24 December 2011

The Eleventh Step

Karl brought in a little Charlie Brown Christmas tree and set it on the center of the four folding tables that had been pushed together for the weekly meeting. A cheap old artificial tree, black wire and green bristles, missing a few *branches* from Christmases past.

He even thought to bring an extension cord.

Blinking colored lights hanging off a half-vacant fake tree.

Eighteen losers ringing the tables, staring at the blinking lights.

Nobody talking.  A couple of coughs.  People clearing their throats.  Metal chairs squeaking.

I wonder what prompted Karl to bring the *tree?*

Looking at that tree, I remember what I think of as the *Last Christmas,* the last Christmas before things went really bad between my mother and father.  I was twelve and my brother was fourteen.  Our mother had decorated the apartment for Christmas.  Tree, wreaths, stockings, the whole nine yuletide yards.  Nobody appreciated it.  An act of preposterous sentimentality.  I let her know it. 

It’s no surprise, then, that here I sit, thirty-seven years later, at the tables of the losers.

Why would Karl bring in that stupid little *tree?*

Most people sitting here have broken families, what is he trying to say with his broken-down little *tree?* 

“Welcome to the Wednesday night Hope and Recovery Meeting.  I’m Joe, and I’m an addict,” Joe says.

“Hi, Joe” everybody says, automatonically.

Around the table we go, introducing ourselves as addicts.  Part of the ritual.  Part of the liturgy. 

Joe continues reading from the meeting script.  It ought to be in Latin.

What will I confess tonight?  I haven’t told the truth here in a couple of years.  Not that I haven’t been sober.  I have been.  But I need to make up some minor incident in order to feel like I’m contributing.  I have no doubt I could stop attending meetings and remain sober.  But I would miss the ritual.

"We strive to practice anonymity and confidentiality," Joe says.  "Who we meet or what is said in a meeting is treated as confidential and is not discussed outside the meeting.  Who you see here, what you hear here, when you leave here, let it stay here."

"Hear, hear," everybody says automatonically.

"Does anybody have any announcements before we split into our tables?"

"Hello, my name's Ira, I'm an addict," Ira says.

"Hi, Ira," everybody says automatonically.

"Joe," Ira says, "our preamble states our fellowship does not support or endorse outside causes or issues.  So why is there a Christmas tree on the table?"

I scan the room, see a few rolled eyes, several frowns.

"That's not really an announcement," Joe says.

"We're supposed to define our Higher Power for ourselves, not have it defined for us by an icon."

"That's more of a complaint than an announcement," Joe says.

"I'm announcing a violation of the preamble.  Our fellowship is supposed to be inclusive, not exclusive. And by having a symbol of a specific faith on display, we are in. . ."

I stop listening.

I wonder what my ex-wife and kids are doing?  I need to remember to round up a few presents and send them off.  I wonder what the kids are into, now?  You fall out of it pretty fast.

I remember one Christmas, I took the kids into Victoria's Secret, they were 3 1/2 and 5 1/2 years old, and I let them pick out some pajamas for the old lady—nothing too slutty, just some nice stylish sleepwear.  The old lady blew her stack.  "You took the kids into Victoria's Secret?!?!"  She lectured me on how that would damage their view of women.  Well, we had a good time in that store, shopping for her.  I can still see that Asian salesgirl. It remains a pleasant memory.  That's out of the old lady’s reach, out of the old lady’s reach.  She can't move it five hundred miles away.

There's Karl, unplugging his little tree, taking it off the table, rolling up the cord.  Poor old bastard.  He was probably working off some old memories of his own, and just wanted to bring in a little cheer.  And he ends up getting kicked in the teeth.

"I know this is a Christian church," I hear Ira say. "And I am appreciative they let us use this space.  Nevertheless, as a group, we bring no—"

"All right, you made your point," Joe interrupts.  "The tree is gone.  Let's not waste any more time on the issue.  We need to start the tables."

"I was not 'wasting' time," Ira says.

"We're on step eleven this week, I believe," Joe says.  "Step eleven can meet in the kitchen.  Topic table downstairs.  Open discussion here.  Have a good meeting everybody."

I stay seated for open discussion. Ray, Denard, Karl and Ira stay, also.  Five minutes for each of us.  I'll be out of here in twenty-five minutes.  Still time to hit a store.

Nobody says anything.  It's always like this.  Waiting for someone to go first.

"Why is everyone looking at me?" Ira asks.

I wasn't looking at him.  I was looking at a poster on the wall.  A picture of a luminescent Jesus, with the caption *The Light of the World.*  Jesus was looking at him.

Nobody says anything.

"Well, I guess I'll go first," Ira says.  “It was a very good week.  It was an uneventful week.  I was reflecting on that on the drive over here tonight.  I used to seek ‘events.’  I used to seek sensation.  I craved it.  We all craved it, didn’t we?”  He stops.  He looks around the table to make sure we are all nodding in agreement.  I nod.  What the Hell, why not?  Ray and Denard nod.  Karl doesn’t.  “I guess what I’m trying to say, fellas, is that in recovery there is a peace, a tranquility, if you will.  And that feeling of peace or tranquility, even serenity, if we could borrow the phraseology of our famous prayer, that feeling was a stranger to me.  And it took some time to warm up to that ‘stranger.’  It took some time for me to accept it.  What I am trying to say, fellas, is that in recovery, or at least, in my recovery, but I think also in most everyone’s recovery, is that early in recovery, we miss the sensation.  I missed the sensation.  Peace or tranquility or serenity didn’t look so good, at first.  It was definitely not ‘love at first sight,’ if I can put. . .”

Boring.  That’s a big problem with these meetings.  Most of what’s said will bore you to tears.  I tune out.  I need to invent my weekly anecdote, anyway.  Let’s see. . .I could say I was in the checkout lane at Meijer. . .and. . .a couple of lanes away, I saw. . .Danni. . .ha!. . .Danni!. . .yeah, that’s good. . .I knew Danni way back in the day. . .when I was buried in my addiction. . .buried alive in it. . not knowing I had a problem. . .so. . .so. . .so seeing Danni there. . .and remembering. . .and remembering what?. . .what?  Ridiculous.  Danni’s been dead for six years.  Ha.  I could say her ghost visited me.  Like the Ghost of Christmas Past.

“. . .seems familiar and not strange, anymore.  So what I’m trying to say, fellas, is that it’s a different life, a different way of living.  And it’s healthier.  Healthier for the body and the soul.  It’s more honest.  It’s more respectful, both to myself and to others.  What I used to think was happiness was, in reality, only turmoil.  Emotional and physiological turmoil.  But I mistook that chaos for happiness.  All the game playing, all the secrets, all the ‘that’ behind the addiction, if that isn’t too Eastern a concept, the ‘that’ behind the addiction.  So I guess that’s it, fellas, that’s what it all comes down to, a new way of life.  And I’m thankful to have the opportunity to share recovery with you.”

He shuts up, and we all say “thanks, Ira,” automatonically.  All of us except Karl. 

We shift in our chairs, look around.  Ira takes a sip of coffee.  Ray unwraps a Hershey’s Kiss.  Karl’s staring at his Christmas tree.  It’s over by the door.

Denard goes next.

"It's like Ira was saying.  You want the sensation.  I still want it."  He stops, sighs heavily.  "Rough week."  He sighs again, shakes his head.  "I done did some things.  Ahhhh, fuck."  He shakes his head, he chuckles.  "I just can't seem to stop.  I mean, I can.  I can stop, you know?  But then, I start again.  And then I have to start stopping again, you know?"

No, I don't know.  I never really know what Denard is talking about.  I don't think he knows, either.

But who really knows anything, anyway?  If any of us knew anything, we wouldn't be here in the first place.

Man, that last Christmas.  Twelve-years-old, and spitting in the old lady's eye.  I was already off track.  I started these meetings about thirty years too late.

Now I have the appearance of being on the straight-and-narrow.  Sober in behavior.  But nobody to see it.  Except these stumblebums.  I lost everyone else.  Sober in behavior—but for whose benefit?  I have no responsibility, now.  Some of these misfits believe they have a responsibility to themselves.  Not me.  That’s selfish.  Sobriety for self is an act of vanity.  And anyway, in spirit, I’m still an addict.  The same dark desires rule the inner man.

You see?  If you think about this too much, you only end up asking: why bother?

“. . .tomorrow. Ahhhh, fuck, I have to believe tomorrow will be different.  If it’s the same, then today never ends, you know?  It just goes on.  It’s like time stops.  Yeah, it just stops.”  He sighs heavily.  “Ain’t that some fucked up shit?  Time’ll just stop, and today’ll just go on forever.”  He sighs.  “This addiction, man, it messes with everything.  Everything.  The laws of physics and everything.  Space and time just disappear.”  He throws up his hands.  “What can I do?  What the fuck can I do?  This thing is bigger than me.  How am I gonna battle black holes and all that shit?  Because that’s what this thing is, a black hole.”

He stops talking.  Even though I’ve just been told time has stopped, I can feel the seconds ticking by.  Is he finished?  Is it time for someone else to take the stage?  He must sense all of us thinking the same:

“I’m done.”  He sighs.  “Nothing else to say.”

“Thanks, Denard,” we all say, automatonically.

Thanks for nothing.  That’s what I feel.  Nothing.  It will pass, it will pass.  But right now, nothing.  I’m closer to being dead than people going through a near-death experience.  I’m not out of my body, I can’t see myself.  I see no welcoming light.  I’m here.  Breathing.  I see these other fuck-ups fidgeting, scratching.  I feel no kinship.  I might as well be sitting at the bottom of the moon’s deepest crater, staring at rubble.

“. . .compete with my brother.  He was tall and lean, like my dad.  He was good at sports.  I was always chubby.  So I tried to compensate.  I excelled in school. I always got perfect grades.  Dad always said he was proud of my academic achievements, but he loved going to all my brother’s games, it was obvious, and you could see the pride and the love. I always felt inferior.  My dad and my brother had a real bond.  Dad never said he loved me.”   Ray stops.  He’s choked himself up.

Ray says the same thing, every week.  “I’m fat and my dad didn’t love me, so I forced myself to do well in school and business, to earn his love.  But I put so much pressure on myself, I became an addict.”  It chokes him up, week after week.  He’s fat in belly and wallet, unlike most of us.  He’s still got his wife and kids, unlike most of us.  He seems to have one specific thing eating at him, so to speak, unlike most of us. 

There’s not any one thing I can blame for my failure, except myself.  And I doubt it’s really that simple, or external, for Ray—but it seems to work for him.

And let's face it, this is only part of the problem. A lot of these guys seem to think addiction is all that stands between them and the Pearly Gates.  Reductio ad Absurdum.  It's all rotten.  The addiction just shows, like a crack in the wall.

What am I going to say?  I need to think of something.  I'm running out of time.  Once Ray finishes mourning for himself, it'll be down to me and Karl.

". . .hugged me and said he loved me, I wonder how different my life would've been?  Not that I'm not grateful for what I have.  My wife has stuck by me.  But I have to admit, there are moments of doubt.  I've always been a good provider.  I've let her have whatever she wants.  So does she love me, or my paycheck?  That's what this disease can do to you.  It's awful.  All the doubts.  You can't trust yourself and you can't trust anybody else.  I've had a lifetime of insecurity.  The disease worked its way into my mind, because—"  Ray stops.  He's choked himself up, again.  "Because there was no love.  A strong mind is built on a foundation of love.  And I never had that.  So I wasn't equipped to resist the disease."  Ray wipes his eyes.  I don't see any tears.  Phantom tears, I guess.  "I feel love in this room, though.  That's what keeps me coming back.  That's what keeps me sober.  Thank you.  Thank you all for loving me."

"Thanks, Ray," we all say, automatonically.

A clean, well-lighted place, that's what this is.  The Presbyterians have a nice place, here.

The others are looking at me and Karl.  One of us has to talk.  Karl looks like he's taken a vow of silence.  He's staring at his Christmas tree, unblinking.  Ray unwraps another Hershey's Kiss.  One of the Christmas kind, in green foil.

"I remember watching my mother," I say, "putting tinsel on the tree.  I said to her, 'this Christmas stuff just makes it worse.'  She says, 'makes what worse?'  I say, 'you and dad screaming.'  'I'm just trying to bring a little cheer into all of our lives,' she says.  And then I shouted, 'I SAID, IT JUST MAKES IT WORSE.'  My brother laughed.  I don't know where the old man was.  Probably in the bedroom, drinking and listening to his shortwave.  Probably trying to get a Bartok symphony.  The old lady still had some tinsel in her hand.  She hesitated, put it on the tree, and then that was it.  Her decorating was over.  Forever.  That tree and all the decorations stayed up till summer, when we had to move out.  She never unpacked that stuff again."

Karl seems interested.  The others, not as much.

"I was right.  It did make everything worse.  Well, maybe I should say, I was being honest.  All that phony Christmas cheer couldn't cover up the ill will in the household.  And even though the decorations were cheap, the tacky Christmas junk of the poor, it still seemed like. . ."

What did it seem like?  What am I trying to say?  I can very easily go back and relive that Christmas.

Look at Karl, he's really into this story.  Well, there are some of us for whom the holiday has a. . .

"I would say I was embarrassed for all that cheap Christmas junk. I felt embarrassed for all the trinkets, for them having to witness our family rancor.  But, and this is the important thing, I was wrong in behavior.  I shouldn't have disrespected the old lady."

At that, Denard nods.

"It's that time of year, of course.  There are reminders in the littlest things.  And Karl brought in the tree.  I was twelve years old.  You know, in the gospels there's only one account of Jesus from when He was about three until He was about thirty.  There's an incident from when He was twelve.  Mary and Joseph had lost track of Him.  He was in the temple, teaching the rabbis.  And when Mary and Joseph find Him there, He says, real nonchalant, 'did you not know I must be about My Father's business?'  Now, me, when I was twelve, I was shouting at the old lady, ruining her Christmas.  So you see, whatever has led me here, right here, to this table, was already in me at age twelve.  So. . ."

So?  So what?  I lost my train of thought with that little digression about the twelve-year-old Jesus.  Now what?

"Look, for some of us, there is a real presence in the season.  It's like the Catholics and their little communion wafer.  They believe it is the flesh of Christ in that wafer.  Well, some of us feel the real flesh and blood presence of the Lord during Christmas."

They don't know what the Hell I am saying.  Except Karl.

"Look, of course He's always here.  It's just at Christmas and Easter, you focus more, you are less distracted by the world."

Look at these idiots, they don't understand.  But I can tie all this together, now.  It's crystal clear.

"The point is, I had already lost the way at age twelve.  And here I am, thirty-seven years later.  Thirty-seven?  Listen, the Jews were in the wilderness. . ."

No, I don't want to get sidetracked, again.

"The point is, here I am, thirty-seven years later.  Lost everything. Now what?  What's the point?  Is sobriety a sacrifice?  No.  I don't do this as an offering.  So, now what?  What's the point?  I don't know.  And that is the point.  I don't need to know.  I no longer need to know.  I've lost everything, according to the world.  Why?  Why did I do the things I did, which caused me to lose it all?  Why am I like the way I am?  I don't need the answer to that question.  I'm at peace.  I live by the faith of Jesus, the Higher Power.  God planted His faith in me, and now I trust in that until the end, no matter what happens next.  And at the end, all will be revealed."

Yes, I think that's it.  And those may be the first true words I've spoken here in a couple of years.  Look at their faces.

"Thanks," they say, doubtfully.  Except Karl.  His "thanks" seemed genuine.

The poor old lady.  I never made it up to her.  Yeah, I’ll hit Target after this.  I’ll get some gifts for the kids.  I’ll ask a clerk what the hot toys are for seven and nine year old boys.  Hell, I’ll even pick up something for the old lady.  The old lady ex-wife.  And I’ll get myself one of those Christmas trees-in-a-box things.  The kind you just unpack and plug in. It’ll be like lighting a candle for—

Karl bangs his fist on the table.

“I wasn’t going to speak a word.  I’m so disgusted.  I wasn’t going to speak a God damn word.  But you,” Karl says, looking right at me, “inspired me.  The rest of you. . .” he shakes his head.

“You know the protocols forbid cross talk,” Ira says.

“Cross talk?”  Karl laughs in scorn.  “I’m not talking across the table to anybody.  I’m just making general comments.  And listen, Mr. Know-It-All, you being the great know-it-all, how is it you don’t know you’re supposed to keep your piehole shut while somebody else has the table?  So you shut your piehole and listen.”

Ira burns red.  Denard tries to hide a smile. Ray plays with the foil from his Kisses.

“I’ve seen this bullshit so many times before.  I was the fourth person to join this meeting when it started here eighteen years ago.  The three ahead of me, including the two founders, are long since lost to the outer darkness of addiction.  I’ve seen them all come and go.  Seeds by the wayside.  I’m sixty-two God damn years old.  I’ve seen all of your bullshit many times before, so I know of what I speak.  None of you are going to make it.  Not even you,” Karl says, looking straight at me, “you’re close.  But close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades and drive-in movies.  Unless God creates a clean heart and a right spirit in you, you’ll end up back in the gutter with these stiff-necked—”

“You’re way out of line with this negative cross-talk,” Ira snaps.

“I told you to shut your God damn piehole, you fucking Pharisee.”

“Pharisee?  What are you trying to say?”

“You aren’t worthy to untie my shoelaces, yet you claim the right to be offended by my Christmas tree?  I don’t think so.”

"You were wrong to bring in the tree, and now you're talking like a lunatic," Ira says.

He and Karl lock into a stare.  Look at them.  Quite a contrast.  Karl is much older, but he still looks pretty solid—he probably cuts his own grass with a push mower.  There's probably not even any grass where Ira lives.

"Guys, guys," Ray says, "maybe we should just do the circle prayer and call it a night, huh?"

"That's all right with me," Ira says.

"I'm not done speaking," Karl says.

"Finish it up, then," Denard says, as if he were exasperated.  But what does he have to be exasperated about?

Karl sits there, staring straight ahead.  Not a word comes out of his mouth.  Time seems to stop.  Like in Denard’s physics.  It’s peaceful, though.  This quiet.  A quiet moment on a winter night, though the others seem impatient. They grimace.  I could sit here all night, in the quiet.  I could sit here all night in this peace and quiet, and enjoy just staring at the *Light of the World* poster.  Peace and quiet.  It’s nice.  But then Ray starts shifting on his chair, and the chair creaks.

“God, I’m weary of these meetings,” Karl finally says. 

He stares at the ceiling.  He seems old, now.  He looks around the table, giving each one of us a short scan.  “Go ahead and have your circle jerk prayer.  I’m through.”

“Thanks, Karl,” I say. 

The anti-climax must have surprised the others, they’re a half-beat slow in adding their affirmation.

I’m the first to stand for the prayer.  We’re supposed to close the meeting by holding hands and saying the serenity prayer as we look each other in the eye.  It’s supposed to mean we’re not ashamed.  I’ve never really enjoyed this ritual.  It’s a little too self-validating for my taste. 

Everybody’s standing, except Karl. We all look at Karl.

“You going to pray?” I ask.


He stands up, puts on his coat, an old blue parka.

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. . .” we begin, automatonically. We watch Karl, instead of looking each other in the eye. “The courage to change the things I can. . .” He’s at the door.  He stoops to pick up his Christmas tree.  “And the wisdom to know the difference.”  An old man in an old parka with an old fake tree.  He pushes the door open, takes half a step outside, then turns around:

“Your prayer didn’t make it out this building. That Higher Power you all talk about?  You honor Him with your lips, but your hearts are far from Him.”

He leaves.  The door bangs behind him.  We stand there, looking at the door.  I hear laughter from the step table in the kitchen.

“Sounds like there having a better meeting than we did,” Ray says.

Ira nods. “I’ll tell you, fellas, that was one of the strangest meetings, ever.”

Ira, Ray and Denard start rehashing everything.  Changing it into something that suits them.  I put my coat on and leave them to it.

It’s a cold night.  It’s freezing in the car.  I put the heater on high.  But it will take this old Honda several minutes to start blowing warm air.  I begin to pull out of the parking lot, and I remember my plan to go to the store to buy gifts—God!  How stupid!  I shift into reverse and back into a parking space.  I sit in the car, wondering at my stupidity. 

Karl was right.  Who am I kidding? 

There’s nothing in me but sawdust and resentment.  I don’t have what it takes to finish.  I gave up and quit.  I went through the motions so badly, even the old lady could no longer ignore it—she had to leave.  Everything that should have been a blessing, I treated as a curse.  A few thoughtless gifts mean nothing.  Another half-assed gesture added to a life of half-assed gestures.

I sit here in this car, the motor running, the heater blowing cold air.  I search the black December sky.  Where’s the Jesus star?

09 November 2011

They Fuck Horses In The Ass, Don't They?

What were these idiots thinking??  Provincial morons like this are admitted to a supposed *prestigious academic institution?*  In a truly vulgar display, these imbeciles hold a *pep rally,* a party, no doubt drinking beer and flirting with each other, as they *rally* to show support for a disengaged old fossil of a coach who characterizes a grown man buttfucking a little boy as *horseplay.*  Do they all fuck horses in the ass in State College, PA?

{I wrote a little more about Pederast State University over here.}


Ha ha ha. . .in his retirement statement today, Paterno says:

At this moment the Board of Trustees should not spend a single minute discussing my status. They have far more important matters to address. I want to make this as easy for them as I possibly can.

Hey, old man, it's not for you to tell the Board of Trustees what to do.  Your status is part of this ugly situation, and it's up to the Board to decide if they want Pederast State University to suffer the embarrassing spectacle of you in the Stadium this Saturday, if they want their *prestigious university* to be ridiculed and shamed by the spectacle of 106,000 provincial boobs holding a pep rally for an old geezer who characterizes men buttfucking boys as *horseplay,* and who looked away from the obvious deviate behavior of his coaching buddy for years and years.  Yes, JoePa, the Board of Trustees does need to discuss your status.  Did you ever stop to consider that maybe you don't deserve one final home game surrounded by 106,000 fawning imbeciles?  Is missing one last fucking game too much of a punishment for you?  Can you not even bear that small atonement for enabling your buddy Sandusky to buttfuck kids with total impunity??  The truth is, JoePa, you are only interested in making this gruesome situation as easy for YOU as possible.

And look at JoePa's final self-serving statment:

This is a tragedy. It is one of the great sorrows of my life. With the benefit of hindsight, I wish I had done more.

With the benefit of *hindsight?*  Who the fuck do you think you are shitting, JoePa?  You had all the sight you needed to do more, to do a lot more.  You had a grad assistant come to you and tell you he *sighted* your buddy Sandusky fucking a little boy in the *hind.*  There's your hindsight, for you.

Pederast State University loses all credibility as a *prestigious academic institution* if they allow Paterno to coach in dumbly named Beaver Stadium this Saturday. . .


The Board of Trustees at Pederast State University did the right thing by firing their fossil of a coach, Joe Paterno.  The Board could not allow the University to suffer the shame of having AmerICKa watch 106,000 provincial morons celebrate and congratulate and well-wish an out-of-touch old geezer who winked at years and years of serial buttfucking.  You just cannot allow that to happen, if you want your precious University to be taken seriously.  A couple days after it is revealed the Football Program has been a sexual House of Horrors for little boys, you stage a love-in for the man who presided over the bath house buttfuckings?  No.  You just cannot allow that to happen.
Tonight, once again, we see in small what would have happened in large on Saturday.  Once again the fawning imbeciles who attend Pederast State University vainly inserted themselves into the story by taking to the streets, this time adding vandalism, to show their *love* for JoePa.  These idiots apparently do not care or do not understand the message they send about their University:

Winking at serial buttfucking is not a sufficient reason to remove a man who has won 409 football games.  You cannot compare scores of little boys being buttfucked to outscoring Illinois 10 - 7.

Uh, tonight's vulgar display of misplaced values could not be repeated a hundred-fold Saturday afternoon, or Pederast State University would be the scorn of an appalled nation.  Joe had to go, it's as simple as that.

No need to feel sorry for JoePa.  His punishment for winking at serial buttfucking is missing his goodbye party?  Seems a terribly small price to pay.  The self-centered self-appointed saint of college football showed his true selfish colors to the very end, demanding the Board of Trustees grant him his goodbye party.  He lamely claimed this would make the Board's job easier.  Ha ha ha. . .sure, Joe, having the University suffer the stain of 106,000 fawning imbeciles blowing goodbye kisses at a man who winked at serial buttfucking Saturday afternoon would make the Board's job easier?  Uh, no.

The UNDENIABLE truth is this:

If Saint Joe had truly wanted to make the Board's job easier, he would have resigned immediately, and then implored the fawning imbeciles of Pederast State University to not make a sorry spectacle of themselves.  But he did neither.  Instead, he demanded his goodbye party, and encouraged the fawning imbeciles with his shockingly offensive front lawn homilies, asking drunken college students to pray for the victims of the serial buttfucking he winked at.  This is the legacy of Joe Paterno. . .

07 September 2011


Fuck Lady Gaga and Ke$ha and all these other Modern Pop Whores. . .they're boring Madonna retreads. . .and Madonna was tedious, to begin with.  Now Chrissie Hynde was one hot piece of ass, back in the day.   Naturally cool and sexy, no need for any cheap theatrics.  Today Chrissie turns 60.  Look at her in that video above. . .from about 8 or 9 months ago.  The face is pretty worn out. . .but I'd still eat her pussy, no problem.  She's real flesh and blood, blessed with a natural creative energy. . .whereas this Lady Gaga is lifeless. . .she's a fucking Transformer, folding into ten different pop robots. . .you might as well try to eat Chromia's pussy.

Here's a picture of Hynde when she was in high school. . .looks like a Manson girl.  How hot is that?
Sixty years old?!?!  Back On The Chain Gang was released thirty years ago?!?!   Chrissie is an old lady?!?!  And she's not nearly old enough to be my mother.  The grave is not far off. . .

18 August 2011

Hobo With A Shotgun

Hollywood brought over the great Dutch actor Rutger Hauer about thirty years ago--and never knew what to do with him. He’s had more lame roles in more lames movies, well over a hundred, than just about anyone. Yet he has played two of the greatest and most charismatic villains in screen history: Roy Batty in the sci-fi classic Blade Runner and John Ryder in the cult classic The Hitcher. I was hoping Hobo With A Shotgun would offer Hauer a similar cult role to shine in, but. . .no. Hauer is good, but not even he is good enough to make this terrible, cheaply made Canadian attempt at a Grindhouse/Machete ‘70s exploitation-type homage thingy watchable. The Canadian actors are awful, a screeching, lumbering cast of Nova Scotian oafs, all about as subtle as a hundred pounds of spoiled back bacon. Hauer plays a hobo who rides into a lawless town run by a deranged crime family addicted to decapitation, mutilation and head crushing. Initially Hauer’s hobo tries to lay low and mind his own business, but his growing fondness for a prostitute (supposedly with a heart of gold, but acted by somebody named Molly Dunsworth with a heart of chocolate gold coins) inspires him to clean up the city. It’s a thin, dull vigilante script shot in garish neon hues and punctuated every couple minutes with Asian Extreme gore. Ha, Hauer’s actually TOO GOOD in this horseshit movie. He makes the hobo a real character. . .a real character interacting with a set full of blood-stained mannequins. The only passable scenes are like the one shown above. . .Hauer alone, giving a monologue. . .or looking pensive in a box car. . .or conflicted as he surveys the mayhem around him in the corrupt town. A miserable little movie, dumb minuscule plot, lifeless characters, Asian Extreme gore without the Asian attitude (it’s Tokyo Gore Police by way of the Hoser Community Players), a bizarre, anti-climatic ending featuring robots and a giant octopus (?!?!)--and yet somehow this Whoopee Cushion of a movie got generally decent reviews, with only the old school queer Rex Reed getting it right, concluding his review as follows:

Quite the most appalling piece of junk I have seen lately, Hobo With a Shotgun just lies there like an autopsy.

16 August 2011

The Court Jester

Why is Media ignoring Ron Paul, asks Media *outsider* Jon Stewart?


Mr. Paul contradicts the validity of AmerICKa’s endless, pointless wars. . .and anybody who dissents from war must be ostracized by the Media wing of the Military Media Complex.

There is NO SUCH THING in AmerICKa as a *free press.*

Media is owned by semi-global corporate giants who profit from Western wars, and thus Media cannot question war. How can Satan cast out Satan?

Media’s obligation is to cheer war, and instruct the sheeple war is necessary.

It is nice Media *outsider* Jon Stewart exposes Media’s shunning of Mr. Paul. . .it would be nicer still if Stewart answered his own question of why Media ignores Paul. . .and it would be even nicer if Stewart then asked his brainwashed audience why they are not troubled by endless war. Finally, Stewart ought to ask his dumb audience why they would support any war candidate.

Mr. Stewart, whether witting or unwitting, plays a small but vital role in Media--the faux *alternative.* Stewart is the jester in the court of the Military Media Complex.

Until Jon Stewart points his finger squarely at the camera and asks his amoral audience if they haven’t yet had enough of the pointless killing, he serves no genuine useful function.

A *free press?*

When has ONE grieving member of a victimized family of Obama’s wars in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq or Libya ever been allowed onto AmerICKan television to tell the sheeple about their dead or maimed loved one, and ask what benefit the sheeple have derived?

There is no *free press.*

Only a Satanic War Media which relentlessly promotes indiscriminate killing. Night after night, week after week, month after month, year after year Media pollutes AmerICKans’ souls with war propaganda, glorifying ridiculous *SEALS* and worshipping at the altar of the Drone.

Dr. Ron Paul has diagnosed the AmerICKan sickness unto death--Media must now persecute him.

It won’t be long until we have the *Ron Paul is an anti-semite* story. We get this bogus story every time Paul campaigns. It’s the kiss of death from the Christo-Zionist Media ministers the sheeple remain faithful to, and absolves the sheeple of any guilt as they go about the ghoulish business of crowning their next war king.

21 July 2011


AnnArbor.com, 18 July 2011: Borders Group, Inc. plans to liquidate, marking the culmination of a years-long decline for the nation’s second largest bookstore chain, which had fallen into disrepair four decades after it opened its first store in downtown Ann Arbor. The liquidation, which Borders announced shortly after 4:10 p.m., means that the 10,700 people who still work for Borders — including about 400 at its Ann Arbor headquarters — will lose their jobs. The Ann Arbor-based chain’s 399 remaining stores will be closed quickly, with liquidation sales starting as soon as Friday

No surprise. And no mystery as to Borders demise. I worked at Borders Corporate for eleven and a half years, and watched its disintegration close-up. Borders fatal mistake was to be caught flat-footed at the beginning of the e-commerce era. The Higher-Ups on the third floor at 100 Phoenix Drive in Ann Arbor sneered at Amazon.com, only reluctantly building an inferior, penny-ante internet site, all the while continuing a remarkably dumb strategic plan of building twenty-to-forty new Superstores a year, most of them in awful locations with terrible leases. Once Borders thick-headed management finally realized online sales were the future of book retailing, they didn’t have the capital necessary to play internet catch-up, as the red ink flowed from dead weight stores and fruitless remodels. The once-haughty Borders executive team was forced to sign a humiliating chump change partnership deal with Amazon, and the once-proud book store chain began its fifteen year slide to the dustbin of AmerICKan retail history.

[Borders would get caught similarly flat-footed at the dawn of the e-book era, but by then its shortsightedness didn’t matter, the chain was already on life support, waiting for its creditors to pull the plug.]

Borders might have been able to survive for another ten-to-twenty years had the executives admitted defeat on e-commerce and e-books, and recommitted to SELLING BOOKS. . .there is a huge aging population in AmerICKa that actually enjoys browsing through bookstores, and had Borders targeted them, they could have forestalled the chain’s extinction, but one idiotic CEO after another tried to paper over Borders colossal e-commerce mistake with retarded retail gimmicks--all at the expense of BOOKS. . .book inventory shrunk year by year, with the floor space devoted to faggot British stationary, wind-up toys, snack racks and an embarrassing collection of electronic gizmos, meant to suggest to Borders was *cutting edge,* but in reality only signaled Borders’ cluelessness (for example, precious retail floor space was wasted on an asinine cd burning station where Borders’ executives thought customers would line-up to burn their own music cds--apparently the Borders’ brain trust had never heard of a little thing called the iPod). Had Borders been content to remain a BOOK STORE, and not stupidly cut book inventory in favor of garbage its core customers had no interest in, I truly believe it could have survived for at least another decade. . .and maybe by then, it could have found a CEO who would actually be ahead of whatever the next retail curve turns out to be.

The sorry lot of Borders CEOs, VPs and Directors were the dumbest, most self-deluded people I’ve ever met. Here are a few of my *favorites:*

Greg J. They hired this dumb pollack from some Chicago grocery store chain. Apparently he convinced the Board of Directors he could save the company by running book stores the same way he ran grocery stores. This dumb pollack brought over the same grocery store inventory system and tried to apply it to books. *Category Management,* he called it. He single-handedly forever ruined Borders book inventory system by insisting, despite steadily declining sales, he could sell Dostoevsky the same way he sold frozen peas in Chicago. What a dumb fucking pollack. The company wasted untold millions over the years trying, never successfully, to repair the damage done by Greg J.’s dumb pollack inventory system.

The Nameless One. His name is never recorded in any of the numerous articles that have been written documenting Borders’ decline and fall over the last fifteen years. That’s because Borders has carefully concealed his stunningly brief reign as CEO. Lured away from a Big New York Publishing House, the Nameless One spent most of his few weeks as Borders Boss by roaming the halls of the corporate office looking for free food, and leering at the pretty, young female admins. When the creepy-looking creep was caught on a parking lot security camera *violating company policy,* the Board of Directors decided it would be wiser to offer the Nameless One millions in stock options to quietly walk away than to turn the matter over to law enforcement officials. The Board of Directors made many decisions which were more harmful to the company, but none were more morally reprehensible.

George J. A plump runt who was shit-canned by Saks, but he somehow conned the Board of Directors into thinking a former tenure at Warner Bros. Stores was sufficient for him to lead a turnaround at Borders. George’s bright idea to save Borders was to sign a bunch of celebrities to write books exclusive for Borders!! What if Madonna or Jennifer Anniston wrote a novel that was only available at Borders!! Woo-hoo!! George spent most of his time in Los Angeles shamelessly star-sniffing, but all that ever came of it was this ridiculous offering, now, ironically, only available from peddlers of used books on Amazon.com. George J., however, was “blown away” by this *book,* proving you should never hire an illiterate to run a book store. George’s All-Hands meetings were an unintentional laugh riot, tawdry Hollywood choreographed abominations in which he was forever proclaiming he was working on several partnership deals that would transform Borders into the Number One Media Retailer of the future. He could never divulge any particulars of the details of these partnerships, they were always just a couple of months away from being finalized, he didn’t want to jeopardize the delicate negotiations, but he assured us we would be “blown away” once he could make the announcements official. Needless to say, nothing ever came of groupie George’s daydreams.

Ken A. George J. brought Ken along with him from the Saks unemployment line. Let’s put it this way: if George J. was Billy Martin, then Ken A. was Art Fowler. Ken spent most of his time at Borders in the third floor men’s room, relieving himself of the previous night’s libations. Bulbous red-nosed Ken was a real life Willy Loman. . .it was a painful experience to watch this broken figure struggle through his brief moments during George’s absurd All-Hands meetings.

Steve D. The quintessential yes man. This paunchy sycophant never met a new CEO’s plan he didn’t believe in “one hundred percent.” He never had an idea of his own, but he lasted as a VP or President (and made a shitload of money) for over a decade by being the consummate corporate mediocrity, always bumbling along and farting Somewhere Over The Rainbow.

Ron M. Prick. Zero personality. Zero people skills. He was the vampire who sucked the last blood from Borders, then ran off in the middle of the night to A&P (!?!?). He left behind a human turd named Skip C., a pencil neck midget who was forever boasting of his miniscule accomplishments at. . .Joanne Fabrics (!?!?!?).

This marked the end of my time at Borders, and what has gone on in the past few months, under the default CEO, Mike Edwards, I have no idea, other than it must have been pretty gruesome. . .Borders hospice.

I liked working at Borders. As stupid and offensive as the executives were, the regular Joes who worked there were a decent bunch, and I never had to labor more than three hours out of an eight hour day--which was true for almost everybody at Corporate, its bloated staff being one more sign of incompetent management.

Those soft, EZ corporate office jobs are fast disappearing in AmerICKa, and I doubt most of those who have worked at Borders will ever have it so good again. I know I haven’t. Now I have to work for a living, and it sucks.

O God, why did Borders just have to be a little bit stupider than Barnes & Noble???

Anyway, may God in particular bless the following ex-Borders employees:

Joe G. Mike S. Jerry R. Suzane the cafeteria cashier. Jessica U. (who with her skimpy wardrobe single-handedly forced Borders to change their dress policy). Nicole C. And

Jersey Shore Jill L.

06 July 2011

Family Night

The double shift. Every Saturday night. Come in at 3 pm Saturday, leave 7 am Sunday. Sixteen straight hours of After COPS. You watch COPS, and at the end of every segment you see the officers driving off in the squad car, with the reprobate in the back seat. Where do they go after the camera is switched off? County jail. And that’s me. Baby-sitting the unkempt and the unwashed through the long Saturday night and Sunday morning.

I’ve worked all days and all shifts at the jail for a year, now. The Saturday double is the gauntlet. Hour after hour assaulted by the liquor fumes, body odor and sewer stinking feet of the newly arrested wretches. Ear-aching hour after ear-aching hour of listening to their retarded self-justifications and dumb protests of innocence, their insane babble, their wearying pleas and juvenile schemes for extra phone calls, sack lunches or jail jackets, all accompanied by the blare of the televisions.

I call the Saturday double *Family Night.* A slow trickle starts at 5 pm, and the floodgates open at 8 pm. Domestic Violence. Domestic Violence. Domestic Violence. Domestic Violence, one rolling in every twenty minutes until the early hours of Sunday morning.

*Families* spending time together on Saturday. . .

By dinner they’re at each other’s throat.

Central announces each arrival:

“Ann Arbor in the sally port, one new male arrest.”

“Ypsilanti in the sally port, one new male arrest.”

“County in the sally port, one new male arrest.”

“Pittsfield in the sally port, one new female arrest.”

“Northfield in the sally port, one new hillbilly arrest.”

Then, just to break the monotony:

“Ypsilanti in the sally port, three new male arrests.”

Home Invasion by three juvenile delinquents dumber than Home Alone’s Daniel Stern and Joe Pesci.

And sprinkle in a few OWIs, a couple traffic bench warrants, a possession of dangerous drugs, maybe a felonious assault, a criminal sexual conduct, and every now and then, a murder. That’s Saturday night.

But Domestic Violence is definitely the Saturday house specialty. . .even more so now the hot weather is here. And particularly for the POOR and the DIRTY. And the FAT. Pricking at each other all day, husband against wife, wife against husband, parents against children, children against parents. . .even the grandparents get into it. Snarling at each other all day long, baiting each other all day long. . .mixed with alcohol, of course, until one or more of them invariably loses control and then the brawl begins.

The blazing sun is the enemy of domestic harmony. The burning rays fry the nerves of the poor, the dirty and the fat. Their brains cooked until derangement sets in. The cops go in and pick these human weeds. The tares arrive at the jail in various states of undress. Stinking, sweating, sunburned, rolls of fat spilling from their soiled, stained, ill-fitting rags.

Human offal.

Human waste.

Human dross.

Human chaff.

Stumbling, slurring litter.

All ages. From the seventeen year old boy who threw a bowl of chocolate pudding at his mother, then taunted her by holding a mirror in front of her, telling her how stupid she looked, and then breaking the mirror over her head, to the seventy-four year old geezer who battered his seventy-two year old wife with her walker.

All day Saturday, families warring.

POOR families.

Maybe families with money tear themselves apart, too. Maybe they just have enough wealth to live far enough away from their neighbors. Out of earshot. The poor live stacked on top of each other, and the neighbors report the mayhem. Or maybe the poor are just conditioned to have the police referee their dysfunctional lives. . .whatever the reason, it’s always the POOR, dirty and fat, who are brought in on domestic violence.

The high*light* last Saturday was Brianna--five foot, four inches and three hundred and sixty pounds. At least, three sixty is what she was willing to admit to. Stringy, greasy, shit-colored hair hanging to her shoulders, sweating buckets in worn pink Wal-Mart stretch pants and a stained, soiled tent-sized originally white, now gray t-shirt. She got into a scrap with her daughter, and according to the county deputy who brought her in, ending up biting her on the right breast.

Domestic Violence.

That’s all it’s ever been since Cain and Abel.

It’s in our blood.

I look at these people. Us. I watch them every Saturday night. I listen to them. The truth eventually slips out. One of the questions I have to ask is:

Have there currently been a few weeks when you felt useless or sinful?

The NEVER feel sinful. That concept has been lost. They laugh at the idea of sin.

But it is amazing how many of them admit to feeling useless.

Broken people, not at peace with themselves, and, therefore, unable to be at peace with others.

It could be said:

These are the people Jesus loves.


In His incarnation, Jesus never laid eyes on a three hundred and sixty pounder. He would have been disgusted by the sloth, the gluttony, the degeneracy of appearance and conduct.

But Jesus came to preach the gospel to the poor and the broken in spirit.

But these people are poor only by AmerICKan standards. Compared to most, they are well-off.

And are they broken in spirit? They have the gospel all around them. AmerICKa is choked with churches and so-called *Christian* Media. The gospel lays all around them like junk mail on the kitchen table or the coupon flyers in the Sunday paper--ignored. This human corruption takes no notice of the Lord Jesus Christ.

For fifteen hours and fifty minutes every Saturday night I say:

Burn this garbage in Hell.

But in the last ten minutes, as I’m about to be free of them, I have a deathbed conversion. They are, after all, only a mirror. So I say to myself, judge them according to your measure. No match for the world, the flesh and the Devil. We get our ass kicked all day long. This stumbling, slurring litter is my blood.

7 am every Sunday morning I find comfort in Psalms 103:

The LORD is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy. He will not always chide: neither will He keep His anger for ever. He hath not dealt with us after our sins; nor rewarded us according to our iniquities. . .Like as a father pitieth his children, so the LORD pitieth them that fear Him. For he knoweth our frame; He remembereth that we are dust.

This is my comfort. The comfort of those that fear the Lord. As for the others, those who feel useless, I leave them sitting in darkness, waiting:

Behold My servant, whom I uphold; Mine elect, in whom My soul delighteth; I have put My spirit upon Him: and will keep Thee, and give Thee for a covenant of the people, for a light of the Gentiles; To open the blind eyes, to bring out the prisoners from the prison, and them that sit in darkness out of the prison house.

28 June 2011

The Industry Of The Future

Floods Could Trigger Fukushima Disaster At Calhoun

Minuteman III Nuclear Missile Silos Are In Flood's Path

Wildfire Threatens Los Alamos Nuclear Lab

Aging US Reactors Were Designed To Last Only 40 Years

Al Qaeda doesn't need to smuggle in any dirty bombs. . .AmerICKa has bOOby-trapped itself with scores of them. . .the handwriting is on the wall. . .it's only a matter of time. . .or nature.

Circus sideshows are the Industry of the Future. . .a new generation of freaks is about to be born.

15 June 2011


“Oh God, is that me?”

She was looking at her mugshot. Christine.

“I look my age! I look forty-five!”

That’s enough to set her off crying, again. Seeing the picture of herself. It’s the top page of her booking paperwork, right there on the fingerprint machine, staring at her as I roll her prints. More evidence of her ruin. I have to say something to keep her reasonably calm. I need about five more minutes to finish printing her.

“You don’t look forty-five.”

She half-laughs, half-sobs.

“Thanks, sweetie,” she says, wiping snot from her nose.

I wasn’t lying. She doesn’t look forty-five. She looks fifty, at least. She’s had too many drinks over the years. Too many hours in too many bars. And then, too many beds. She looks pretty ragged.

“I can’t believe they give me domestic! ME!”

Here she goes, again. Wailing about her domestic assault charge.

“How could they of give me domestic?!?! LOOK!”

She points at the dying bruises on her upper arms.

“He’s been grabbing me and punching me for years! And I get a domestic?!?!”

4.2% tears spill out of her eyes.

I roll her right index finger over the glass. A little beep from the machine, then print flashes on the monitor.

“All I did was knock over his flat screen! And they give me domestic?!?!”

“Did you knock it over on him?”


I see some of the Corrections Officers watching, rolling their eyes, laughing. It’s great sport, from afar. The inmates, though, aren’t interested. Somebody’s got to really put on a show to get them to look away from the televisions, even though right now it’s only infomercials. There have been maniacs throwing fits, earning a shower of pepper spray, and the inmates will just sit there coughing, eyes still glued to the TVs.

“Well, maybe the prosecutor will drop the domestic in the morning,” I say, tossing Christine a bone to chew on.

“Think so?”

”Anything’s possible.”

“Just because he called. Over his precious flat screen. And they give me DOMESTIC?!?! I called on him a half-a-dozen times. You can look it up. I ain’t lying! He’s been here over and over. And LOOK!”

She points at the bruises, again. Some of them are yellow, like egg stains, like bits of old runny yolks on her arms.

“Well, whatever happens at court, just take care of it, and then maybe you ought to move on.”

“I ought to,” she says without much enthusiasm.

I roll her ring finger.

She starts weeping, again.

“Why can’t I meet no one good?”

I roll her little finger. Her fingers are long and slender, just like her body. She’s kept the weight off, except for a little beer belly. No doubt she drinks more than she eats. Her body is still decent, but her looks are gone. Her skin has been chewed up by liquor and worry. Imagine a more tattered Faye Dunaway in Barfly.

“I’m forty-five years old,” she says softly. “Forty-five years old. I went my whole life and never met no one good.”

It’s time to do her left hand.

“Forty-five. Forty-five. Forty-five. All those years! Gone!”

She sighs, wipes her nose.

I place her left hand on the glass.

“Yeah, the time passes,” I say. “Life is but a vapor.”

“Ain’t that a nice thought?” she huffs.

Ha. She doesn’t know the half of it. I’ve done fifty years, and I’m just realizing I need to get out of the world.

I press my left hand on top of hers, hold her wrist with my right hand, and then slowly pull her hand down the scanner glass.

Sometimes, with some of the females, the ones who cry and the sad, quiet, damaged ones, doing the palm and finger roll can be kind of an intimate thing.

“Why can’t I ever meet no one good?” she sobs.

Her twin themes: time and a good man. Too much drink in her system, and now she broods over time and men. And cries for herself.

I just have to get the individual prints of her left hand fingers, and then I’m done with her.

“They give me DOMESTIC?!?!” she wails. “ME?!?! LOOK!”

Again, the bruises. Time, shitty men and bruises. And outrage over her charge. All chasing around in her mind.

God had to put me in this jail. It’s from this jail I see the absolute worthlessness of human nature, and the absolute lack of faith.

“Just try to stay calm, ma’am. They may toss the domestic in the morning. And even if they don’t, you’ll get a PR bond and be out of here by lunchtime.”

“But I’ll still have to go through the courts! ME! A domestic!”

“It’ll be all right.”

“You really think so?”

I nod.

This empty reassurance is enough to calm her for a moment.

I roll her left thumb across the glass.

“I never have met no good man,” she sniffles.

I’ve been trying not say it, but now I do:

“A Good Man is Hard to Find.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“You ever read it?”


A Good Man is Hard to Find. It’s a famous short story. By Flannery O’Connor.”

She shakes her head.

“I never have read a lot of stories.”

No. No, probably not.

There were certain women who were drawn to Jesus. It’s tempting to think they were like this one here, this one ironically named Christine. Women prone to poor choices and oft ill-used. Women who went through the gutter looking for a good man, trying one after another, and then Jesus appeared, and they wept, finally finding the One. They wept, and never ceased washing His feet with their tears. But all we know, say, of Mary Magdalene, is Christ drove seven demons from her. Neither Magdalene, nor any of the other *Jesus women* mentioned in the gospels, give the impression of having been drunken tramps.

But now, as I roll Christine’s left little finger, and finish with her, I wonder if maybe she has seven demons? Demons of alcohol, lust, vanity. . .anger. . .and. . .uh. . .?

Or maybe she is just a drunken tramp, by choice and *bad luck.*

Well, anyway. . .

“All right, ma’am. We’re done here. You can take your seat, again.”

“Now I just sit out here till court?”

“Yeah, that’s about it.”

“I can’t believe they give me domestic!”

She’s crying again as she walks back to her seat.

I try to imagine Christine about thirty years ago, when she was around seventeen. Before her own personal original sin. The sin that has worn her down over the years. The sin that has marked her face. I bet she could have been a Homecoming Queen--if she wasn’t a tramp, already. In any event, she must have been a very pretty girl at seventeen, whether wholesome or flat on her back. One way or the other, she would have been too popular for me.

Now look at us. Both of us in jail. Closer to the grave than to the womb. These concrete blocks walling us in. The gray paint. The fluorescent lights, always on. The artificial haze of the underground. What time is it? Fluorescent o’clock. It’s always fluorescent o’clock in here. What day is it? What season? We’re outside of time, now.

Christine sits there, showing her bruises to a fat woman (retail fraud). Look at them. Look at all of them. These inmates. They haven’t had enough of the world, yet. That’s why they’re in here. And they can’t wait to get back to the world. Can’t wait for another dose of it. The world.

I’m grateful to God to have worked a year in here. It’s now crystal clear everybody in the world is on the wrong path.

The only difference between the people in jail and the people on the outside is clumsiness. These people, the inmates, are klutzes. They stumble more, they crash into things and draw attention to themselves. Losers. But they’re just caricatures of the so-called *successful.* They view life the same as the rest, including the Sunday morning pew-warmers. They think there is something to get out of this world. . .but there’s nothing to get out of the world. . .except their souls.

07 June 2011

Déjà Vu Iran, Black Swan, The Ghost Writer, Jim Tressel

Scanning the headlines on Drudge Report today, it's déjà vu all over again:

REPORT: Iran can produce nuke within 2 MONTHS. . .

Are you SHITTING me, I thought? Not this, again!

I wondered:

How many times have I read this SAME EXACT STORY in the last five years???

How many times have the sheeple been warned/frightened the muslim bogeymen are about to go nuclear? That the islam bomb is *just around the corner?*

Then I stopped wondering, and I asked myself have I really been reading this SAME EXACT STORY for five years, or does it just seem like I have? I did a Google search--and I must admit I was wrong. I haven’t been reading the SAME EXACT STORY for five years. I’ve been reading the SAME EXACT STORY for

25 YEARS!!!

[documented here]

Ha ha ha.


The Iran/nuke bomb story is a sterling example of long-term propaganda, disinformation and brainwashing. This story has been told for nearly an entire generation, now. A psyops program of witting and unwitting conspirators, culled from so-called *think tanks,* *intelligence agencies,* *government spo(o)kespersons,* *ivory tower policy wonks,* *retired military analysts,* Media blowhards, etc., etc. All combining to craft a crescent shaped nuclear cloud which the Military Media Complex floats over USrael. . .


Iran nuclear bomb has been *just a few months away* for twenty-five years. . .and USrael has been contemplating a *preemptive* attack for twenty-five years because Iran nuclear bomb is nearing the *point of no return.*

But Iran hasn’t built the bomb, and USrael hasn’t attacked. . .

So I wonder, what is the point of the Military Media Complex’ long-running Iran nuclear bomb propaganda campaign?

Is it possible, after twenty-five years of pushing the same feary tale, USrael doesn’t really care if Iran goes nuclear?

In fact, the only reasonable conclusion one can draw is USrael actually WANTS Iran to go nuclear. . .

The point of the Military Media Complex’ twenty-five year propaganda campaign is to terrify the sheeple with a demonized other. The Military Media Complex needs a *terrifying* enemy to justify its staggering looting of the national treasure.

For nearly a generation now, the Military Media Complex has presented the so-called *Middle East*as a monolithic muslim monster, when in reality it is a grape leaf stuffed with a bewildering mix of tribes, clans, religions and races. And the Military Media Complex has presented a nuclear Iran (as it did the *Weapons of Mass Destruction* Iraq) as the latest scare story to frighten the sheeple into accepting the Military Media Complex’ Middle East virtual reality: the so-called *Middle East* as a vast desert swarming with barbaric sand niggers desperate to beg, borrow or steal *nuclear secrets,* and in a fever to nuke God’s chosen Western people so it can restore the so-called *Caliphate.*

And if the Iranians actually manage to cobble together a nuclear bomb or two, so much the better!! Imagine the terror the Military Media Complex will conjure should the day ever arrive when Iran (or some other member of the so-called *Middle East*) announces it has the bomb.

With such a *real* threat, the Military Media Complex will validate its long demonization of the other, and will be able to perpetually justify all its military adventurism. The so-called *West* will humbly again accept the lead of USrael, and will never again be *caught with its guard down.* The Military Media Complex will never be in danger of being dismantled, for an islam bomb will throw the shadow of *holocaust* over the West. . .and the terrified sheeple will give their very last pennies for *defense.*

If the Iranian leadership possessed any wisdom, they would pull the Persian rug out from under USrael by stating their intention, in light of the Japanese nuclear catastrophe, to abandon their nuclear energy program, and then invite Western inspectors to verify the process. Thus, the Iranians could write a surprise ending to one of the Military Media Complex’ most widely read stories from its anthology of propaganda. The other repents? Hard to scare anybody with that ending. . .

But the Iranians will not do this, for they are unknowing accomplices to their own slander. . .for the sinister hand behind the New Order of the Ages controls all the governments of the world, and all are patsies, and all are in the process of being brought together to that final line in the sand. . .

A couple other totally unrelated *things:*

I finally got around to watching Black Swan. Unfortunately, it did not live up to the critics' hype. It’s a mildly entertaining amusement--and nothing more. Well-made, very watchable, but when it’s over, there’s nothing that will stay with you, nothing that will stimulate any thought, unless you want to masturbate to Natalie Portman fantasies.

Speaking of Ms. Portman, she delivers a surprisingly strong performance. Portman has been the most wooden of actresses since her enchanting debut in The Professional, but here she manages to seem human playing Nina, a sheltered, repressed, emotionally retarded adult girl. . .in other words, Natalie Portman plays herself in Black Swan (or the self she has appeared to be in all her movies since The Professional).

As for Black Swan the movie, it can be briefly and accurately described as the chick flick version of Fight Club, with Natalie Portman playing the Tyler Durden of prima ballerinas.

I also saw the critically acclaimed The Ghost Writer, made by the celebrated child molester Roman Polanski. . .and it was even more disappointing than Black Swan.

The Ghost Writer is an empty suit of a movie, with its dumb storyline pulled from the headlines of the left wing UK papers. The bland movie *star* Ewan McGregor plays a ghost writer hired to punch up the memoirs of a Tony Blair-like former Prime Minister in the middle of a war crimes inquiry. The movie’s big twist is the ghost writer discovers the Tony Blair-like character isn’t really such a bad fellow, he’s just a chump who has been manipulated by his wife, a Cherie Blair changeling in service of the CIA.

The Ghost Writer is a stupid, shallow flick, with its idiotic plot literally driven by a BMW’s GPS system. I have no idea why so many critics would praise this garbage. . .

Lastly, there is the long-anticipated demise of Jim Tressel, who needlessly and carelessly cheated during his glorious ten year run as the head football coach at Ohio State.

There were countless accusations over the years of shady dealings between Ohio State *booster* businessmen and Buckeye football players, but the NCAA always looked the other way. Mr. Tressel was finally undone by one small, dumb lie. Tressel had become so accustomed to having his dirt swept under the rug by the Ohio State administration, he no longer even bothered with appearances. . .and when his lie became public, he couldn’t even make the insincere-but-de rigeuer- half-assed apology that would have likely saved him.

The ironic thing is Tressel, I believe, would have had the exact same record without the cheating. I believe Tressel cheated for the same reason obsessive-compulsives wash their hands dozens of times--just to be sure. I don't think any of Tressel's dirty players would have left Ohio State had he asked them to refrain from all the free car deals, bogus summer jobs, autograph fees, etc. Tressel tolerated all the dirty deals, even though rationally he should have known the players wouldn't have left OSU, just to be sure he would win. . .

But that is neither here, nor there. I comment on Tressel because he is a self-proclaimed *Christian,* and I find him to be an outstanding representative of the contemporary AmerICKan church.

If Tressel is a Christian, all his works are wood, hay and stubble. Tressel himself will be saved (if he is a Christian), yet so as by fire. . .

Tressel, a Christian who practices the way of the world, is therefore a perfect proof of the Apostle Paul’s maxim:

A little leaven leaveneth the whole lump. . .

Tressel, if he is a Christian, is, at best, a severely compromised Christian, a worldly Christian, and thus a fitting figurehead for the kind of Christian our Lord Jesus Christ would see two thousand years down the road when He asked:

Nevertheless when the Son of man cometh, shall He find faith on the earth?

26 May 2011

This Is Real Democracy

"This is real democracy!" the blowhard head of the zionist state thunders, after being interrupted, for seven whole seconds, by an ethnic person of conscience.

According to the head of the zionist state, such protests would not be allowed in Iran or Libya. . .and it is a sign of the greatness of AmerICKa and the zionist state that these *free states* allow such protests. . .(for seven whole seconds).

Ha ha ha. . .

Let's see what really happened to the ethnic person of conscience who exercised her *right* to *free speech* (for seven whole seconds) in the *free state* of AmerICKa:

Jerusalem Post, 24 May 2011: The protester who heckled Prime Minister Binyamin Netanyahu during his speech to a joint session of the US Congress was arrested by police for "disrupting Congress," a press release from the group Move Over AIPAC said. Rae Abileah was taken to the hospital by Capital Police after reportedly being assaulted and tackled in the House Gallery by AIPAC (American Israel Public Affairs Committee) members. Abileah, a member of CODEPINK from California, is Jewish and of Israeli descent, according to a press release.

Ha ha ha. . .in the *free state* of AmerICKa, where political protest is *allowed,* (for seven whole seconds, in supposed contrast to Iran and Libya), the young female protestor is beaten by agents of a foreign state (and while the youg woman was being beaten, the AmerICKan congressmen and congresswomen stood and applauded the assault, cheered and applauded the violent censor of dissent), and then arrested, while still lying injured in a hospital bed, for the crime of protesting!

This could never happen in Iran or Libya, the zionist says. . .

"This is real democracy!"

Ha ha ha. . .

And yet I would wager the vast majority of AmerICKans, if informed of the beating and arrest of the protestor, would still hold to the illusion of *free speech.*

Firstly, the sheeple care nothing for the *rights* of anyone who would oppose the AmerICKan National Interest (an Interest which opposes their own interest, but which they are ignorant of, having been thoroughly brainwashed from birth into a dumb patriotism).

Secondly, the sheeple will cling to the illusion of *free speech* because they are allowed to make all the noise they want for or against faggot marriage, for or against abortion, for or against any kind of social issue that does not contradict the policies of the Military Media Complex. The rulers of AmerICKa will let the sheeple strain all they want at the gnat of faggot marriage, so long as they continue to swallow the camel of perpetual war. This is the real democracy the zionist blowhard thunders about. . .

19 May 2011

Obama's Timid Proposal

Barack Hussein Obama (Hawaii), after a laborious recitation of zionist *talking points* (the endless zionist obsession with victimization, the security paranoia, the *special relationship* with AmerICKa, etc., etc.), offered a timid proposal to bring peace between the zionist state and occupied Palestine:

The zionist state and occupied Palestine should come to an agreement to create a new Palestine based on 1967 borders.

Predictably, this modest proposal was immediately rejected by the zionists. Equally predictably, Barack Hussein Obama’s loyalty to the zionist state was questioned--and thus also his eligibility to be President of the United States of AmerICKa. For even more than a valid certificate of live birth from one of the United States, fealty to the zionist state is a requirement for the office of President.

But this tired show has been staged countless times, and will be staged countless times again--only our Lord Jesus Christ can cancel this long-running tragedy. In the meantime, there will be blood. . .

What is most interesting about this latest fruitless *peace initiative* is the contrast between the petulant reaction of the zionist state and the stony silence of Palestine, especially considering the biased words of Barack Hussein Obama (Hawaii):

For decades, the conflict between Israelis and Arabs has cast a shadow over the region. For Israelis, it has meant living with the fear that their children could get blown up on a bus or by rockets fired at their homes, as well as the pain of knowing that other children in the region are taught to hate them. For Palestinians, it has meant suffering the humiliation of occupation, and never living in a nation of their own. For the Palestinians, efforts to delegitimize Israel will end in failure. Symbolic actions to isolate Israel at the United Nations in September won’t create an independent state. Palestinian leaders will not achieve peace or prosperity if Hamas insists on a path of terror and rejection. And Palestinians will never realize their independence by denying the right of Israel to exist. As for Israel, our friendship is rooted deeply in a shared history and shared values. Our commitment to Israel’s security is unshakable. And we will stand against attempts to single it out for criticism in international forums.

Only the zionists live in fear.

Only the Palestinians are taught hate.

Only zionist children have rockets fired at their homes.

Only the Palestinians deny the right of the other to exist.

Only the zionist state is immune to criticism.

It is laughable the zionists are criticizing Barack Hussein Obama (Hawaii) for his timid peace proposal, when the evident bias of his remarks whitewashes every sin of the zionist state. Thousands and thousands and thousands more Palestinians have been killed, thousands and thousands more Palestinian homes have been bombed to rubble, it is the zionist state which is armed with the greatest death machines of AmerICKa, while the Palestinians fire toy rockets and throw stones--yet Barack Hussein Obama (Hawaii) says it is the zionist children who live in fear.

Obama paints a shamelessly dishonest picture of the conflict between the zionist state and Palestine. . .and he wonders why there cannot be peace? The zionist state will never take seriously any call to peace as long as the picture of their brutal occupation of Palestine is painted by AmerICKa to depict the zionists as the victims.

It is such an outrageous distortion of reality, and this absurd alternate reality has been amen’d so long by AmerICKa, the zionist state skin’s has become exceeding thin. . .the zionist state cannot tolerate even the mildest contradiction. . .the zionist state has become the princess who cannot stand the pea of Obama’s timid and vague reference to the 1967 border.

The zionist reaction seems even more peevish when we consider Barack Hussein Obama remarks about Syria in the same speech. Obama notes the *unrest* in Syria, and demands the Syrian leader Assad map out a route to so-called *democracy,* or be pushed aside. Obama also imposes sanctions on Syria. . .

But there are no demands or threats made to the zionist state, only a timid and toothless request to return to 1967 borders. Yet the zionist state chafes at even this most gentle of prods. . .

In contrast, the Palestinians, hardened after decades of abuse and decades of the denial of their reality, silently accept the demeaning language of Barack Hussein Obama (Hawaii). . .

They stand silent against the charge they are the terrorists, they are the haters, they are the deniers of the right of the other to exist.

After sixty years of this tired drama, the Palestinians understand the essential emptiness of AmerICKan *peace initiatives.* So while the zionist state snarls over a pat on the head, the Palestinians stand silent against yet another slandering. They have no speaking part in the great *peace* shows of AmerICKa and the zionist state. . .they stand on stage, dumb, in order to secure a few table scraps for their beleaguered people. . .

Away from the stage, both the zionists and the Palestinians believe time is on their side. . .but here they are both mistaken. . .it is only Jesus Christ, ahead.