can question this story. You know, send some boys over and kick some journalistic ass, or refuse somebody to some damn dance or something, whatever you have to do."



"So, you made up the CIA agent?"



"I have no comment on that matter at this time."



The W looked down at the hand held recorder and remembered that he was going to smash the damn thing if anyone used it to correct him again? Without that evidence, he could just deny whatever they said he said, like he always did. "Give me that goddamn thing?"

"Sir, I have a lot of notes on that recorder. Please?"



"I just want to look at it."



The owner of the offending recorder turned to Cheney, "Dick, please?"



"He just wants to look at it," Cheney told him with a smile that he liked to think of as classic chaney, which he had practiced for what would amount to almost six and a half year of his life.

"He said that before and, well, he made that too classified to discuss, didn't he?"



"That did not happen". W.'s cry was soon followed by a chorus of denial from all around the table. Never happened, and, That man is breaking a law by bringing that up, and other variations of groveling words. "Give me that piece of junk."



"Okay."



The W bounces the hand held recorder on his palm, watches the tiny black tape spin around inside as he talks, This damn thing has caused me enough trouble. Trouble. Trouble is sitting here too damn long. The recorder falls out his hand and onto the table as he motions toward the door, I'm going to go someplace else now. And do some president stuff."

Forgotten, the recorder falls down onto the table and then is retreived by it's owner and he lived happily ever after for a few seconds.

PRESIDENT DISCUSSES FLASHBACKS TO NAM.



THE PRESIDENT ROCK STAR W'S STATE OF THE UNION REPORT DEBACLE



has gone widly unnoticed by the public, who have genuinely stopped reading any stories about the president because, as one liberal source is said to have said to someone who said it to someone who said it to me, quote: "We won't read it, period. Too fucking depressing. Having this guy in the white house is like having a death in the family every fucking day. You have to just let that anger go. Sometimes I just think the CIA put him in there to drive me crazy. They have this one secretary there, I talked to her on the phone when I called, and though she would not admit anything, I know that she was assigned to drive me crazy."



The unscensored version of the true, true, true, true, true story. . . on certain levels. Really. . .



White House Sources say Rockstar W. was too wasted to attend THE STATE OF THE UNION, so Robot W. , who everyone secretly likes a lot better than the real one, was called in once again to give a speech. When the story first broke to the press that Rockstar W was sitting around all day coloring and absolutly refuse to do any of what he calls, 'presidenting,' once again, the Robot W went before the hostile cameras of the press and handled himself so well that American's just kind of accepted him ever since. An NBC Poll shows, when asked about their opinion of the flesh president, most americans believe, 'anything, of any species, is better than this angry terd.'

Rockstar W. is said to be so proud of the Rockstar W. the robot that they have made a copy of W.'s wife, who it is rumoured will give the rockstar W. head all day if he wants it (which has, allegedly, led to the president's much discussed penile chaffing problems, which he was hospitalized for the second day after Rockstar W's Robot Wife arrived.


The Rockstar W. later gave a brief statement to the press. Looking somehow serious, bemused, and arrogant all at once, the now red eyed and liquor breathed W. talked about his absence from the State Of The Union address.

"Maybe I'm just being paranoid, or something, man, but dang nabit... the reason... I wasn't able to do this event, which was..."

At this point Cheney was out of the door. Clearly visible inside behind him was what first was thought to be the robot W's robotic wife kneeling on the floor with come clearly visible in great white globules in her hair and on her face. . . though later reports made clear that this was indeed just the Rockstar W's real wife, not her new and improved version, as he indeed believes. A new law makes it illegal to tell the president about this instance, punishable by life in prison.

Rockstar W. turned to Cheney and high fived, thinking they were fucking buddies because they were doing the same chick, and that maybe they should have a threesome?

After finding out he was talking about from a reporter, Rockstar President W then continued.

"Yeah, I been missing a lot shit lately. Stuff I damn well want to do,
not just this stuff. You think it's easy living with my memories of Nam? It ain't man, it ain't. A car backfires and I hit the ground. I wake up late at night sweating and screaming about 'killing gooks.' I mean, I don't have anything against the Vietnamese people now. We fought them. They didn't want to fight us. We went there. Should of kicked their asses, didn't."

Cheney then had a breif, whispered conference during which, apparently, he was once more reminded that he had never been to Vietnam. "Okay... I read a lot of Vietnam books back when I was strong and could read about long marches and brutal fighting with no problem at all. No one told me that I would be scarred for life, man, and suffer these flashbacks. Hey, I thought I was helping save the democratic way by reading about the firefights... Oh, man, I still look up at all the planes going over to make sure they are one of ours. Hell if I'd been writing those books, we could have won that damn war. In fact I might just do that, with some damn ghost writer... Why the hell am the only one who can come up with new ideas like this? I guess that's why I'm a rock star, man... I know everything. Everything. Chicks? Got em. Smoke? Got em. Blow? Got em. I get the munchies man, I got cooks ready to fucking serve me their own arm if I ask... that shit's kind of gross, and like I told my mom, I didn't they would take a presidential decree that seriously. She didn't buy that because I had those security... uhm, what are they... my posse, yea... the sunglasses guys in the suits.. well, they did where suits, until I became a rock star, and could afford to dress and get haircuts like the very early beatles."

W then opened the floor breifly for reporters questions.

"You are saying, sir, that being with loose women, doing drugs, and hanging out with a posse of Beatles look a likes is more important than giving the state of the union address?"

"What the fuck? What the hell planet are you from? I thought they were only letting the nose to the ass guy's come to these things. Hey, somebody catch that little reporter there, that fat one, the one that looks liberal. Damn, I guess I have to fucking point for you damn beatle heads. Yea, you guys, beat the hell out him... Okay, now who has another question... you."

"Hello sir, I'm with Rolling Stone magazine. I wanted to ask..."

"Fucking Rolling Stone, huh?"

"Yes, sir. And my question..."

"Bet you get some fucking good weed, don't you boy?"

"Uh, no... We now kiss your ass, too, sir... and it used to be that Republicans were, well, against weed. I grew up Republican, of course, because you only let third generation Repulican reporters into these press conferences..."

"That's a fucking national secret!" The W. Screamed. "Somebody shoot that fucker. Make him disapear."

Four men dressed like the early Beatles, complete with a bowl hairdo, then surrounded the reporter, who our sources at the White House say is now in a monastary somewhere and will not be contacting anyone anywhere ever again.

Reporters on the scene claimed to have no more questions as we all high fived the W and then went out to Ginger and Mary Ann's, a strip club with a Gilligan's Island theme -- on him. It was fucking great.

hamster army said to be doing manuevers on the Iranian Boarder!!!!!!!




Rumors continue to fly that Rockstar W has hired a private army to take over for american troops presently quagmired in Afganistan and Iraq. For weeks these unsubtainted rumors could not be substantiated . . . until now.

He is hiring my hamster army. THis is pretty cool, but he won't fork out the money to buy them personal body armor, or even metal sheeting to keep their little jeeps safe from sniper bullets. Just like he tried to do with the human soldiers, who W is known to refer to, confusedly, as 'the masses meat,' in an evident reference to their coming from the masses of the classes that historically supply the battle fodder in wartime, due to their relative powerlessness in society.

When asked about the 'masses meat,' comment, the W had this to say, "Look, you weasely asshole. I got something called breeding okay? The masses ain't. And new meat, hell, that's just something that soldiers been called since... or was that a prison movie? That one I saw that. . . caused me to get a woody with the guy on guy action. You had those two homo's killed didn't you? I'll need the videos of that, by the way. Little research I am doing. Top secret."

Later, as the W came out of House Of Blues, where he had just seen his fantasy concert, which he arranged as a command performance, with the Rolling Stones opening for his all time favorite, the Chimpmunks, he was heard to ask, 'How the hell do they get those Chipmunks to sing anyways? I mean on the records, you know? I mean, I could tell this was just a cartoon. But on the records, that shit is straight up chipmunk.'

When asked about the possibility of the government hiring a hamster army, the W responded, "Now, that is one hell of an idea. I bet the president who does come up with that great idea will .... well, get patted on the but, so to speak, by the whole nation. Not a faggie but pat, I' talking a football player to football player... hell."

When reminded of what he was talking about, the W continued, "Hamsters are just brilliant. I'd get them if I could. Surely the enemy is checking them out, breeding their baddest, toughest crop of hamsters ever, I hear. I can't say nothing but good about hamster armies, that is for damn sure."
"Does this mean, rockstar president w sir, that you have a hamster army? And my question has a second part, as well. Is this hamster army equipped in any way to defeat well armed humans?"

"What the hell? Two parts? Did I say I was giving you goddamn interview? Okay, we have hamsters. Lots of them. I been keeping them in the basement. They got a huge one here. Everybody else thinks I'm keeping the bodies of hookers back there, and stays out. "

Cheney was quickly flown to the scene in a helicopter. Taking the rockstar president w's place at the microphone (where w had been making fart noises and then laughing over and over for the last forty five minutes). "Hey, whatever he said, he was just kidding. Pulling your legs. Hamsters in the White House basement? Hell, dead hookers maybe, but not some rodent. I am anti-rodent, in most cases. Lab rats are required. I am not anti-lab rat. Hell, I hope they torture rats. Anyways, no hamsters here. Now, who wants to go on a press junket to Honolulu? Anybody? I can send anyone who doesn't want to go to Cuba, little slice of cuba where you can wear a hood for a couple years, find out what it's like to have your balls wired up to the electric sockets in your room, so whenever your interrogator comes in ands flips on the lights you can't wait to tell them what they want. Wait, I did not say that. No, I was just kidding. I mean, I said it, in the context of kidding. We're practicing for, uh, April Fools Day. THough of course, last year, when the W called Russia and said the Nukes were in the sky was excessive, though I think everyone can laugh about it now. Except that one town that was actually nuked. Thank god that wasn't in America. There was not one American death. No one thanks the president for that. The Cheney Out."

Flashing 'v' for victory signs, Cheney was observed getting into a limosine with twelve, horny, obviously erect afgan hounds. Cheney's personal ass greaser, Rush Limbaugh, was also seen in the limo, dipping his hands into large vats of Crisco and laughing maniacally.

I woke up this morning thinking, "Damn, I'm in the mood to fucking kill those assholes protesting abortions."

We stretched a bit, soon enough sat up, drowsily creeping toward our first cups of coffee. I told M, " The fucking government should give us psycho killer's a license, okay? To fucking kill those assholes protesting abortions."

By this time -- that being mere seconds since the little death with dreams dropped away, as I passed into another pointless day, M., the weekend pot head, was handing me a bowl and simply ignoring what I had said, like she tends to do when the conversation gets too weird for her. Once, when my mom was talking about all the people she tortured, M. broke into an anecdote and tried to get everyone to start talking about my paintings. My family just quieted for a moment as they all kind of looked at M. with what used to be called the evil eye... I had to cock my shotgun at that point, let that 'cha-ching' tell my family that I was keeping thier asses covered when they are near me and mine. I also hide a few claymores under thier chairs, all wired to an apparatus I have hidden under my shirt sleeve, on my forearm. These are the same babies I use in the front yard, where some say that they have led to the mysterious disappearences of hundreds of door to door salespeople? Now, me, I don't know if this is true, or not... in fact, the whole not incriminating myself thing is something I really need to keep in mind while I am typoing away in here.

I was wearing full body armor during this family gathering, and still wishing like hell, every time by bum leg hurts -- which is every time I take a step, that I had been all armored out during the New Years Mayhem, as the papers called Dad's party. I guess we just drove around in a limo shooting people who were wearing furs... I mean, we may kill, my family, but we have fucking high standards of what is civilized, okay? I mean, we do not kill the working man, or steal from him to support our killing ways, if possible, but there is always going to be some collaterol damage, like civilians getting deep, deadly if not cleaned, ankle scratches from vicious, highly trained hamster troops --- who probably go just plain out blood crazy and don't care whose ankle they assault in battle.

Over all, you could say we are on the side of the underdog, alright? My mom was in the union, where our genetic predisposition toward just cutting down our enemies came in handy, as you can imagine. We actually used to occasionally have to keep a dead body in our freezer, just for a day or so, until a Fixer came in with acid and turned her into what he said was an enviornmentally safe liquid that he pouered into a sewer hole... making me think, I will drink this man into my body sometime....




There are too many people on the planet. Over population could be the death of us all. Something will have to be done. In the case of deer, which are not nearly as ecologically upheaving as humans, there is a license, a season, and lots of laws against breaking these taboos. Why not give psycho killer's a licenses? We could kill all rapists and murderers hands down no exceptions and no apologies accepted -- because if these bastards want to be cold, let's let society be cold right back. Don't let them live. You rape a woman and you are a major freak who needs to die. You molest a kid and you die slow. They could just let loose all the damn prisoners in for these offenses, out into some damn woods, and get this over crowding issue finally dealt with.

Human meat would come into vogue; the skins could be fashionable boots and other fashion excessories. I mean, human testicles could be ground up and sold to chinese peasents as cures for just whatever the hell we decide. Ignorant peasents are easy to dupe. The skin will be make shirts, ottomans's and.... oh, I don't know some kind skimpy skirts... I don't have this quite all worked out yet, but I do have about a dozen notepads filled with tiny letters that constitute my notes on the subject of what will be done with the skin. I for one think burning or burying corpses is a waste of meat, not to mention the skin, which could be used to make inexpensive clothing items and fashion accessories.

T be continued after I hunt down some bums and blast them right off the welfare line and sate my need.

Franklin looked over the knick knacks of his life and noticed himself staring out. He sat back in the chair, pushed away from his desk, looked at the pictures neatly laid out before him, the grey stapler, the computer monitor, the chipped cup filled with pens and pencils; and realized, in a manner deep and profound to him, that these disposable trinkets were really the sum of him; the numbers in the equation of his life.

He looked up on the beige walls of his cubicle, at the plaques that he had received over the years commending him for making the various sales quota's, and such; the largest of them was for never using a sick day, for which he also received a nice bonus. Back then he thought that he could drag himself to work with the plague if he had to. Just then, however, nothing in his life motivated him to go on.

His attendence record was destroyed after he ignored searing pains in his side and his apendix burst. His lawyer had wanted him to sue, and somehow the company caught wind of that and cancelled all bonuses based on attendence as a pre-emptive measure, making him quite unpopular with some of the long term enployees who used to go on their vacations each year on the bonus. Most of them had to quit vacationing, he included. Not that he would have done anymore than get drunk on cheap beer and watch movies.

After his apendix exploded in his gut, he caught numerous infections, and ended up having to lay in the hospital for almost two months. Laying in the metallic grey and white room in his paper pj.'s with nothing around him to remind him of who he was, he had felt the same sense of loss that was sweeping through him that morning and convincing him that his life was falling apart. Before the hospital, eight o clock meant this job, nine that one... there was a purpose to his existence, even if it was just making him money he did not even neccessarily need anymore. With no office to go to, he became that sterile, lysol scented room... a creature that he did not recognize. A thing that ate and spewed, ate and spewed.


Whittlecuts comes by his cubicle, nods politely. Frank nod's back. In the office, everyone knew their place, he liked to say. Middle mangement made him basically the boss of most people in the company. He would never be made the head of the company, or ever really listened to in the important meetings. He knew this, and was just grateful he had been able to go as far as he did. He had no faith in himself at all. Indeed, he had no self to have faith in. He was merely a sum of what the corporation wanted him to be; from them he got his hair cut, car, manner of speaking, choices of restaurants, where he vacationed --he had become just like the herd of adults that he had despised when he was a kid.

Now looking back, he can see that no one, not one kid he knew., grew up to be the usual answers from kids about what they want to be when they grow up. No firemen, astronauts, presidents or even nurses.

The town he lived in was where he was born and he knew everyone there. Just four hundred people in a small space out in the flat fields of Ohio with huge homes built by McKill's Company, and they all looked the same. Brick red. Period. Every house in the town. The front windows and porches were alleged to be where the houses would all be different. At least that was what the brochure said. They were being careful to sell lots where the buyers could not see anything similar to their house; and no one noticed at first, not with all the tree's that had been planted, as well as the privacy walls up around people's lawns. The price was so good that they sold out in a few days, mostly to realitors. Some had already turned over their properties and gotten rich.

He seems to hear David Byrne singing in his ear, "This is not my beautiful house." It had seemed that way since his wife, Phyllis, passed away. He had come into work just a week after the funeral. That was all his vacation days. They would have gave him a leave of absence, but he had no idea what to do with himself other than cry. With her gone, who he was seems more in question than ever. He liked the person he was with her. She had been enough for him. He was on the sunset side of middle aged, balding and grey and bespeckled... without youthful beauty, he felt barely visible to others. They treated him like an old man. He was more than that. He was once young like the kids in the cubicles on the floor below his, and now was older --having that kind of life knowledge should have made the twenties something kids curious. No. He didn't eat alone because there was always someone else there like him, alone and just eating.


He reaches down and opens the left hand drawer of his desk. His skin looks thin on his aged hands; it is almost transparent, shows his blue veins pulsing underneath. He takes out a hand held recorder and a black .38. He writes on sticky note -- MY LAST WORDS, puts it on the recorder and starts talking. "Hi. Sorry to leave this mess in the office. I had no alternative. I did not want to make my house unlivible for my daughter. My will, made out a few years ago, gives her the house. I am sorry for what I am doing. I left this body long before this, in some ways. Became inhuman in small ways. Stopped seeing the person pouring me coffee in restaurants. Learned to ignore any and all distractions from my purposes in life -- including my children. I gambled that religion and money would see me through anything, but now I know there are no saviors and you can't buy love. That my pain seems endless. I no longer will roll the stone up the mountain, or let any birds eat my organs. That's all folks."

He puts the gun on his temple. Feels the cold circle of the barrel on his warm skin, closes his eyes and squeezes the trigger. Behind his closed eyelids, he sees the bullet hitting the side of his head, smashing through his skull... His head hurts like hell and he is still alive...

He passes out.


Franklin woke up in a hospital where he stayed until he was stable enough to ship to the psychiatric ward. His doctor prescribed Xanax and Prozac. He stayed in the hospital six months, became physically disabled and qualified for two pensions.


The rest of his life he spent seeking out books he loved, vistas in nature, great art... He was his surroundings, that they had said was true in the hospital. For the next thirty years, Frank became something of an eccentric, bought an RV and traveled all year long. He met another woman eventually, and felt grateful to be alive... and almost grateful that he shot himself. He never forgot the day in his cubicle noticing what he had become, and the thought kept him moving from the Niagra falls to the Everglades to the Smoky Mountains and the Pacific ocean. . . and yes, for once in my tales, he lived happily ever after.

persona non grata





"HARFILDOOP, eh? Changing jobs is it, then?" The older man squinted a bit as he looked him over, then smiled kindly and motioned toward the wooden chair in front of his desk. He was wearing the typical office outfit of a tie, shirt, dress pants and shoes.

"No, sir. I had a fall, head injury. Since then... well, it was recommended to me that I overlay my last programming again." Harfildoop lied.

He was in a great hall in the Receiving Area,tucked into a small cubicle with just enough room for a wooden desk and a chair for visitors. Visitors had to be led in and out of the maze of cubicles and desks. The building was over a four blocks long and absolutly stuffed with brown room dividers. All of the administrators looked the same in this deparment -- programmed as they were, to be kindly administrators filled genuine concern for the people they deal with.

He is surrounded by hundreds of other workers who are being reassigned the personality best suited for their new jobs. To be fair, everyone had to change jobs every three years -- otherwise no one would do the menial labor. One could buy ones way out of this, like one could almost anything in Trumpville.

Everyone was programmed to love their job, no matter how menial. He has gone along with the system since his birth, for over three hundred years, and had no idea there was a choice -- until the rebels programmed him to join their cause...


The administrator laughed and told him, "Oh,
"Well, that sounds very easy, doesn't it? Okay, yes, i would recommend a full memory dip, destroy any last vertiges of your subjective experiences. Any phobias developed since your last personality adjustment?"

"No, sir... well, wait no... have I always had the rat thing?"
"Well, I'll check on that. Can't be having you fear rats out in space, eh? No getting rid of them buggers. No matter where humans go, we bring them fucking rats."

"Really?"

"Well, I like to think so. Love rats, myself. Real troopers, they are. Okay, I have everything we need to input your data. Have a seat over there, and as soon as we have the new you programmed, we'll bring you in."
"
Of course."

Harfildoop looked nervously about the room; the tranquil blue color was designed to make him sleepy, and usually did, when he was changing jobs and needed his personalty adjusted. Personality reconstruction was required, though it hardly had to be -- who would want a personality ill suited for their job?

People once had done something like that, had to work at jobs they hated -- he remembered as much from ancient history. Humans were miserable until psychiatry matured enough to provide relief of the mental anguishes, both large and small, that had been man's lot since they were ooze.




The personality overlays had never been a problem for him before. They usually inserted enthusiam for the next job into the personality, so he was always happy, in fact. He had always accepted that his tastes changed, and his ideas were those that best suited being in harmony with geographical area, as determined by the computers and then injected into him through drug induced hynosis, and mild, very selective, electric shock. He had never cared that he was changed into something else... or he thought that he didn't. Now that he knew they were making people to run machines, that they were all part of a mind numbing religious beuracracy that was entrenched world wide, he was ready to do what he could for mankind, as the machine trained them. All personalities were willing to sacrifice to save the Trump Empire.

Now he wanted to stay who he was. There was a woman who he did not want to forget. She was programmed for him, and he for her.

He slides his hand into his suit coat pocket, feels around for the detonator... puts his index finger on the button. . . he breaths in deep, as his lungs expand he feels the bomb belt pushing hard against his ribs. A terrorist? At first, before the overlay was complete, he had been so damned surprised. The resistance was hacking into the personality reconstruction site, and they gave him a personality meant to thrill at the thought of fighting and love explosions -- convincing him to blow up the Personality Processors....

He didn't like the idea of killing his agent, the more he thought about, the more he realized that he did not want anyone dead.

He had never felt like he had a choice until right then. . . he had never tried to deny a personality trait, in fact he had always encouraged them, of course -- they were expensive, after all. But now... he did not want to die.

Two months ago, he reported for new work assignment, and was excited to see that he was going to get to go off planet to help mine an asteroid belt out near Venus. He did his paperwork, then went down to get his personality traits. He was going to be amiable for awhile, which he liked. Management types had to be hard asses sometimes, and he was no better than anyone else, so he had to play the asshole sometimes...Everything that day was normal until he went under... he layed down on a slab of steel covered in a white sheet, and then the slab pulled back into the machine, into a steel tunnel leading into the mettalic bowels; a very small space that seems to wrap around him like a fist.

The usual images that flooded the mind were benign, comfortable. This time the images were horrifying, showing the outers, the ones living in the radioactive dust beyond the Trump Ecosphere. Horrifying babies born with grotesque arms and heads growing out of their stomachs, four eyes, six arms... all dead...dead... probably killed. He had known next to nothing about the outers; knew just what his various personalities needed to use his best work years for the good of all. He had always believed that they wanted to live outer, but now he knew better. Now he has met with them, in the months since his personality changed into code name Praxis.

They are new at making terrorists. Made mistakes with him. For the first time in his existence, he felt free will. He had no idea such a thing existed until his last overlay. Now it seemed precious somehow. He didn't want another personality to posses him that has no free will -- in fact he would not even know the term, since the computer would consider such knowledge 'Socially Disruptive.'

He thought, 'at least I'll never have to be a plumber or oanyone else who loves the smell of shit. . . god, I seemed to hate that even though I loved it. Weird.'

He knew that there were nine terrorists, one at every center in the city. The timing was exact, and the routine at such places never erred. They would all be sitting, waiting for the computer to put together a program for their next life. Everyone in their place, tucked into the small island of humanity that is left here in what was the United States. Almost ten million people.

He looks out into the hall, at the garbage can. with the nuclear bomb. He had not known they still existed until the machine inserted the how to into his brain.

Now he hated everything the unholy temple stood for - making men into machines serving a mindless system that goes on of its own accord . . . a mental disease, and he was the cure.

Around his was a world that he was about to help destroy. . . . 'whoever programmed me as a terrorist had to be among the ruling thirty,' he thinks.

They were the consensus voters on all new personality adjustments. Their job was to keep mankind moral through deep psychological training. One of them had decided that the only moral thing to do was destroy the tools of the system. Someone would build more personality adjusters, of course. The resistance planned to strike fast, before the machines could start producing the mercilous soldiers that they create as needed.


The agent will be gone for up to a half an hour; the apparatus of the programmer was so cost prohibitive that their clinic was forced to share nine of them.
Plenty of time for him to find his way out of the building, to somewhere safe. He was detonating the bomb through a cell phone, and could set it off from the other side of the world if he wanted. s left to get the program. The process usually took up to half an hour,

He thinks, 'No one is to blame.' He could see the system now with new eyes, comprehend how it just went on and on unchallanged; it could be defeated without the bombs... he was sure of it...

A fog was lifting from his mind. The rebels told him that they had enhanced his intelligence, sight, smell and sense of touch. They were trying to make what they called 'great men and women.'

There were no great men anymore. Great men cause trouble. The histories dismissed them as narcisstic users.
Now the rebels were making them again. His conditioning had him convinced that their cause would win and that he would be a martyr welcomed in heaven with laurels and song. . .

He looks out of the cubicle, and seeing no one. He begins to make his way toward the door, following red arrows on the floor. He thinks maybe he will leave the building, and then detonate the bomb. He has to ask three people for directions on his way out.

He finally makes it to the revolving glass doors, pushes his way in, begins to come out the other side. A black shape appears in his periphery vision, then there is pain in his chest, like someone has punched him hard as hell.
Another knife stabbed deep into his back, through his ribs into his heart... they were stabbing him again, and again.... Someone reaches into his pocket and finds the detonator. He recognizes his killer. A woman from the resistance. They had sent her as back up... in case he did what he did.

He wishes like hell the machine had never made him a terrorist... longs for a quiet, peaceful life. As his slows, he closes his eyes and thinks, 'death feels just like falling into a nice deep sleep. That's a fucking relief. I thought this was going to be so. . . . .'

The blast throws him through the air, across the plaze in front of the building, into the glass window of a bank kitty corner from the administrations building. The thick glass holds firm, breaking most in his body -- though he could care less, since he was already dead.

===========================================
THE ABOVE IS A TRUE STORY. I knew old 'Hard on Hardy,' in college. Weird that he went to live in the future and all, but hey -- who am I to criticize the guy? I suck.

Pee Wee Herman' Penis Set To Testify Against Him!!



Yea, the cops got to his penis. Turned it on him. You slap someone around like Pee Wee did his penis, you got to expect the damn thing to turn on you. Yea, that penis was telling the cops where Pee Wee was, and what and who he was doing, in what orifice and with what thrust frequency 24 hours a day. This is not just an idle conspiracy theory dreamt up by some stoned writer in Chicago... . It's more than that. I mean, who wanted to bring PEE WEE down?

He was a gay hollywood player and you know that scared some people. This was right at the height of Act Up's breif rise to political power. Yea, the government, they knew his penis was his weakness. He just couldn't leave it alone. So, they bugged his balls, got the penis to point him right into an adult movie theater, and practically jump out of his pants.... oh, yea... Yea, the Pee was wee that day, so to speak.

I have now set the record straight. Please, spread the word, the government will do anything to keep down Pee Wee and his irrepressible Wee Pee (as PW calls his little one).

No free man of good conscious should rest easy until this penis related tragedy is dealt with.

HEBLER'S TALKING CAT


Dr. Helber came from a long line of slightly whacked out inventors; men and women who were geniuses in arcane manners altogether different than playing baseball or having spouses. Professors and hermit writers mostly, with the occasional sensational madmen and drunks.

As a child looking over one of his family gatherings, it had seemed to him that only the children were sane and at least nominally average in their socialization (he was always having thoughts like that, even as a child). Hank Helber had thought he would be different. In the first rebelllions of his youth, when the hypocrisy of the world was almost too much to bear, he had promised himself that he would never fall in love with the idea of something that only a few people on the earth would care about.... like his uncles who only really came alive when they were discussing their fields of study. The older they got the less they noticed things like wearing socks and brushing their teeth. A lot of the women were on anti depressents.

His family tree was full of people who climbed so high that only a couple other humans on the planet could follow them. He despised them until he was 20 and getting his masters degree, and realizing that there was no way he wanted to spend the rest of his life supporting himself dealing weed and living to surf. Economic realities forced him to leave hawaii, quit smoking weed and surfing, and start working at one of his uncles labs. His moving advance was more money than he had made in his entire life.

The huge salary stole his soul. Within six months he developed needs that he didn't even know existed when he was poor. A bidet that he could no more go without than deoderant, his shirts had to be perfectly fitted... pants had to be creased --he would have once rolled up the legs
and ignored whatever little kasnivel that was wrong with them purely to make his usual second hand purchase.

Now, here he was, finishing up twenty years of work in his own lab, after aprenticing for another ten with other top scientists in the fields related to his field of study -- inserting vocal capabilities into otherwise dumb animals, so that they could express their wills, and thus have more say in the affairs of the earth. Once long ago when the juices of youth were spurting out of his every pore he had believed that he could really help the world, save a few species from extinction.
He was pretty sure that he had.

In his biography, he wrote:

'As my lights up stairs dim and some go out entirely, I suppose that now is the time to tell the darker side of my experiments. That which is too embarrassing for me to allow to come out within 100 years of being alive. I drew up a contract based on the one Mark Twain used to keep his darker poet from effecting those he loved.

I want to tell the tale of Buk, most controversial of historic figures. As a revolutionary leader, his image has been mythologized so much that sometimes I barely recognize the cat that was, the real feline who lived. He didn't say a lot of course, but what he did has become something of the mantra of our critics,

After the surgeries and the nanotechs increasing his language abilities and the thousands of hours of being read to and lectured and all the other little surgical nuances that it took to insert the proper vocal cords in his furry throat, after giving us no indication that he could utter a sound for three months, Buk suddenly looked up at me and said, in a voice clear and modulated to perfection, "That you think you have done me a favor shows me that you are truly lost."'

He died then of course. Well, he might as well have. He wouldn't speak, eat. Withered away."

As he read over the first page of his biography, he thought, 'I kept doing the research, even after that. SO maybe this is when I lost my soul?'

For twenties years, his experiments never really got any better results. Thinking back over this, he realizes that he is kidding himself if he thinks he can take the mental pain of writing his biography... He had somehow thought he could find a little bit of redemption by offering a cautionary tale to others. The concept never really had a chance to get off the ground.


Later that afternoon, his car seemingly missed an exit off the Kennedy Expressway and slammed into a huge concrete post, tearing him into four distinct piles of flesh. His last thoughts took place in the pile where most of his brains were. He was aware of a fire waging around him and
had a feeling that there was a hell... and indeed, seconds later, from far off at first and then getting closer and closer, is a horrifying laugh that could only come from Satan.

building humans



demons and angels
crawl out of the alphabet
tear in through my eyes
and eat my brain

THESSLER, KEEPER OF THE PIGS


Thirty nine million two hundred and forty six thousand years before our story takes place, massive shifts in plate teutonics wiped out the last vestiges of the Humanians off planet civilization. No one knew about a planet called earth, or the civilization that spawned their species and sent them on great ships out into cold, black space, after they destroyed their original host planet, leaving their once green and blue eden black and brown, as dead as the sterile vaccum of space that replaced the sweet oxygen of the atmosphere.


The abscence of life in the universe was almost expected during all the years of expoloration, but discovering it was true was still a shock, that their planet really was a special place... that their little splash of life was all; how could the series of accidents reapeat again? Not even in the infinite vastness.

Thessler, Keeper of Pigs, was not aware of any of this, and indeed would have considered the tale just so much pig shit. .. history at that moment was not helping him one bit and that was all that would have made this interesting to him. He had responsibilities, had to keep the pigs in line, make sure that they turned over their offerings every year.
His job was to negoitiate with the upstart animals, of course; for all times from now until the then, pigs and horses and vegetables had been forced to give humans what they required to Sustain and Pursue The Happy, as had been written over a million years before, in the first recorded histories....

Humans knew that their ancestors had given the pigs and cows and goats and various vegetibles and fruits their ability to reason to increase their ability to survive in hostile climates... being able to speak and tell their owners where they hurt or how they could be happier had seemed like the humane thing to do, though this was of course an after thought of the practical consideration of keeping their food alive as their species migrated out into more often than not cold, dead space.

Kessler watched the newsies on a wall size holo. Pigs throwing bombs, mostly. Piglets throwing stones. There was rioting in no less than seven cities down the coast. He could pretty much forget his quarterly bonus
buying him a new summer house. The Cow's were going to be trouble again this year, too, he was just certain of that. The damn bovines were always trying to gloam onto any contractual advantage that the pig's wheedled out of the humans -- and the pigs were willing to send their children out to blow up over even small points of protocal, like where the damned water glasses were set during a particular state dinner.

As Keeper of The Pigs, his head was about to roll over this one. The pigs had been content for over 390,000 years. They knew their history, how the humans made them. Some of them now thought that their 'Bacon Tax' had been paid already. They were even threatening to go off into space by themselves, though they had no feasible way of doing so, without taking vegetibles and humans along to feed on.

Kessler also knew a bit about how poorly they were doing with the vegetibles this year. Every source of food developed on the planet into a thinking species. Now they had only each other to prey on, in an endless cycle.. the humans corpses went to feed the plants, which than supported man and the animals that he fed upon.

As Kessler silently raged about this, he was astounded to see, from his 345th floor apartment, a space ship, a gleaming silver behemoth, glide down from a blue sky and hover over the entire downtown area. He was no less surprised later that night, when the Newsies reported that the ships were manned by the descendents of an earth plant, the Strawberry. And when the lowly humans were marched onto ships to be the food supply for the strawberries, who it turns out were intergalactic pirates with no moral scruples about destroying anything that was not strawberry, he was surprised all the more. ... but, he sure was glad to be off the hook on the pig thing, and isn't that what it's all about at the end of the day, huh?

This is certainly how Thessler, Keeper of Pigs, lived happily ever after . . well, that and the complete apathy of the strawberries toward killing humans -- which they found disstasteful if not out right immoral. The strawberries left the humans to live out their natural life spans relatively undisturbed, all in all, and no one really seemed to care too much, after a while, that they would be eaten after their long, comfortable lives.

I heard all this from a very good source, by the way... in the government.

judaeo-corporate lifestyling

child
they will capture you with sweet words of seduction
whisper honey and cream into your ears
promise twenty acres and a mule
sign a contract with your nation
anything to get behind you
to plunge the knife deep into your back
so they can sell your meat
to your children

nothing can stop
the mental slave traders
the judaeo-corporate marauders
sailing the seas of our collective consciousness


so sick of the fucking corporate
excuses for killing me

this whore of a world is all played out
watch it die

BANG BANG BANG goes the gun in my head