fromanyalley

Dear Sir or Ma’m: I Cannot Afford Anymore of Your “Protection.”

fromanyalley — Mon, 29 Sep 2008 03:36:45 +0000

My father was, among other things, a pro-gambler. He liked his choice of professions and pursued it through many houses, some shady deals with some guy named Monkey Monahan, and approximately one hundred cars, whose pinkslips he’d thrown down as “security.” We were flush for a while and then I’d go to my grandparents’ place in Delacroix until my old man could “heal up.” I was used to all that. My dad refused to bring real big-assed trouble into the house, except for Monkey Monahan, who, like my father, was a mathematical genius and a pro-gambler.
The nearest I came to a real mobster was some moke who was a member of the Cajun Mafia. He showed up in the yard of our rented shotgun shack, got out of a very nice highly polished Packard and hitched his pants up around a huge gut. He wore suspenders, and I saw he also had on a belt before it disappeared beneath the avalanche of his belly. He looked big and ridiculous, but not particularly dangerous. I kept digging a hole. I dug holes back then. The yard looked like an entire mine-field had blown up all at once.
My father was suave. He truly was. He dressed in custom suits and loved the best shoes money could buy. He got tears in his eyes over a new pair of Florsheim two-tone wing-tips. He had a handkerchief folded origami-like into peaks and flourishes in the breast pocket of his English-cut suit coat. His hair was always combed and cut, his fingers clean, his nails manicured. He had been an OSS officer in China during World War II and carried a little thirty-two belly-ventilator when he had important things to do. He was no thug. As far as I can tell he did not actively break any laws, or at least any major ones. He was a professional. He was no criminal.
My father came flying off the porch of that shotgun shack and slammed the fat man to the ground. I stopped digging my hole. I learned then that violence is not a ballet, it is not beautiful, and it is hard to see, if the man producing the violence knows what he’s doing. My old man apparently knew, because I could see his shoulders and arms working and I could hear the fat man gargling and whooping, but I could not tell what exactly was going on. My dad could have been kneading bread dough for all I could tell.
My old man had longish hair back then. It was strawberry blond and he combed it back in natural waves. When he stood up, which was just a few seconds after he’d body slammed the fat guy, his hair was messed up. It was in his eyes and he was sweating. I sank into the hole I’d dug.
The fat man rolled over, slowly, cursing, cursing in Cajun so it sounded like a song. He hauled himself up and stood heaving and shaking. Finally he threw-up on the hood of his shiny root-beer brown Packard. My old man pulled a black pocket comb from his hip pocked, waved it over his head, and his hair obediently went right back into place, perfectly.
With the exception of mud stains on his suit pants and a welt on his left eye he look just like my dad.
The fat-guy in the bad suit with a broken nose and a split lip and blood coming down from one ear crammed himself into the beautiful, puked on car and slowly drove away.
That is the true story of what happened. My father denied it. His version was that he had politely but firmly escorted an over-zealous insurance salesman off our lot. No hitting or blood or Cajun Mafia. No little thirty-two suddenly showing up in my old man’s hand and then disappearing like part of a carnival magician’s act. My father would shake his head when I would tell him I had over-heard him in conference with Monkey Monahan about the goddamned sonovabitchin’ Cajun-thug driving all the way from Gulf Port just to get his ass stomped. That if the boy hadn’t been a Cajun my dad would’ve put his lights out, but the sonovabitch was probably related to us somehow. (My mom was half-Cajun, so the old man was probably right.) When Monkey asked what the goddamned sonvabitch thought he was doing my old man said, Well, I couldn’t afford not one more dime of his protection. Which is what my old man told me, except this was the end of his story about the overweight, overzealous insurance salesman. My old man would always shake his head and say, Why do you remember things in such a lurid way? He blamed it on my early exposure to Faulkner. My old man thought Faulkner was crazy.
My dad has been dead for a long time now. I miss him. I loved him. He was a good man. I did not know every single one of his faces, but no son truly does of any father, and mine died when I was 17yrs old, so I had very little time with him.
It is now the very end of September, 2008. Criminals have again come to the house. There is not one, stupid, fat man squeezed into a cheap suit. There are many, many criminals in the front yard. One of them is the President of the United States. There are others, ghostly figures, dressed so well that my father would have had tears in his eyes to see their shiny $10,000 shoes and elegant hair-cuts. With them are members of both legislative houses, both parties, and a pack of minor functionaries that would make Adolf Eichmann look like a saint.
I have no idea what the stupid, brutish fat-boy Cajun wanted from my old man. It may not have even happened. It is important only to me. I do know what the pack of jackals clawing and yipping in my yard wants. The pack wants seven hundred billion dollars. It wants to save arrogant, avaricious, selfish, criminal motherfuckers from their own black and stinking sins. The pack does not even know why it wants seven hundred billion dollars. According to a Treasury spokes-person they just wanted a really, really big number. Seven hundred billion dollars is a HUGE FUCKING NUMBER.
The neocon criminal Nazis who have destroyed the Constitution and abrogated all laws are right out front, begging to be fed, begging to have the perfect world they have been allowed to create propped up on my hard work, the hard work of my wife, and on the lives my two sons who are fighting the dirtiest and most damnable war imaginable for the very people who want even THEM to chip in and save their soul-less, vile, evil selves from the reality of their own lewd and lascivious lust for everything they see.
I hate them. I hate them with every fiber of my being. I hate them because they have crushed and demolished good people; they have killed the sons and daughters of good people; they justify and rationalize and minimize and sit before us in suits and clothes and jewelry that cost more than any four of us make in an entire month and they say they need money. I fucking despise them. They are the pestilence of their own beloved Bible which only tells them they are good and we the poor are bad. I detest them because they are hypocrites without conscience given authority over us by virtue of their secret bank accounts which exist in fact in the Caymans, in Sweden, and in China, for the love of god. I hate them because they have sold the Chinese government ONE TRILLION dollars worth of treasury bonds. I hate them because they have sold my country, the country my father fought for, I fought for, and my sons now fight for. I hate them because their children are protected, their children have ample and world-class health care, their children do not know and will never know the true meaning of hunger and despair and fear, the kind of fear that will eat a ten year old boy’s heart out of his chest and cause him to sweat poison for the rest of his life. I hate them because they are the plague that cannot be stopped and will not be defeated. I hate them because they walk the earth and breath the air. Fuck them all and their seven hundred billion dollar blackmail scheme.
If any of you crooked goddamned sonovabitches would stop and listen you might figure out that if you took just one half of that figure you so conveniently pulled out of your fat asses and divided it among the people who really need it, the people who make less than five hundred thou a year, we might be able to pay off some debts, we might be able to own our own homes free and clear of your terrible and horrible banks and their bottom-feeding, duplicitous, appalling excuses for human beings who have conned and seduced us into mortgaging ourselves into the next seven lifetimes. They are a waste product of this garbage heap of decadence and deceit they call a Free Market Economy .
Just give us half, and then gorge yourselves on the other half. You have no idea of what you are doing with this nation’s wealth. We, the poor, the marginalized, the no-longer-middle-class know exactly what to do with it. We will save it and pay down debts and maybe take the kiddies out to Six Flags over FuckYa’ll. We’ll use it to prop up our very small businesses and to hire workers and we will begin to reconstruct the crumbling infrastructure of our blocks, our towns, our counties, our states. Give it back to us. Just half. Half of it to those without health care, to those who don’t have the money to drive the thirty miles to a job that is now costing them to work there, charging more and more for health care, fighting workman compensation claims, and hiding the money which should be going back into the company and into raises. Give it to us you corrupt conniving pigs. Your villainy is epic. Your rank arrogance is that of the aristocracy on the eve of the French Revolution. You tax us and tax us without representation, you lie and steal, rape and plunder, you own the very justice system which is supposed to protect us from monstrosities such as you and still you demand more and more and more. You murder our children in your sickening wars. You demand our daily sacrifices to feed your greed. You are Caligula come back alive. You are every monomaniacal tyrant returned to feed on our blood. Is not even God Himself sick of you yet? What must be done to rid ourselves of you? Take all your capital and all your possessions and your half of the seven hundred billion blackmail and LEAVE THE COUNTRY to the CITIZENS.
In five weeks there will be an election. Neither party deserves to win. Neither party deserves to swagger into office filled with glad tidings and bonhomie. Both parties have fouled the country to the point that President Wen of China, that is Communist China, is not only prescribing ways and means to fix our economy, he is offering his condolences.
He is telling us on national television that he is gravely concerned and hopes he will not have to redeem the ONE TRILLION dollars in T-bonds unnamed and unknown representatives of this country’s government sold the nation of Communist China. Does no one see the extreme irony here? The Communist Chinese Government will wait until the traitors and despots and petty demagogues of this country have bled it dry, and it will then OWN US. The Neocon-Jee-the-Cold-War-Was-Peachy will hand this country over to the Communists. And they will undoubtedly dun the poor Chinese with a finder’s fee. Both parties are to blame, no one who holds office is innocent. Graft, cronyism, corruption at every level, enough to make Grant’s Administration appear pristine.
The Speaker of the House now speaks of “protecting mainstreet.” She and her party and members of the other party are poised to throw enough money at Wall Street to fund free healthcare for every man, woman and child in this country for four solid years. It is ready to reward the most outrageous criminal acts perpetrated upon this nation since nine-eleven. Just as the terrorists rocked our country on that date, so now our own government pays internal terrorists to go back to doing precisely what they have been doing throughout this miserable administration’s mishandling of every facet of government
Speaker Pelosi, you have a fine fashion-sense, and you present yourself with all the gravity of a seasoned politician. You appear in the photo-ops with members of both parties and both houses. You are steady and reassuring. You are even polite, in a cold, distant, aristocratic way, which is to say you reek of noblesse oblige.
But here’s the thing, lady. I want you and your pack of craven politicians off of my yard and out of my sight. You have the entire swag. Give us, the poor, the REAL owners of the swag just a piece of the action, fifty-percent. Then you go where you have to go, as quickly as you possibly can, and for the love of Christ Himself give us room to breathe and live and raise our families as well as we can. If you would protect me, Madam Speaker, and the various Honorables who stand behind you, then protect me and mine from you, and those such as you.
For Madam, I have seen the enemy. God help me, the enemy comes rushing, waving the Stars and Stripes.

Physician heal……somebody….anybody.

fromanyalley — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 02:43:18 +0000

In this little part of this little place people, like people everywhere, get sick or injured. Unlike everywhere else a doctor or physician’s assistant or nurse is not just up the street or a few blocks down. Here they are concentrated in health-care hubs, which means towns of approximately 4,000 to 6,000. It also means there is a hospital in the town and various free-standing clinics.

There is not a lot to lure a shiny and bright new physician to this empty little space in this empty little state. Money seems to be the big thing. Help for payment of loans, a guarantee of low-interest loans to start their practices, or free office space are all part of the package. And the young doctors bite. They are not all the favorite sons and daughters of incredibly wealthy families. Some of them had to scrape and sacrifice to buy the best education they could afford. There is no harm in any of that. A rural state is offered the services of well-trained, intelligent, good-hearted physicians. They are helped along financially. Everybody wins.

Almost.

In the last ten to fifteen years an alarming trend has emerged in the local medical community. Junky doctors. Not bad doctors, or crappy doctors. Doctors who are junkies. They come from the pool of younger physicians. They are, by and large, personable, attractive, bright young men (no women yet, but that will come along), who appeared to be set for a life of service and the material accouterments which an income far above the average can bring. They were married, many with children. They drove very fine cars or SUVs, lived in the best part of town, made friends easily and were given a great deal of respect. Doctors in small towns are always respected and constantly gossiped about. However, when your friend accidentally shoots you in the back with a .300 H&H magnum while hunting, or a power take off takes off your arm up to the elbow, doctors are pretty handy to have around, and then gripe about, especially when the bill comes due.

The younger doctors, those who have yet to entrench themselves in the community, walk a fine line. They are expected to be perfect, and are fully expected to fall from grace. The doctor who just recently had his hands in your guts up to his wrists is the same sonovabitch who should be horse-whipped and run out of town on a rail when he does not live up to the impossible expectations of the community. That also goes for his kids and his wife.
Being a small-town doctor is not exactly easy. Going to the super-market becomes a real challenge when everyone and I mean every single person wants to stop and talk or complain, or, weirdly, pull their pants down five inches below the belt-line to show you exactly where it hurts. Add to that the day-by-day demands of being a doctor making true life and death decisions and you have a man, or woman, who is worthy of respect. They may not be the nicest, or even the kindest, but they do a job which becomes their lives, and the lives of their families, and their patients’ lives as well. To watch even one of these highly motivated, intelligent, highly skilled young professionals burn themselves up is not a thing to celebrate. It is, in a sense, a time to mourn the loss of a potentially life-saving citizen. There are not that many doctors in the health care hubs, or in the entire state. To lose one is to lose too many. To watch them go through the loss and the muck of being a junky is at best painful.

In the past decade this small little area in this small little state has watched highly competent, good men make the most horrible mistakes. These young doctors do not have the cunning or the street savvy to actually be successful junkies. They have so much to lose. The average street junky is a dumpster-diving, system-manipulating, scam-artist. The street addict wears as many masks as he can. The average young physician is absolutely diametrically opposed to any and all of that.

Which is precisely why they fail at being junkies. That is not a criticism. Just as this is not a slap in the face of the medical professionals. This little area which is of little consequence nationally has, however, seen much more than its fair share of young doctors pilloried in the local press, and then tossed into the gaping maw of the legal system. There are drunks and lunatic junkies in every walk of life, farmers, teachers, bank presidents, auto-body repair shop owners. They, however, have figured out, for the most part, how to safely and illegally score the drugs they want to score. They have to spend a certain amount of time and a great deal of money. They know they have to be duplicitous and conniving. That is all part of the deal. The actual street junky knows that better than his own name, which begins to fade into the flushing urinal of his brain. He doesn’t forget his street-smarts, however.

The young preppy peppy doctors who want to be admired and who want to be legends and who want to have public affection are the worst junkies. They do so very little to hide it. They work with people who are trained to notice things, like a stoned colleague. The nurses, many of whom are up to their powdered little noses in junk can spot a fellow user three floors down. The nurse’s aides for crying out loud know when someone is high, or has been high, or is thinking about getting high. A junky doctor, once he, or she, begins to exhibit any signs of a junky, no matter how minute, is fucked. The doctor may keep going, but he, or she, is leaving a trail of needles and ampules even a coked-to-the-tits local cop could follow.

The worst thing is these junky doctors invariably take the junky-mess outside, to people who are minor civilians. These minor civilians are invariably caught up in doing some of the most illegal things in the most stupid way known to all of crooked mankind. The junky doctors more or less employ these mutts to help them, the doctos, maintain their own addictions and they do that by giving the mutts a taste of the product, or money, or both.

JesusMaryANDJoseph that shows the junky doctors are babes in the woods. They get mixed up with assholes and expect to have everything on the down-low. The assholes in the mean time are fucking up royally all over the place.
The local cops, god bless ‘em, finally stumble on to one of these jokers and the first thing to happen is the asshole rolls over on the doctor, no questions asked, as fast as he can roll, and he continues to roll until he is given the deal of a lifetime: immunity. The doctor is the Big Man, the asshole is just, well, the asshole, and the local State’s Attorney wants the Big Man for the Big Show.

Doctors do what they are trained to do, and see what they are trained to see. For those of you who started out with an otorhinolaryngologist(ear-nose-throat) guy and wound up with a proctologist(asshole) guy and are now on your way to a podiatrist(foot) guy, you know that you will wind up with a shopping-bag full of diagnoses, treatments, and recommendations. It has to be something like a through-and-through gunshot wound before there is an agreed upon malady (Fucker’s been shot) and an agreed upon remedy (Fucker needs to be sewn up). Even then it gets tricky if they let an internist in on the deal. (Fucker needs twenty-two different tests and he’s gotta dump in a jar before we touch him.)

When the doctor then immerses himself in the murky world of the criminal, he sees himself as being the goodguy. He cannot think of himself as a badguy. That goes against everything he has been taught, and all he believes. Even the criminals become just “good guys.” They KNOW how to party and the doctor is always treated with a drug-induced reverence because he has the keys to the kingdom–a script pad full of goodies and dreams come true.
Then the badguy rolls over on the doctor, who loses everything and winds up in a fed pen doing twenty to life, while the badguy, who has committed many more crimes, and many worse offenses, packs it up and heads for Arizona.
This is not an excuse for the doctors who became idiot junkies. They held our lives in their hands. Why they became junkies is not interesting. The fact that these bright and gracious and potentially very good young men, and yes, women, became junkies is what is interesting.

Out here, unless one can afford to drive to what is known as The Cities (Minneapolis/St.Paul) or to Mayo, one is pretty much stuck with the doctor who walks in the door of the examining room. That doctor can miss an abdominal aneurysm which will burst four hours after his patient leaves the clinic, meaning the patient will be dead a couple of minutes later, or the doctor will see a small spot on the forehead and save someone’s mother from the agonizing death of skin cancer. Because we have a restricted choice of doctors each one rises in level of importance to each and every one of us.

Fairly or unfairly the doctor in a small town will be judged, most often wrongly from spite or jealousy, but judged the doctor will be. He, or she, has bought the ticket. He or she must take the ride. Or get off and walk away. The choices exist and must be made or people will suffer and they will die.

I write this for all the good young men who have made the wrong choices and who are now paying the heavy toll. This piece is especially for a young man I admired and trusted, J.D. He was one of the smartest, most skilled physicians I have ever know. I wish him the very best.

I also invite the physicians who are actively engaged in feeding their addictions to remember the first line of their oath,”First, do no harm.” If you are a junky/drunk doctor you have to go. We live in a little place in a little state. But we deserve the best health care we can get and we work to secure and keep good strong medical personnel. Do not kill us or misuse us. The doctors I have written about have stopped being a threat to others because they have been put in prison or have been exposed and can no longer practice. I do not worry about them. I worry about you, the ones who are still out there.

And we know, we know you are still out there.

Do Whatever You Want To, Until They Tell You To Stop, Part 3

fromanyalley — Sun, 21 Sep 2008 05:39:29 +0000

The final, and worst crime, was committed behind closed-doors and unveiled before a County Commission meeting.
To be fair, this WAS reported in the local Daily Republican (”None of the real news we are bribed not to print.”) How this particular piece of news, as poorly detailed as it was, made it on to the front page is in and of itself a mystery. Obviously the self-imposed censors were busy divvying up the contents of the plain, unmarked manila envelope which simply appears in the mail-room at the exact same time, on the exact same day, every single month. Like clockwork.

Due to the vile nature of this horrible crime a bit of back-story is needed to fully understand it. So, we will begin with a once upon a time….There was a hospital in a small town in a little corner of a little state. The hospital was run by nuns. And a fine hospital it was. Babies were born, wounds healed, bones set, and old people died of the old folks friend, pneumonia, as it was called by the fairly good doctors who performed their services in the hospital run by nuns. The nuns cared about people and did not care for wealth. That is an odd thing about those nuns. They simply did not and do not care for money. It is seen as another tool with which to help people. They gave help and care to any and all. They would even “forgive” the charges for their services if the person helped could show hardship. The people who worked in the financial office of the hospital were happy and glad to find ways to forgive all or part of the person’s hospital bill.

Then, children, one day the nuns were no where to be found. A giant organization squatted where once the nuns had seen to life and death with equanimity, compassion, and respect. The giant organization began to feed. It appeared to feed primarily on money…blood soaked or otherwise. It grew and grew. Whatever heart had been there was going away until it was simply ruled out as too expensive.

Fast forward ten money gobbling years. That decade includes nearly all eight years of the Bush abomination. Yes, the crime committed, the heinous, heartless crime will be laid squarely at the door of Mr. Bush and Mr. Cheney. They set the lowest bar imaginable for all business. They glamorized profit, mean-spirited, spiteful disregard for decency, and made power the only thing worth living or working for. Many many people in all walks of life bought that terrible, evil lie.

Even here in this tiny corner of this little state the lie found good ground and flourished. Money and power overcame the nuns’ quaint notions of service to others in the name of a gentle and forgiving Higher Power. The neocons knew there was power, but it was and is upon the earth, and not floating around somewhere with an avuncular fellow who appears to like losers, such as the meek and the poor. The poor, as is well known, are a disease of the body of the state. Because the poor have less, they are less. They are not privy to such things as adequate health care, nutritious food, or, god forbid, respect. The first two of the three are commodities to be bought and sold. The third relies wholly upon the person’s ability to buy and sell. The person who has little may have served his or her country in battle; that person may serve his or community by acts of goodwill and generosity of spirit and time. However, if they fall below an established monetary level, they become the lesser-ones, the disease, the people nice people (meaning people with money) do not recognize on the street. The nice people may under-employ the lesser people. They may actively exploit and cheat the lesser people. They may even fuck a few of them every now and again. But there is a dividing line which will not and cannot be crossed. The poor are the poor because there is something wrong with them. And it may be contagious.

Two county commissioners, one named Dick, decided that the poor had been either too sick, or there were too many of them being sick. The poor who were truly pestiferous were causing the gigantic corporation masquerading as a hospital some financial discomfort. The county has a legal obligation to pay for the hospital bills incurred by what is termed the “indigent.” The poor. The two county commissioners looked at their wallet-photos of their heroes Bush and Cheney and asked, What would Dubya Do? The answer was clear, strike a slimy deal which is against the law and push it through whatever official channels it had to be pushed.

Let’s talk money. The county was staring down the barrel of a $146,000 dollar bill to pay for the hospital’s charges against the poor. That is $146,000 dollars for the entire year, which is $26,000 dollars over budget. $146,000 dollars, for the year is, as we all know, chumpchange to the Dubya’s of the world. They spend more than that on their specially bred, specially trained English hunting dogs. They spend more than that on gas-guzzling Humvees and the trophy wives propped up in the front seat. They have to be propped up since their natural inclination is to have their faces buried in the driver’s lap or they are so fucked-up on prescription pain killers, the kind that Rush Himself loves so dearly, they cannot sit up without help.

The two county commissioners of this tiny county in this tiny state apparently decided that the incredibly rich corporation masquerading as a house of mercy needed help. These are the same two clod-hopping, puddle-jumping rednecks who bellow like one of their beloved cows if the word welfare is even whispered in the room. They are the same two grotesque caricatures of law-abiding citizens who pound the table for the bail-out of lifeless, soul-less corporations, i.e., fannie mae, freddie mac, and down the list of corporate losers. Corporations aren’t bad. Poor people are. Corporations need help, and that help is in the form of tax-payer’s money. Poor people do not need help, especially if it is in the form of tax-payer’s money.

Following the lead of their heroes the late great Kenny-boy of Enron, and the lovely couple Dubya and his Dick, the two tiny little power-grasping commissioners decided to fuck the poor as royally as they could. Did they want to send a message to the state Republican Party that two foot-soldiers in the culture war could and would gladly be bought and sold if only they could have just a taste of the power and acceptance the political criminal is normally given? Did those two pitiful excuses for public figures actually think that they could cut a deal with the huge company pretending to be a place of healing and care?

They did, and they did. The deal was cut. Even the county attorney was left out.

At the last Commission meeting the two county commissioners who had finally and fully sold their tawdry and blackened little souls announced that the hospital had “graciously” agreed to send no more bills for the poor to the County for this fiscal year. The two sick little bastards who had become county commissioners to serve themselves agreed to make “some” changes in protocol which would make it easier for the county and the huge, rich, rapacious company to harass, bully and squeeze the money from the poor to pay for the accrued bills. The people, and they are people, are called indigent. Indigent means they have little or no money. The county, or at least two venal heartless bastards representing the county and the huge, gluttonous company intend to squeeze the money from people who have no money. This fits in with the idea of welfare for the rich, nofare for the poor very neatly. We must remember that there are more than two commissioners. Only two struck this diabolical deal. It is informal, unwritten, and illegal. The county attorney, a lawyer for crying out loud, left the County Commission meeting in disgust. Think about that. Causes one to become a trifle woozy.

The last part of the sulfur-soaked, informal, illegal bargain was the county’s cost for poor, sick, helpless people would be no more than $110,000 next year. What that means is the gargantuan company decided that it knew how many poor people would be sick, and to what degree next year, and the cost would be $110,000 dollars. This all translates to the simple fact that the hospital had drawn a line and said, That’s it. No more than x-amount of dollars. The self-serving nattering nabobs of nano-neoconism had their little self-images blown-up by the big, gosh-golly powerful corporation. In the process the law was broken, and people are going to pay, out the ass if necessary, but by-god they will pay.

The deal made will be alive and well and part of public policy one year from today. There is no question. The two culture warriors who promise to save the county $60,000 to $70,000 won’t have to buy one drink for themselves at the Moose Lodge bar. The good gigantic corporation will be defended from the grasping, clawing poor, who are bad people. The final solution to the cost of the poor will be investigated by an ad hoc, informal commission meeting in the back room of a liquor store. The rich can sleep safely knowing that the insane, greedy mass of poor people will not only be held at bay, they will be, slowly possibly, exterminated, by the natural laws of the free market economy. Health-care, as a commodity, will be sold. If the poor, some of whom are poor due to extreme ill-health or crushing medical bills, are unable to buy the commodity of health care, they will simply die, young and old alike. This means that over time the poor will simply cease to be, or their numbers will be at a tolerable, easily exploited level. The little county in this little state will be juden frei, er, uh, free of the leeches bleeding-hearts call the poor.

The callous, cold-blooded actions of the two commissioners is remarkable only for the idiotic announcement before a public hearing of an illegal act committed by two representatives of the county and a huge national corporation with its eye on the bottom line. Those two penny-ante politicos need to get their heads up and in the game. They will learn, and those who come after them will be even more devious, duplicitous, and deceitful.

In this little corner of this small state when our county commissioners say Next order of BUSINESS, they goddamn-well mean it.

Do Whatever You Want To, Until They Tell You To Stop Part 2

fromanyalley — Fri, 19 Sep 2008 07:01:57 +0000

There are one million people in the city, and one million stories….this! is one of them. Actually there are less than 800,000 human in the state at any one given time. To be honest, their stories are not that hot. The recent crime wave is, however, a slice of country livin’ that gives you, the ones who live in the macro-world, a slightly clearer view of this, the micro-world.
The news of the first act of the three part tragedy was delivered, as usual, not by an established news out-let. The local boys and girls of journalism are essentially sports writers who dabble in other areas of journalism only when forced to do so. The Daily Republican (”None of the real news we’re bribed not to print”) is essentially the propaganda arm of the state Republican Party and the Bullgoose Loony Booster Club. The true reporters are people with cell phones who call other people and tell them to spread the word.
The boozy, bloated ghost of Broderick Crawford condemned to appear in re-runs of Highway Patrol enters the room.
Calling all cars, calling all cars. This was the first, and one of the worst crimes reported for this day, which will ever be known as the Day of the Mad-dog Crooks. This private reporter was a woman who is certified in Crime Scene Investigation, has a degree in Criminal Justice, and is one scary-smart human. Even her last name is daunting: VRBSKY. Not a vowel in the bunch and do not quibble with her about the sometimes Y. To piss her off is to invite a shit-storm of retribution. (Where would we be with scatology?)
And someone has pissed her off. That low, quiet kind of pissed-off, which means a terrible justice will fall, swift, deadly, without warning. Some human vermin stole Frank. In the middle of a blue-skied afternoon, some fiend in human form, some scum with all the ethics of a crack-ho and the scruples of a pig broke into Vrbsky’s rural home and from all fifteen four-legged creatures in that house Frank was chosen to be the victim of a daring daylight dog-knapping.
This should call to mind the Lindberg kidnapping, the abduction of Patty Hearst, and all those poor souls snatched off the streets and forced to claps their hands when the “Applause” sign lit up in those horrible days when Jerry Seinfeld owned the vacuous, vapid land of sit-com. The snatching of Frank ranks right up there with the most horrible crimes of this newly minted century. For, he is Frank, dachshund extraordinaire, bon vivant of the barnyard, bright and beautiful to behold. He is a fine-tempered little fellow and only half-heartedly attempts to kill one or two of the thirty or forty farm cats slinking around the property. He DOES, however, smell like a dachshund, i.e., stinky, but he submits with a modicum of grace to the occasional bath, after which he runs outside to roll in his favorite cologne, Eau De Fishe Guttes, for THE REAL Hound. Why anyone would actually want this dog is beyond me. No! No, I mean, the atrocious scumbags who stole Frank obviously wanted to use him as a sex-slave, force-feeding him doggy viagra so he would, with wanton abandon impregnate one female dachshund after the other in an orgiastic assembly line of canine carnality and lust. Frank is, afterall, of noble lineage and the fruit of his loins can bring up to $500.00American. Now Frank will be cruelly exploited for his genetic splendor and Vrbsky will have been robbed of her loyal and trusted companion of many years.
I am confidant that I will find Vrbsky fully geared-up in a complete, hand-made Ghillie suit, with two .44 magnum handguns, a commando-knife with blood-gutters, claymore mines, and a custom-fitted Swiss.50 caliber sniper rifle with Bosch&Lomb Scope. The case is not closed and will never be closed. Vrbsky and her Frank the wiener dog have been wronged terribly. Someone will pay. More on this as the case and the chase develop.
The next act was phoned in to me shortly after Frank had been abducted. Whew! Busy day at the crime-fighting desk. A young woman standing outside the local Walmart breathlessly reported that a bomb threat had been called in to the store. A bit of back-story is needed here. A little over one year ago a bomb threat had been called into the same Walmart. The authorities responded, and after gazing around wordlessly for a few moments, the emergency management team leader, the chief of police, and the chief of the fire department dropped the decision as to whether or not evacuate the store at the feet of the Walmart manager.
All three of these well trained public servants who had been feeding quite happily at the public trough for a number of years huddled together, exchanged worried looks, and abandoned their moral responsibilities and legal duties to the manager of a Walmart store located in the middle of nowhere who was, and is, essentially a jumped-up clerk. The manager had worked for Walmart for many years. He was not trained in emergency management, bomb disposal, crowd control or any aspect of law enforcement what-so-ever. He had been whipped and cowed and pressured and petted to make more money on that very day than the store had made a year prior. He looked at the people buying, buying, buying. He looked at his employees, all of whom nauseated him. He held those lives in his Walmartian hands. Let’s see, innocent lives vs the bottom line…..innocent lives, bottom line…..Fuck it, keep the place open, and don’t breath a word about a nasty old bomb said the well-trained and obedient manager as he quickly slid out the back door to assess the situation from a distance of approximately eight miles. The public officials, hardened by years of service and prepared to make the hard calls packed it up, bought some Walmart doughnuts and diet soda and called it a job well done. Buck neatly passed. Not so much as one one uniform sullied.
One year later the same thing happens. The public officials remember that even though their wives, sons, and daughters may work for Walmart, They work for the citizens of their fair town and county. Walmart was evacuated.
Now comes the good part. While our intrepid, courageous, dedicated defenders of law and order were emptying Walmart of its customers and employees, an unmasked man calmly walked into a local bank, and robbed the place.
And got away. On foot. He did not even wave a gun around. He robbed the bank with a hand-written note. There is some question as to whether or not the two crimes, bomb-threat and bank-robbery, could possibly be connected. Jeepers Scooby, there’s a mystery for ya old pal.
When I heard the whole scoop from a fifteen year old girl named Taylor who always carries a cell phone just like Hannah Montana’s I confess that I had to take two, no, three huge swigs of the decent little port wine I refresh myself with occasionally and not because it is the cheapest crap in Kenny’s Liquor, but solely because of its rich, mellow flavor, its intriguing high notes, finely fashioned legs, and bass notes to die for. I am a connoisseur. Ask Kenny, he’ll tell you. I’m in there all the time. It is also quite easily puked up and has an aftertaste which carries a certain je ne ce quois.
I am not encouraging any type of criminal behavior. However, a Walmart and a bank being hit simultaneously does not mean one one-millionth as much as Frank, a good and loyal dog, being plucked out of his home by a spineless person or persons unknown. Frank has been a friend to man-kind for all of his seven years as a dog. Walmart has become the Son of Sam’s club, degrades, humiliates and terrorizes its own employees, especially if they are women or of color, and will do anything in its power to engulf and devour any and all business opportunities in the towns, large or small, it invades. The Son of Sam’s club shows us the true, banal face of evil. Satan is a corporate entity that buys venal, grasping politicians and destroys all competition in a planned, coordinated assault upon the free market capitalism it so loudly and mendaciously insists it not only supports, but defends. The Son of Sam’s club is a corporate pirate, a traitor to the people who shop there, the poor bastard employees who have to work there, and the government which blindly allows it to feed and feed and feed off the economic life’s blood of the nation in which it was allowed to flourish, prosper, and then metastasize as a business and social cancer. The Son of Sam’s club is given carte blanche by bought and paid for politicians to not only write laws which affect its own corporate operations, but to also define and set limits on the penalties a judge may levy against it. Walmart is so far beyond any legal control or constraints that it constitutes a hostile, sovereign nation which exists and exerts enormous power within the borders of the United States of America.
Here is the worst part. None of this information is from some secret source buried in the hide of Walmart or the U.S. government. It has all been published and exists for those who have eyes to read and tongues to tell.
The use of the Son of Sam’s club to distract the geniuses at work in our Department of Public Safety from a successful bank robber is , to say the least, ironically apropos. One little criminal using a gigantic, multinational criminal to successfully rob yet another massive criminal has an elegant symmetry to it. The bank, of course, being the third crook in this merry little caper. Banks are built to be master thieves, con-artists, and suave pick-pockets. A bank will steal from you, me, and some joker who’s been dead for ten fucking years. Banks will seduce the uneducated, the uniformed, the unsuspecting, and the lazy. Banks will build a scaffold of loans just high enough to hang the unwary citizen by the rope of usurious interest rates. Because by definition banks have the money, they also, by definition, have the politicians most finely placed to effect the economic oversight committees. They also control those who are bound by law to stop trading of public stocks and bonds when that activity is clearly based on inflated stock prices, insider trading, and junk-bond bonfires. The unlovable rogues of the banking scams are allowed to charge an unconscionable amount of interest, say 12.5% and then increase it to 23.5% without prior notification. This is robbery, chicanery of the lowest kind, and it is treason of the highest sort. The general public is under attack in the form of economic warfare. Bribed and bartered and betrayed, the thirty pieces of silver is multiplied by the millions and those who have worked and struggled and sacrificed are again sacrificed to the rapacious greed of the economic ruling class. When questioned before Congress and the nation the bankers linked arms and stated, “This is what we do. We will not stop. You cannot force us to stop.” And Bush’s Justice Department busied itself with politically motivated purges of blameless employees. It was like a dog chewing on its own intestines.
Again, I am not and never would promote or condone illegal behavior. That is the specialty of Karl Rove and Dick Cheney. In no way do I want to be linked with those smug fascists. I may be poor. I am certainly not that poor.
I firmly believe that the little crook who made the bank heist deserves to be apprehended and tried before an open court of law before a jury of his peers. The dumbass made several serious mistakes, however, thereby guaranteeing himself double helpings of daily suffering. He has severely pissed-off the Son of Sam’s club. He took the purchasing power of their patrons away from the Son of Sam’s club and it lost MONEY. Even now the Son of Sam’s Club ninjas and paramilitary ex-CIA dogs of war are scouring the entire planet for that one little guy who had the nerve to STOP the WHEELS of COMMERCE for one corporate micro-second thereby costing the Son of Sam’s club a nanoparticle of multinational profit. His phony bomb-threat gag will now bring out all the goose-stepping storm-trooping Ministry of Homeland Security shadow-warriors and their 22nd century gizmos and gadgets. Yes, 22nd century. That is how the space aliens pay us for parking in our grain fields and terrifying our fellow earthlings by dive-bombing them in the sportier models of their well-lighted and easily seen space craft. Why the hell else would they have their craft lit up like sleazy carnival rides? Lights are absolutely worthless in space and only serve to draw attention. The reason they have them is to scare the bejezus out of us, and they do that because it is fun.
The little crook guy pissed off two very nasty, very ugly, and very big crooks. He has also given the Ministry of Homeland Security a reason to see if the space toys left behind by the aliens really are as fun as they look. The little criminal in the plaid shirt has condemned himself to being poked, prodded, sexually experimented upon, and water-boarded by space aliens in the shipping and receiving room of a Walmart in Orlando, Fl. He will never even catch a glimpse of the inside of a courtroom. The neocon lawyers have arrived at the same conclusion their direct forebears, Nazis lawyers, arrived at in the mid-nineteen-thirties. It goes like this. We, being the state and therefore infallible say that you, the lowest crawling from of life in this society, are guilty. It is clear that the expenses of a trial, an incompetent public defender, and the heating and lighting bills would be better spent on a war which was started by a lie, serves no purpose, and is costing our nation every nickel it has, or will have, until kingdom come, amen. Therefore, you little criminal will merely vanish, as if you had never existed. This will result in a net cost savings of about $.0.11, if we do not subtract the social security tax and why should we the whole program is tits up to the wind anyway.
Poor dumb little bastard. Steal a little, you are a criminal. Steal a lot, your child is automatically a member of Skull-and-Bones, no matter how young.
The third and final portion of this crime wave which is plaguing the good citizens of our great state, or, at least those sober enough to notice that something out of the ordinary is happening, deserves a page of its own. The crime is so incredibly repugnant on so many different levels that it deserves room and attention.
As a little teaser, the third act includes hospitals, dying/dead/pesky poor people, immoral, illegal, dirty deals forged in a public forum in front of God and everybody and justified by the deal makers in the most crass and unfeeling way possible. And the miserable fuckers expect to get away with it.
Stay tuned.

“Do Whatever You Want To, Until They Tell You Not To.”

fromanyalley — Thu, 18 Sep 2008 05:01:29 +0000

If you Google the word ‘television’ you may discover, to your shock and horror, that there was a time when the TV was a tiny little tube filled with cathode rays in a huge, real wood cabinet. During this Golden Age of Television Crime Drama an unseen, stentorian announcer would proclaim something along the lines of “There are one million people in the city, and one million stories. This is one of them.” (Pause for maximum effect.) “The Naked City.”

The speaker was tiny, round, and had several hundred holes in it. A normal person, without super-human powers, would have to sit within inches of the massive communication engine in order to understand what was being said, thus giving many neurotic mothers the right to yell at many soon to be neurotic children to get AWAY from that THING, you’ll go BLIND. The children could see, but were deaf to their mother’s incessant, psycho-neurosis induced nattering. This was before that god-send Valium was widely introduced to house-wives all across America. Mother’s little helpers, as they were lovingly known.

In this little corner of this little state, right outside that window, no, the other window that’s a mirror, there are not one million people. Cattle of all kinds, breeds and descriptions added to pigs and chickens and god knows dogs, cats, frogs, and gophers, then we’re talking over a million. People, not so many. Which means there is no Naked City in black and white, panning shots of the awe-inspiring skyscrapers down to the countless legs walking their way through hump-backed automobile traffic. As a matter of fact, there are no cities, naked or otherwise. That does not mean we don’t know a thing or two about crime, however.

The most crime, not counting hunting without a license, living drunk, operating a motor-vehicle which violates every EPA emission code known to man, that truly happens here is the creation and operation of meth labs. We have those. We have many of them. The easiest way to determine who is in the private pharmaceutical business is to look at the person. If he/she is above 4′11″ tall, but weighs less than 98 pounds and the tooth to tattoo ratio is heavy on the tattoo side, then you can bet your bottom dollar that a self-taught chemist is near at hand. If he, or she, also smells just like the inside of the old janitor’s closet in St. Agnes Academy, circa 1958, you are downwind of a local tweeker. The best and most decisive way to know if you are close to the proud owner of a rural start-up pharmaceutical company is to pick him/her up (which should be fairly effortless) and throw him/her into no less that eight feet of water. If they instantly drown, you will know that meth has eaten a hole in the nasal septum and there is no such thing as holding your breath with a quarter size opening in the nasal cartilage. If he/she somehow survives that test, and comes up out of the water firing off two 9mm semi-automatics in your general direction, you may take it that he/she is, indeed, the king or queen of crystal meth. As long as the king of crystal doesn’t shoot an innocent game warden just out checking for poachers, or fires up a blunt thereby making his house into a working relica of a Tomahawk cruise missle and blowing up up his lab, the guy’s lab across the road, and an underground lab run by the DEA to be used as bait in several as-of-yet unexecuted sting operations, the tweek master will be left alone to choke to death on the toxic fumes of his chemical abominations.

We also have the nice guy farmer whose main cash-crop is extraordinarily primo ganja with an unbelievably high THC content. The nice-guy farmer, who also preaches the gospel among the faithful, i.e., his family and three other people, all who work for him, can be assured that the local deputies will not bother him as long as he has a Life-time Member NRA decal on the bumper of his Ram, a crucifix nailed to the front door of his house, and an American flag flapping and snapping proudly in the breeze from a twenty foot flag-pole he himself fabricated in the shop out back of the main house.

Due to the very low crime statistics, and the fact that every man woman and child (over the age of five years) carries at least one, if not two firearms on his or her person at all times, and is soundly castigated if he or she should somehow fail to do so, we do not lock our doors or windows, that will always be a MIRROR, and leave our vehicles not only unlocked, but also running. The fact that there is an Easy-Rider rifle rack in the back window filled with shotguns, a quick-reach rack on the ceiling holding an AK-47 and a .243 with scope, and two holstered Desert Eagles under the seat does not stop us from pulling up to the Daylite Donuts (Mmm-M!), jumping out, leaving the doors and windows open and the weapons loaded if not cocked, and meandering into the store for some coffee, doughnuts (Mmmm-M!) and to read the Daily Republican (”None of the News We Are Bribed Not to Print”). After an hour or so, we wander out, trailing doughnut crumbs and farting loudly to inform our friends that we are happily full, and to get a laugh. “Damn! I think Travis SHIT himself!” Yar-yar-YAR-yar.

Do not, however, make the mistake of thinking that this is Hicksville, USA. Within the last week there has been a wave of crime crashing over the citizens, no matter how few, or drunk, or high, or tweeked they may be of this little corner of this little state. The crimes have been heinous and nerve-wracking, and may have involved the actual sale of one of the victims as a sex slave.

Due to the perverse and egregious nature of these crimes, we will consider them in a a subsequent blog which will pierce the veil of rural America and strip bare the lewd and tawdry secrets of this little corner of this little state which exists outside that window. That’s A MIRROR. The window is a bit to your right. Your RIGHT. Your….

Money Money Everywhere, and not a Drop to Drink

fromanyalley — Tue, 16 Sep 2008 23:21:18 +0000

This is a day of bizarre crimes and money crises and tragedies. Due to the fact that I am working in a restricted space, I’ll talk only about those bizarre crimes and crises and tragedies which affect me. Sit back, take a deep breath. I checked my bank-account.
In financial terms, for those of you who sit with expensive trousers puddlled around your silk-socked ankles waiting for Kudlow and Co. to really cut loose, the report said,” No cheap rotgut wine and $.99 cigar for you, Mr. non-capitalist- lay-a-bed.” Not exactly crushing news for those of us living in this open toilet of the last bloody days of the most immoral, illegal, fascist, Ann Coltergeist-wet-dream presidency in the history of this nation, or any nation with some slob who is called Mr. President, and that includes a lot of world-class perverts, criminals, and unabashed, demented motherfucking fanatics. (A jaunty tip of the yarmulke to Mr. Ahmadinejad of Iran who is propped up by the Alliance of Builders of Islamic Iran. That sounds like some underground arm of the Chamber of Commerce.)
After receiving the dismal economic alert from my bank, (more about that shortly), I decided to check in with the nice people at today.com. And I still do believe real people are there, at today.com, if only to act as fronts for the Cylons who operate the place. I, as fully expected, did not talk to a real person. I saw a chart. On the chart was the notification that I am worth, get this, $0.01 to that company. Two things occurred to me. This, in and of itself, was remarkable. Usually nothing occurs to me. The first thing that occurred to me was the amount of money recorded in the chart. Please think about that, if you would. I would have to write and submit ninety-nine, plus tax, so, let’s say, 106 of these things to be able to buy one very bad cigar made of nettles and weeds and dried fecal matter.
The second thing, and yes, this deserves its own paragraph so put the red-pens down, slowly, and back away, the second thing was that I could not find the cents sign on my keyboard. For someone who has dealt with incredibly tiny sums of money all of his life, that caused a frantic search to be conducted. I took my glasses off, put them on, checked the keyboard, and…..nothing. I did that repeatedly. I needed the cents sign. I was going to fire off a blistering complaint to my new found friends and comrades in capitalism at today.com. Apparently they are of the Bush wing of capitalism: deny everything and demand proof, and when concrete proof is produced, hide behind the skirts of a bought and paid for justice system. (A jaunty flap of the robes to you Mr. Scalia. By the by, how does your son like his job? The one Mr. Bush gave him right after the 2000 rape of the nation? Just asking. Put the gavel down and back away slowly. You should know you have no constitutional rights. According to you the constitution guarantees that.) I gave up, on the cents sign and the justice system, and fired off the question anyway. It was longer than expected and ended on the sour note of an unintentional fart. I do apologize for that. Please don’t hate me. Just cough up the $2.99 and the cents sign.
If you did not boost the cents sign, who did? Why didn’t you take the ^sign, which means, uh, there is a roof in this sentence. I never use the roof ^ sign. Who would? Tell you what. Take the roof sign, give me back my cents sign, plus the $2.99, and everything will be acey-deucy.
(Do you hear crickets?)
The cents sign caper logically brings me to Queenie. My lack of money brings about two tragedies: 1.) I do not get to walk down to Kenny’s Liquor, which is in a metal shed on state highway 37 and sells, along with booze and bad cigars, a thing called broasted chicken. Queenie, who is my cat, does not like the walk, but goes along anyway, knowing I will buy that gourmet delight called broasted chicken. Cirrhosis of the liver and lip cancer for me, broasted chicken for cat, money for Kenny in his metal shed, and the blue sky up above. So, no money in bank, or coming from today.com via Western Union, brings about: 2.) Queenie does not get to watch me tear the shit-brown disgusting crunchy stuff off the purported chicken breast and feed it to her in tiny little fragment. She only has three fangs. The other disappeared. That’s a different story. But explains why I have to tear up the purported chicken meat into small fragments.
There is a law, one of the Natural Laws, and this law clearly states for all who have eyes to see, and read, “Do Not Disturb the CAT.” The CAT has been disturbed, and ergo, your honor, the natural rhythm and balance of this day have been irrevocably damaged. As concrete proof I offer Karl Rove as an opportunistic, lying, gutless, double-chinned Nazi. No….wait…That all might be true, but…..Ah! Got my notes mixed up. Here we go: As concrete proof I offer my cat, Queenie, who refuses to come out from underneath the bed. She is clearly disturbed. My cat is a genius and on the Great Wheel of Being this is her last Throw-Her-Paws-in-the-Air-and-Scream ride before she gets to sit with the other mahatmas and groovey types for all eternity, which does not exist, eternity I mean, but is merely a mental contortion forced upon us by western mountebanks, such as Karl Rove, Minister of Evil and Standartenfuhrer of the Alliance of Builders of Islamic Iran. Rush down soon, there will be a one-day only sale on all weapons of mass destruction. Balloons for the kiddies. Success Apparel Burkhas for the little lady. Guess what radioactive isotope is in the glowing box and win $10.00, but no cents. Cents is missing. Karl Rove has it and won’t give it back, the selfish bitch.
Under the bed. Queenie, genius cat, has been disturbed and will not come out from underneath the bed. I don’t want her there. Things are growing and mutating beyond Darwin’s wildest imaginings under there. I could wind up as a “Person of Interest”. That means every fat-assed bureaucrat from the Ministry of Homeland Security down to the Games, Fish and Parks can legally turn my life into a miserable timeless hell in which I will live in squalor without one thin dime because Karl has stolen my cents sign, and my cat will be trapped under the bed by something that used to be a sweat-sock(from Satan-Mart, on sale), but now has fangs, (one of them belonging to Queenie, it stole it from her) and EYES and whispers, “John McCain is NOT Dubya’s warmongering, coprophilic, way over-age catamite” all night long .
In the best interest, then, of the balance of nature and the world as we have grown to know it, I need money. Not for myself. For you. Because, gosh, it has always been about you. A tiny little amount of moolah will set the world’s discomfiture aright in a trice. My cat, Queenie, will come out from under the bed. This will cause my asthma attack to stop instantly. The things under the bed will be left to do whatever it is things under the bed do. Kenny will make a profit, (ah, see? All American here), and I will get piss-down-my-leg-and-yours-drunk while wobbling around with a lighted $0.99 cigar clamped between my teeth. This will give the local VFD and two-man PD something to do. I, one little citizen, will not only add to our economic rebirth (as congenitally reatarded as it is) but I will also afford my fellow Americans the opportunity to contribute to their county, their state, and their nation. Queenie will also be highly amused and spend the rest of the night in a tree communing with Hunter S. and all the other swingin’ hipsters who managed to escape from this gargantuan, soul-eating, cosmic cluster-fuck we (still!) smugly call life in the Greatest Nation Of ALL Time.
Call for Ms. Reifenstahl from Mr. Rove on line one. Pick up please.

A Hard Right for Matt

fromanyalley — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 22:51:17 +0000

Hell may be many things, but it is not repetition. Hell is the same people, day after month after wearying, horrible year. This year was terrible…and the next will probably be worse. Hell,(Virgil and Dante aside) is populated by every malign, malicious, self-centered, cupiditous, concupiscent cut-throat abomination who has ever crossed your path only to make your life even more miserable than it already is. And to take something from you…love, knowledge, compassion…and turn that into something so incredibly foul and disgusting as to be completely unrecognizable. They beat plowshares into swords. They rape and plunder the helpless, hopeless, voiceless who are taxed beyond all measure by the avaricious and the smug, the sanctimonious and the self-righteous. From the original school-yard bully through the not-so-closet pedophile of a right reverend, through the hundreds of flabby, pig-eyed pukes wandering aimlessly around SatanMart with a plastic, tricked-out name tag announcing their direct lineage to Genghis Khan, they repeat and repeat and repeat. Not in dreams, which can be washed and deodorized by the various legal and the casual drugs we swim in. These monstrosities appear as fully formed, solid entities, taking up air, parking-spaces, that stool at the end of the counter with a red cracked plastic seat. The one you sit at EVERY morning. The grotesques are everywhere you want to be. They get there a few nanoseconds before you, and then look at their watches, tap their feet, assume that looking-down-the-nose posture and proceed to flat-out fuck with you in every way imaginable for as long as possible.
And, and!, there are always at least two. Because you might be a 5′1″ 97 pound 23-year old single mother of two (eighteen months and four months respectively) and you may have just recovered from an end-over-end-over three cows and a cultivator, and your scuzzy boyfriend may be stalking you night and day, it doesn’t matter. You ARE the enemy. You scare what little reasoning power those hideous excuses for humans may possess completely out of their square, cement-block skulls. There are two,( in my case either two very large ones or three little broke-dicks, all called Fred), in to do the job, because they know they are about to be bad human beings. They are going to do something wrong to someone. And the fat gonadless wonders, who thought they were going to be NFl stars, or the buttugly mobile sperm receptacles who just KNOW they could sit and chirp on the View, sweat masochistic bullets while they attempt to mindfuck you because they fear that you can see right through them, and will one day announce to the general world, “That guy, that tank of shit, and that brainless lardbutt alcoholic who is trying desperately for the honor of being the town pump,(known as AssmessAndrun to one and all, which is to say, many at once) are the weakest, most revolting, disgusting, vile, worthless pieces of cosmic trash to ever appear on the face of this earth. They make Jeffrey Dahmer look like somebody you would want to invite over for dinner. They will cut your throat, stab you in the back, blackmail, coerce, and terrify by animal cunning and skulduggery simply because they are so stone-cold scared, so infantile and so nauseatingly proud of their fundamental ignorance. They hate those who are capable of original, authentic thought.”These rapacious, spineless cowards only respect power– cruel , unvarnished, unrestrained power. Civility is for them a con game and revenge is their one true motive for action in a crowd. They are by any and all measurement absolutely worthless.
And they are not brave enough to be truly evil. They are merely the waste products of evil. They are the turds of true evil left behind to foul the atmosphere and stick to the soles of your shoes. They are the same ones you keep seeing, meeting, working with, working for, attempting to avoid, trying to run over and make it look like an accident which was all their fault. They mean nothing. The puny little gutless wonders who invented erectile dysfunction, the pitiful overaged, garbagegut jock suffering from a near-fatal case of cryptorchidism, the tank-of -shit bullies, the brainless, arrogant, self-pitying ground-pounders who missed being ho-of-the-year by this much, all repeat and repeat and repeat in your life. They literally spew out of the mouths of their wretched little hells and demand to be feared, loved, liked, adored, worshiped, blown, elected, married, and treated like gods who stride this miserable planet with purpose, conviction, power, strength, and the grace of pure, elegant thought.
Hell is never repetition. Camus’ Sisyphus found meaning and purpose in the boulder and the hill. He found success in denying the pitiful who feed on vengeance and the pain of others. He continued to roll his boulder up, follow it down, roll it back up, because he had made it his boulder. His meaning was to never allow the cruel, the ignorant, the unjust, the arrogant, the immoral to ever push him into the insanity of those in charge– those who live by their Master’s cruelty. Sisyphus found the honesty at the core of meaning, and did not back down. He remained unique, authentic, and true.
The heaps of shit masquerading as human beings are forever tied to their Master. They are colorless copies of evil, of the Lie which is the black, beating heart of all true evil. They will squander the time, empathy, compassion, money, and love of the authentic people around them. Then, bloated with hatred and malice they will find their own boulders waiting for them, meaningless and agonizing. True evil, the real evil, is at least unique and frighteningly powerful. Those copies, those repetitions do not and cannot even console themselves with that. They have boulders to move, they have fetid pools of self-pity in which they will wallow and whatever wail they might send up will be lost in the noise of the Lie as it seduces and betrays and brays to the skies.
I write this for Matt. His boulder and his hill have depths of meaning which give him true power. He is a graceful and elegant thinker disguised as a thick-fingered fist, slamming counter-tops and the hoods of ancient Blazers. Every single goddamn day he stands up to those who are the filthy leavings of evil to protect those who cannot, or out of fear for themselves and their children, will not. He does not care what any one thinks of him; he cares that they think at all. He will champion and sacrifice and burn as a branded heretic, and the ones he defends will hate and desert him. He knows, and he goes on. The big fucking rock is Matt’s boulder. He owns it. The hill is his and he will occupy it. His courage is this: everyday he will push the same boulder up the same hill. But for a moment, the time is takes to tell one truth, he will be happy.
Then the boulder rolls back down and my brother Matt, a tired silhouette in the face of the sun, will walk behind it, head down, thinking of that one instant when he knew he had done the right thing. And winner takes nothing.

Hello World

fromanyalley — Sun, 14 Sep 2008 07:41:24 +0000

I couldn’t find this. So what? Hahaha. I came here in my heavy boots and my really ripped, not factory installed ripped, grimy jeans and my worn-out face to write, not to piss around with putting a blog together. From scratch. As if I know how to put a blog together. Or even what one really is.
Like any other place, they laughed. I didn’t actually see them, or capture them on my cell-phone, since I don’t have a cell-phone to capture anyone laughing at anything. But I could feel them laughing. You know. Don’t pretend you don’t. It’s like when you close the door and eight pin-headed-pencil-necked-geek supervisors are behind the door. You know. The looks, the raised eyebrows, the small, so small, shaking of the pointy little head. You can’t tell me it’s paranoia born of years of drug abuse and choosing evil women who try to carve a nice roast out of your running as fast as humanly possible ass, and then THEY call the cops. It happens.
I don’t mind so much, anymore. Abuse is, after all, institutionalized, rationalized, excused and condoned. When we live in a place where highpriced bigtime lawyers are allowed to question whether or not water-boarding someone is torture, a little humiliation is chumpchange by comparison.
I was not born with a mouse in one hand and a keyboard wrapped around my neck in place of the good old oxygen-restricting umbilicus. How was I to know? And the thing is, I can’t pound on a desk, or a door. I can’t engage in any pissing-matches, dick-measuring contests, gray-back chest-pounding or alpha dog nipping at the omega dog’s ‘nads. I am here and whoever is laughing and saying, “Shit, not ANOTHER one” in that nasal, high-pitched voice dripping with private schools and German motorwerks privilege is over THERE, very figuratively speaking, across the pixels in the Place of THOSE in the KNOW.
I have never been there, myself. I’ve been close. But, after the security guards got done showing me how real cops do it, the real cops showed up and showed me how the real REAL cops do it. And they do it very well. Mechanically. No emotions. Nothing personal in this. Here, gargle with this pepper spray while I make you dance like that nauseating Irish guy by zapping your unoffending ass with 50 bajillion volts of pure high-grade plasma-powered phaser-gun PAIN. Do it again? Okay. And I smelled roast cooking in Alliance-fucking- Nebraska on a crisp fall Sunday afternoon 50 years ago when everyone smiled and the house was rich with the aroma of fresh bread, pine-sol, and Wild Turkey. Do it again? Oh, okay, ’cause all I have to do is pull this little trigger…Oh, oh! Shit, sorry, man, my bad. Into the back of the car ya go. A little crunchy around the edges, but it’s all good.
That was as close as I ever got.
And as close as I’ll ever get, probably. Because right now I am in a place where the computer and its manifold manipulations is the BIG dog with the big DICK. I can be used as a new mop-head by anyone who actually knows why nothing ever disappears from the hard-drive of my computer. And I know there are people who have understood exactly why that is since they were approximately 2 years old, or about the same time they were starting the application process to Stanford. I cannot just storm in here and challenge any and every one to a quick game of stuff-a-jackrabbit-up-your-ass-head-first. It is fun and burns many calories and the look on the rabbit’s face is worth every minute of the agony I’ll put you through to properly seat the little fella in the middle of your colitis- wracked colon, but I don’t stand a chance.
I’ll back up. Hi. I’m new here. Can one of you nice smart clean people point me to where a fella could put one word down after the other and keep right on going until he decides it is time to stop?