Follow the Money

I’m talking now only to those of you in the audience who do not want to let kids escape the public school system. Oh. That’s you?

That’s all of you. All of you bastards. That’s right, I said bastards. I shouldn’t have. A bastard can’t help it. He was born that way. You can. You were born with a heart. And a brain. You can tell when you are harming someone, withholding what he needs, treating him unfairly because he’s poor and has no choice but to take what you dish out.

Why won’t you let kids out of schools that have murders in the hallway and zero learning going on? Your kids aren’t in there, are they? Hey, Barack! Your kids there? No. Your kids are in a fancy, extremely expensive private school. Why? Isn’t the public school good enough for them?

You lie to yourselves. That’s not good for you. Better to face the facts. Didn’t your shrink tell you that? Don’t make up lies to justify keeping other children prisoners while yours are free. That could cause internal stress. You could find yourself raging in a restaurant – about vouchers. Why? Because you’re trying to rationalize your position. And why is your position irrational? Because you, dear one, are not a mean, niggardly person who would withhold from a child the means with which to live a better life – in some cases, to live any life at all. You would not condemn the kid next door to minimum wage all his life if by walking two blocks down the street he could go to a decent school and become, say… a teacher. You’re not the type. You honestly do care about people. But these aren’t quite people. You don’t know them. Their faces are in the shadows, and there are so many of them, you can’t single out anybody. So hey, let’s sacrifice them to the sanctified words, “Public School” because that’s on your political affinity group’s agenda.

Americans are guaranteed an education. Not a school. Now they’ve got a school they can’t escape from, and they get none of the guaranteed education. Some don’t get it until they get to jail, and by then the curriculum has been altered.

Barack, you close your ears. I’m not talking to you anymore. I’m talking to the regular people. Regular people … don’t you think it’s strange that these bigwigs talk up the public schools and their children don’t go near them? Why do you think that is? Is there something wrong with them? Then why do they think it’s okay for anybody else’s kids to be in them?

Well, maybe they just want something different – something the public school doesn’t offer. They’re entitled to that. And “entitled” is the right word. They’re entitled to it because their positions in life reward them with enough moolah to buy their kids the education they want for them. Whatever it is.

It wouldn’t be so bad if these weren’t the very same people who are always crying about the poor, wanting to uplift them, give them a leg up. The very people who think it’s a disgrace the way poor people are treated in this country. The Affirmative Action crowd. The ones who are always screaming for fairness, equality, a level playing field. Well here it is. A way to do it. A way to give everybody the same thing. That thing is “what they want.” That’s basically what you want, isn’t it? That would be equality, wouldn’t it?

You can listen again, Barack.

Let these kids go to the schools that they, as members of their families, have decided they want to go to. Schools: hand over the money the state gave you to educate them, and set them free. You’ll be giving them the means to the education they deem is the one they’re guaranteed. The big brick building you’re in, with the mathematically challenged teachers and the six-figure principals are turning out not to it for them anymore. Your buildings are jails. They have guards who keep the inmates inside. There is no leaving the building once you report in, until the end of the day when your contract is almost up – there’s still the bus ride. You are not allowed to catch some fresh air at lunchtime. In some schools, students can not carry bags of any kind. A girl with her period can get special permission for tampons if she’s ready to announce to the burly guard in the hallway. No cell phones. No contact with the families. They’re the competition. They make life tough. Trouble in school? That calls for a lock-down. Nobody gets in or out. Your kid stays inside while the murderer rampages through the halls. We wouldn’t want him to escape.

This is school, guys. It’s not the place you went to if you’re reading this. Do you get the picture? What they’re asking for is a Get Out of Jail Free card.

Obama! Why not give it to them? Are you beholden to something other than your own heart and brain? Couldn’t be the Teachers Union, could it? You just got their endorsement. What’d you do Barack? Put your nose on the ground and your ass in the air and promise to support public schools so the educators can all keep going on their Alaskan cruises and Caribbean vacations? You did, didn’t you, Barack? Otherwise, why would you condemn the children of all these black Americans who are voting for you because you’re one of them, to a life of poverty or crime because during those years when they were alive to learning, they weren’t in a place where it was going on. They were in a holding pen.

Shame on you Barack, and all the rest of you hypocrites. Put your money where your mouth is. If you say these people deserve a chance at life, give them back the money that’s supposed to get it for them. How many of you are teachers? Raise your hands. I thought so. There are more and more of you all the time. It’s a lucrative profession. Gee. You know? If a lot of kids left public school, they wouldn’t need so many teachers. You could maybe lose your job if you teach in a public school, which most of you do. Sure, you could get a job in one of the charter schools or new private schools that would spring up to take care of the refugees, but hey, they wouldn’t pay nearly as much; it would be ridiculous. You’d have to adjust your lifestyle down to where the rest of the peons live. Ouch. That wouldn’t be good. We don’t want that to happen to you, do we?

So listen. Let’s not let these people out. Let’s say they would be damaging the public school (i.e. my cushy job) if they took that money away from it. How could it support itself? Maintain its buildings? Pay its staff? Well, well, well, if that isn’t the same damn thing those gall-darn plantation owners said. How the hell do you expect me to maintain this huge plant without slaves?

We freed the slaves, baby. And we can free the kids. But for some reason, you’re not interested this time around. You have to wonder if you would have been interested the first time, had you been used to darkies making your lifestyle possible. That’s what you’re asking for. Keep them locked up. They’re needed for your boondoggle.

“Let my people go!” How about that for a slogan, Senator Obama … Sir.

The Presumptive Nominee

What are you doing, Barack? Going around the world telling them you’re taking over America? For them? Thanks a lot, pal. What does it take you reign you in? I’ll bet you’re wondering yourself. When you found yourself standing in front of the same-size crowd we used to see in movies of you-know-who – the Dark Lord – did it give you the creeps? Did you want to run? Did you shrink inside with the knowledge of what you’re becoming? Or did you swell with the power of the Ring?

You told them you’d bring them a humble America. Who’s talking there, Barack? You’re not a humble man, why the hell should the country humble itself for you? You know what, Bararck? I don’t feel humble. I don’t want a humble country. You know what humble people do? They put their faces on the ground and stick their asses in the air. So help me, if I ever catch your ass in the air, I’m going to wallop it like your Mommy should have. We don’t want a humble country. A step-and-fetch-it, shuffling, “Yes Massa” country. Do you, man? What’s happened to you?

Who are you speaking for? Not me. Not even your party. You’re not even the candidate yet, and by now a lot of us wish they could stop you from being one. You got too big, Barry. You’re telling lies about us. You said we would stop torture. Yeah? And you stop beating your wife, OK? Who’d you say that to? The Germans? The peoples who raised torture to a scientific endeavor? The French? The French are as fancy in torture as they are in sex. We’re not. We’re simple folks. We beat people up in the back of police stations. Yeah, yeah, there’s water-boarding. Not nice, but we did it to about three people, and we’ve stopped.

You’re apologizing for us. Don’t apologize for me, man. I’m not sorry. Not sorry to be the defender of freedom, of human dignity, of human life, around the globe. You go to these worms and tell them we’re sorry. These people in league with the people who sponsor human bombs. Who think more of their commercial deals than they do millions of people being ravaged by their “leaders.”

You want to sell us to the United Nations, a gang of world-class criminals. The organization that is so corrupt it can’t do a thing; the money just drains away into the pockets of the people they hire to do their work. An organization whose new Human Rights Council is composed of murderers and rapists. They’re some kind of joke, Barack, and you’re becoming one too. You want to bolster the World Bank. Don’t you know anything Barack? I shouldn’t know more than you do. These people are thieves. Ask the locals. Ask anyone who needs them. They take the money and live high on the hog. It doesn’t get where it’s supposed to go. Remember the despised Paul Wolfowitz? He blew the whistle on them. Everyone acknowledged it. And yet… there it is. Still there. And you want to feed it and make it bigger.

I don’t think I like you anymore, Barack. You’ve gone over there and bad-mouthed me. Who the fuck do you think you are? Are you who you told them you are? Then I don’t think I want you anymore. And I don’t think a lot of other people will want you now. A lot of us are proud of our history, proud of our position in the world. Some of us think the world needs us because we have a higher moral calling than they do. I’ll stand by that. I’m one of those old-fashioned guys who thinks he can tell good from evil. I see a man raping a woman, I think he should be stopped. I see a tyrant raping a country, I think he should be stopped. What do you think, Barack? It’s his own business? Maybe the poor guy didn’t get enough to eat when he was young? Wilt Chamberlain’s family was so poor his mother fed him potato peelings for dinner.

Come on home, Barack. Come home and get the beating you deserve. At the polls. The country is buzzing with discontent over the remarks you made on your vacation Those people clinging to their religion, and gloomy gun-owners, those people in small towns, on farms… they’re waking up. They have TV, you know. They saw you. They’re not happy. They think “you’ve been messin’ where you shouldn’t have been a messin’” They think maybe they’re going to have to come out and vote for the old white guy. They don’t want to; they don’t like going out. But they’re putting on their boots, baby – “gonna walk all over you.”

Care to apologize? To us?

I’m pissed, Barack. I think I’ll go outside and fire a few rounds up into the sky.

Lo and Behold

Hi Folks

This is not my usual random rant. I’ve been bit by a bug.

You like big gov? You think it does your bidding? You. I’m talking to you. The good guy, who wants everything to be nice, and thinks FedGov ought to make it so.

Ever hear of Lyme disease? In the Northeast, we know it quite well. Too well. It takes an able-bodied man and turns him into jello. It’s carried by a tick so tiny it’s been likened to a penciled period.

Lyme disease appeared in Connecticut, ten miles from the island called Plum, off the island called Long. Strangely enough, there was, on this island, a government lab, specializing in infectious insect diseases. You know where you write to get a job there? Oak Ridge, Tennessee. If that doesn’t chill you, look it up; it will. When the government arrived on the island, there was no such thing as Lyme disease. Anywhere. We were free to wade through ferns, pick blueberries in the brush, and lie down in the daisies without carrying away a small sucker so powerful it can lay a man down and he’ll never get up again.

The little critter for a long time was confined to the island that gave it birth. Well, not exactly “birth”. The disease was created, not procreated. By us. Us. US. With your tax dollars, baby. You paid for Lyme disease.

It took a while, but it moved off the island. Took the ferry to Connecticut and radiated outward until today it has come around to bite us in the ass. In some cases, literally.

This year there are an unprecedented number of ticks. There are very few other insects. The bees are dying out. Nobody is sure why. At night, there is total silence, where once the chirp of crickets was so deafening, you had to hide inside. You can leave the doors open, without screens. There is nothing to fly in, except, at night, moths. And did I mention, there are plenty of ticks and a lot of Lyme disease?

Now, we leave the realm of the factual and enter the arena of conjecture, which some people refer to as paranoia. If you search around the web, you will find that the spirochete that causes Lyme disease carries its own little payload – a genetically engineered (smaller than a bacteria, but bigger than a virus) organism – a mycoplasma. It has been found in most, but not all, people diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. And Lou Gehrig’s disease. Crohn’s disease. Fibromyalgia. Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Alzheimer’s. And the chart-topper, AIDS.

These diseases have been around forever, haven’t they?

Well, no, they have not been around forever. I never heard of any of them when I was a kid. The dudes some of these diseases were named after, probably weren’t even born yet.

There is a new thing being diagnosed as all of the above, and present is the genetically engineered organism, mycoplasma fermentens, which more often than not, accompanies Lyme. That particular organism is patented by a US Army doctor, Dr. Lo, and behold, he is one of those who reports finding it in AIDS patients, and who names it as the cause of Chronic Wasting Disease. Let’s call it MF, with apologies to your mother. MF may be contagious from person to person. Still want your government to do things? You know once you get them started, it’s hard to get them to stop.

The little bugger was turned into powder. Weaponized. MF is found in Gulf War Syndrome patients. An Iraqi (sadly, degreed by Cornell) went to work on Plum Island, and before Gulf War I, went back home and became head of Micoplasma research at the old U of B.

But back to the silent summer. Is MF what’s killing the insects, or is the government killing the insects in their failing attempts to stop the 21st century edition of the Plague? It hardly matters; why did we make this thing? To keep up with the Joneses, because the Joneses over there across the sea are making bugs.

It’s biological warfare, baby. We found evidence of it all over Iraq, but we didn’t care about it. We carted it away. We were dogs sniffing for nukes; we just by-passed the biologicals.

So if you’re worried that someday something’s going to get out of a government lab and do in mankind, forget about it. You’re too late. It happened.

You can’t put it back in the box. Ask Pandora.

Global warming? You should live so long.

“… Ma Belle”

You’re on the front lines. The enemy is shooting at you. Suddenly, you stand up and yell, “Hey! Don’t shoot at her! That’s my wife!”

Well, man, if you didn’t want them to shoot at her, you shouldn’t have let her join the army. To the enemy, she looks just like the rest of the soldiers, except she’s got longer hair.

There’s plenty to shoot at. Michelle is a big, noisy target. There’s the “first time I’ve been proud of my country” moment. Every time you get a look at her talking to “her own”, she’s full of vinegar and piss. Just like a man, not like anybody’s little wifey.

Whose idea was it for her to get up and badmouth America? Yours, Barry? Certainly not mine. Is it you she’s speaking for? Herself?

She’s cute enough, she could have been a sweetie. But she feels guilty, like every rich, white adolescent who wants to give away the family fortune to those less fortunate. In the seventies, I knew a kid who lived in a mansion and wanted her folks to turn it over to the boat people.

Michelle Obama has white liberal guilt. She’s trying to pretend she suffered. All the way to Princeton, Harvard Law and beyond.

Obama says she lived a “Leave it to Beaver childhood.” Pardon me, but wasn’t that supposed to be good? What the hell is she complaining about? She had to share a bedroom with a sib? Who didn’t? That’s the way we all lived, Michelle, it’s not because you’re black. We didn’t have our own rooms and our own TVs and our own bathrooms back then. I’m lily white and had an outhouse – no indoor toilet. Not bad, Michelle, I tell you, it gives you a weathered ass, an ass that can take it.

But let’s be fair. Michelle has a hard ass. It’s Barry who’s whimpering every time a blow falls. I’m sure Michelle liked her portrayal in the New Yorker cartoon. Secretly, man, secretly. Don’t you know women? Ever see them look at their reflections as you’re walking by a store window with them? They care how they look. Michelle looked damn good with that bandolier and that beautiful face. Secretly, Michelle is smiling. “Not bad,” she’s saying, “thin waist, curly hips … I’ll take it!”

But Barry wants a pass for his wife. He’s an old-fashioned guy and wants to protect his woman. Jesus! Bill wanted a pass for Hillary, and she was the candidate. Only it turns out that Barry wants a pass for himself, too. What are we allowed to talk about? His race? God forbid. Only he can do that. His record – not fair, he’s too busy to vote. His ideas? Touch one and it morphs into something else, it’s so sensitive. He doesn’t even like us talking about his noble physique.

Barry, you’re a candidate. Give us something we can sink our teeth into, and let us have it! Don’t keep grabbing it away. What did you do with your Reverend, anyway? Tie him up, or just put a sock in his mouth?

Barry, I’m going to talk about your race, because nobody’s paying me; I’ve still got free speech. What are you? Black or white? You had one black parent, one white parent. Exactly half and half, right down the middle. Rare indeed. It’s enough to make me want to elect you. Few people in this “fair” land can claim a black parent and a white parent, because although there are plenty of whites, there are pitifully few blacks. Most blacks are really bi-racial. There was plenty of white blood blended with the black, because as everyone knows, young, nubile slave-girls proved irresistible to their white owners. So these days, every child of a so-called black and white union is more white than black.

Our problem is language. We’ve defined black to mean one drop of black blood. Even Langston Hughes objected. Because when you abuse the language, you muddle thinking.

Now that we’re back to the language wars: African-American. We’re all African-American, no matter what our color, no matter what we look like. The race of man began in Africa. I am an African-American. And proud of it. Anybody here who is not an African-American must be a Martian.

But there are social issues. Since we can’t really tell who’s black and who’s white, how about using some other criteria? Let’s talk about poor people, or disadvantaged people, and stop grading them on their color. If there are folks out there without big-screen TVs and hot-tubs, let’s deal with it, whether they’re white African-Americans, black African-Americans, yellow African-Americans, red African-Americans, or beige African- Americans.

So Michelle, get over black. “Michelle”, “White House” sont les mots qui vont très bien ensemble.

“Pants on Fire”

What’s that you call Bush? C’mon. What’s your favorite epithet for the man? I’ll give you a hint. “Liar.”

You say he lied to take us to war. Did he? Didn’t the poor guy just get fooled? You know he’s not too bright – he can’t even talk right, right? You know he’s not really a liar, but that’s the word that springs to mind. It’s the word that’s dying to get out. You want to shout it from the rooftops. LIAR! And you do. But do you know why?

Whatcha say y’ah y’self. Remember that taunt? Well, maybe it’s not your fault. It’s not exactly you who is the liar. It’s someone close to your heart. Someone you must defend. Someone who when he says he’s not lying, you have to go along with.

Charming Billy was a liar. Is it possible to be charming without lying? Try it. You’ll be lying with your first, “Fine, thank you,” or “You look great.”

Bill Clinton lied under oath. I don’t blame him; he lied like a man. A man is supposed to lie about sex. Protect his beloved. Or his best friend’s wife. Or his intern. He’s supposed to lie through his teeth, say, “I never…we never…” and the world is supposed to applaud and admire.

You caught Bush with his pants down. But he wasn’t lying, he was taking care of business. You knew that. George is a simple guy, without personal ambition; he wants people to like him. He agreed to serve his country when called upon to do so by his Dad, Rummy and Friendly-Fire Dick..

So ever since the impeachment, that word’s been on your mind. Zooming around and around in your head, like a discus, and you want to let it fly. And guess who’s there? Dubya. They called your boy a liar; you’ll call theirs a liar. Even if you don’t think he’s bright enough to tell tales.

He’s not a good target for the L word – a man who is honest out of necessity. He can only think one thought at a time.

“Liar Liar Pants on Fire.” Could that be more apt? For Clinton, not Bush. Charming Billy’s pants are always on fire. And to cover his out-of-pants experiences, decency demands a lot of lying.

But back to Bush. You’ve been Bush-whacked. What would you rather : The administration has a great success, for instance, solves the energy problem, or they accomplish nothing, and leave office in disgrace? You wouldn’t think about it. You’d go for the disgrace. Boo Boooooosh!

And why? You know why. Maybe you’ve pushed it to the back of your mind (for a few seconds). What is Bush’s real crime? He got elected. Or selected, depending upon how you look at it.

He didn’t even get a majority of the popular vote. And that’s with a lot of Democrats staying home. This is maddening, and the Dems got mad. Damn the Supreme Court. Damn the stupid Florida voters. Damn the hanging chads. And damn the Electoral College.

Whoa! That last one doesn’t belong. Discussions of the rules precede the event. They don’t follow it. In sports, only a poor loser would complain that the rules favored his opponent. .

The rules ground on. It got complicated. It was slow. It was ugly. It was “torture”. It went back and forth, back and forth, back and forth daily and sometimes hourly, until it winnowed down to “George Bush is President.”

And you know what you said? You said, “No he’s not.”

You won’t like hearing this, because you want him to be the Divider, but he did everything he could to appease you. He refused to veto any bills. He accepted the fact that more than half the people wanted the other guy. But you didn’t get over it. You refused to help. You stood in his way.

Think back now. Remember. Would you ever have believed, in mid-September 2001 that we would not be attacked for seven years?

You can call him incompetent, you can criticize his decisions, you can bemoan the fate of the nation, you can even want change. But end the abuse of language. Don’t call him a liar because when you do, you’re the one who needs the fire extinguisher.

End the War Now

This weekend I’m talking to my smoking buddies. About the war.

So, all you flower children – I call you that because I don’t want to call you hippies, or druggies. Besides, none of you have kept the faith. You’re all now long over thirty. You drink, you snort, you pop pills. But you don’t confess to doing a doobie.

Of course not, you’re bongers. And you inhale in the privacy of your own bedroom. You stopped smoking in the living room when your kids crawled out of the cradle. And in a few more years, you really had to go underground, because if the kids found out, they might tell Teacher, and whammo, child services takes the little darlings, and you’re facing stiff legal fees, maybe even jail time. So you don’t smoke in the living room, and your bedroom door stays locked. Sound familiar? That’s the way you turned on when you lived in your parents' house.

What happened to the good old days of pot parties, of toking up behind the bar where the band was playing, of dozens of joints moving through a concert audience? Innocent activities for the purpose of enhancing experience.

They’re all gone. There’s a war on, and you’re the enemy combatant. You’re also financing the war. And putting in power, people who support it. What the hell’s wrong with you?

That’s a good question for a Sunday morning, isn’t it? Sunday morning is a time for introspection. Who am I? What am I doing? Why the fuck don’t I stand up for what I believe in?

Because you don’t know what that is anymore. You’ve been bamboozled. By your kids’ schools. By your politicians. By whatever hypocrite gives you the news.

You’re cannon-fodder in the war on drugs. They need you to be out there, to be afraid, to give them money, to keep their jobs, to support the huge establishment they’ve built, of tax-exempt hotels to rehab first offenders, of thousands of counselors, and enforcers, and jailers, of buildings full of office-workers keeping track and implementing. You want those people to lose their jobs? Then end the war on drugs.

Which would end quite a few other things, aside from the price of pot being on a par with gold. Like all the gang intrigue, and shoot-outs, and innocent by-standers dying in the cross-fire. Like hundreds of thousands of dealers and possessors over-crowding our prisons.

That’s local. That’s penny-ante to what it would do globally. Listen up, folks. You haven’t realized this or you’d be storming the gates of the Capital.

It would end poppy growing in Afghanistan, and all the other 'stans and lands that are thumbing their noses at our drug war. What we can’t accomplish with guns and poppy-pulling, we could accomplish by simply drying up their trade. Hey Mr. Taliban, we can grow poppies too, you know. People grow them in their back yards. They just never put two and two together. They don’t know what they’ve got. We don’t need you. We can grow our own.

Oh, yeah, but we’d become a nation of drug–dazed automatons, everyone lined up at the community needlery.

We would not; that’s ridiculous. That’s fear talking. Fear of change. I thought you wanted change, people. This would be change. When prohibition was ended and hooch was legalized, we became civilized. People stopped dying from bathtub gin. They quit hiding in cellars. The shoot-outs in the streets stopped. All the dastardly dealing ended. Just like that. And did we become a nation of drunks? No, we did not.

Drugs would take their societal place, somewhere between candy bars and rat poison. They’d be out in the open, and their labels would at least tell you what you were getting. Taxes would gather up the greenbacks that are slipping away to South America.

Our drug warriors could be pulled off the front lines instead of dying in action in a hopeless war that can never be won.

And don’t worry about the children. Nothing could be as bad as what we have now – unsavory dealers, random pharmaceuticals, and impure potions cooked up in clandestine labs.

Break America’s reliance on imported poppies, pills and pot. Let’s hear it for pure foods and drugs. End the war, now!

ByeBye BobBarr

BobBarr, the earstwhile elephant.

To the reader who asked what I thought about Bob Barr, Thanks-a-lot! You took away my last hope. I am now so fucking mad, my fingers won’t stay on the goddam keys. I’ve been researching Bob Barr.

For those of you coming from the right, (I see you, my one and lonely) Bob Barr used to be a Republican. Never heard of him? You’ll hear less and less because he’s the Libertarian candidate for president, and the media doesn’t love Libertarians. They have a little more gumption than the run-of-the-mill citizens who want something or someone to take care of them.

Libertarians believe in a thing they call Personal Responsibility. It means you’re responsible for yourself. And if you want to help the poor guy down the block, it’s your want, and therefore your responsibility. Don’t go whining to Fedgov about it. Do it yourself!

Babar the Elephant went to France and brought civilization back to his home town, where he became, if we’re being honest, a dictator. BobBarr went from the Democratic party to the Republican Party, where he too, saw the light. He, too, became a top-notch dictator.

Are you ready? Get this.

BobBarr is the man responsible for defeating Medical Marijuana in D.C. BobBarr not only blocked its implementation... still listening? He wouldn’t let the vote be tallied. It turned out to be 2 to 1 in favor. That’s not enough for you? You don’t like medical marijuana laws because you think that marijuana should be legal for everyone, not just the sick and dying? How does this grab you? He made sure the bill prohibited any future laws that would decrease the penalty for marijuana. Do you hear that people? The man is a monster.

And he is not a libertarian. Not by any stretch; libertarians believe in Freedom with a capital F. What is he then? Nothing but a political opportunist. His old venue dried up. He lost his job. He needs a new one. You know his type. In the seventies, he would have cut off two feet of hair for a job interview. No personal integrity whatsoever.

You tell me if this sounds like a man with principles:

He was for the Defense of Marriage act. No marriage for queers. He’s now against it. Queers deserve their civil liberties just like the rest of us. A libertarian stand, or it would be, if they thought marriage was the government’s business.

He was for the Iraq war. Now he’s for bringing home the troops as fast as we can. A libertarian stand. Laissez-faire. Leave the rest of the world alone, it will all work out.

He publicly regrets voting for the Patriot Act.

Anything else you want to change your mind about, BobBarr? What when you’re president and toadying up to, say, the Prince of Persia, Ach!MyDinnerJacket? Babar made his people wear Western Dress. Will you put our women in burkas?

Speaking of which, if you want to know who the Manchurian candidate is, it’s not the navy-pilot prisoner-of-war, it’s not the polyglot son-of-a-Muslim; BobBarr graduated from High School in Teheran. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the capital of Iran: Mullahland. He grew up out that way.

He’s trying to run, as fast as he can, away from the Barr (drug) Amendment. If he doesn’t watch out, he’ll crash right into John, sprinting from McCain-Feingold.

And to top it all off, this anti-abortionist was complicit in his wife’s getting an abortion. Either he’s pussy-whipped or a fraud. These guys are all the same. The rules are good enough for the rest of us, but not for them.

This man who is teaching a community college course in privacy rights led the fight to impeach Bill Clinton.

But perhaps he is a moral man. Perhaps, perhaps. Perhaps a lot of us are. Only he’s on his third wife, with whom he cheated on his second. And he seems to be a fun guy. Though I didn’t see it with my own eyes, there’s supposedly a picture of him licking whipped cream off a pair of titties. To raise money for leukemia, he explained. Any of you men out there suddenly feeling charitable? And I hear he appeared in the movie ‘“Borat”, eating cheese that Borat said was made from his wife’s breast milk. The man’s into the source. Udderly.

So the Democrats are being screwed by Obama, who’s turning cartwheels to get away from all the things he said to please them. The Republicans can find no solace in McCain, and the real libertarians have a candidate they can thoroughly despise. It’s the same all around. We’re in it together, America. These thugs have finally united us.

Anybody out there like to run for President? ANYBODY? Please.

Seat Belts Save Lives

Barack! Watch out! You’re going to fall off the edge. The right edge! (and I don’t mean “correct”). Be careful.

Who the hell are the Lefties going to vote for, if you and John are playing “man in the middle”? Or worse. You’re out looking for big-money backers. Isn’t that against the law? Not McCain-Feingold, I mean the moral law. You said you were a grass roots movement. You’re starting to look more like a genetically modified cultivar. Your money-maker says she was just fooling around on the Internet because she couldn’t get her hands on you. Barack! I can’t afford thirty thou to see you. All of a sudden, I’m Cinderella. I can’t go to the ball.

“It’s the same old tune, fiddle and guitar
Where do we take it from here?
Rhinestone suits and new shiny cars
We’ve been the same way for years.
We need change…”

It’s okay by you if Bush is in my bedroom (electronically of course. We know you’re a moral man). Let those telecom people do whatever they want. Let them listen to my phone sex, my drug deal, what do you care? You’ve got to be president, even if means jettisoning everything you ever said you stood for.

“…Singing my songs, one of his now and then
but I don’t think Hank done ’em this a’way …”

Hank would have stood behind his words and trusted the American people to stand by theirs. They said they wanted you. But that was the old Obama they said they wanted. The one who wasn’t going to stoop to petty politicking.

Christ is going to get a seat at the table. And maybe Muhammad. You're going to fund them for doing social good. Better keep an eye on them Barry. Both these guys have been shown in the past to have a violent side.

And now the New York Fucking Times has declared that you’ve bought into “the anti-gun control groups’ misreading (italics mine, as well as journalistic jeers) of the Constitution as implying an individual right to bear arms.”

And Barry – death penalty maybe, but who is it you’re so anxious for the state to off , aside from murderers? People who have phone sex, perhaps? People who peddle pot?

Well man, I like some of this – not that last! You’re coming my way. But what about the people who loved you on the left?

Yeah, guys, where you gonna go?

To paraphrase an old aunt of mine : Have I got a candidate for you!

You want someone who is not supported by the very corporations you irrationally hate.

You want someone doing it soley through the Internet, not someone throwing big bucks at television.

You want someone to pick Bush up by the seat of his pants and kick him to hell out of your bedroom.

You’d love to impeach the bastard. And “friendly-fire Cheney” with him.

You want Christ and Muhammad and the rest of that crowd as far away from Washington as they can get.

You don’t even want guns to be an issue. Guns are bad. Let’s not even talk about them, for godsake. You’re scaring the children.

You don’t want a death penalty at all, let alone for someone who maybe blew up a US building.

No more money for guns!

Solar! Not Nukes!

And if all this doesn’t convince you that I’ve put the perfect candidate right in your lap, try this on:

Legalize marijuana!

Ah! I knew I had your number!

Now all you old flower-children and all you college students who want change, do this: Form a circle and hold hands. Close your eyes and repeat after me,

RALPH NADER FOR PRESIDENT!

No We Can’t

Okay, Folks, it’s Independence Day. And just how independent are you?

Can you heat your own house? I mean, could you keep yourself warm, if you had to? If suddenly it all disappeared? No, you could not. Almost none of you could. Not even if you heat with wood and can go out and get your own. You know what, Buddy? You’d need gas for your chain saw. You aren’t strong enough, mentally or physically to wield a saw the way men used to, when men, pardon me, were men. And women, by the way, were women, and knew how to take care of their own children, and wash their own clothes. No, not in a washing machine…with a bucket and a washboard and soap they made themselves.

They were independent for one reason. They had to be. Man is a weak creature (almost as weak as woe-man). If he doesn’t hafta, he won’t. He’ll sit on his duff and produce more of himself. Produce, not reproduce. Make the original bigger. Look around you. It’s happening. Look down. Can you see your toes? If not, maybe it’s happening to you. You don’t even have to get up to change the channel. That’s what saved Early Man. He had no remote. Everything he wanted, he had to get the hell up and do himself. What do you do? Walk from the kitchen to the garage? Walk again, from the parking lot to the elevator? Even the coffee-cart comes to you. And wifey didn’t pack your lunch, either. Wifey’s at her own desk growing her own behind.

So how about food? That’s a laugh, isn’t it? Where does it come from? Not you. Not you never, nohow, unless you’re a fisherman or a hunter, and that’s…well, cruel. Have you ever milked a cow? Could you if you had to? Not in time. I see the Vegans among you slyly smirking. Yeah, guys, can you make your own tofu?

But you know what? You feel independent. You feel powerful. With the press of a button, you can do anything. Have anything. Yes, but what if you were separated from the button? Could you have anything at all? On your own?

You feel independent because you don’t need your friends or your family. You can do it yourself, get it yourself. You don’t have to ask for anyone’s help. Not anyone you know. All the help you need is provided from on high. Kind of like religion. You trust in the Almighty. But what if the Almighty fails? What if he disappears, goes on a permanent vacation, is wiped out by a terrorist attack? How would you fare? You don’t even know your neighbors. Would it even occur to you to work together?

Why did we want to be independent, anyway? Why didn’t we just keeping taking from England. Well, ha-ha, everyone knows the answer to that one. “Taxation without representation.” That’s the answer to the question. What the fuck does it mean? It means they take your money and you have no say about it.

Hmmm. Could that be happening to you? Do you feel you have a say in the money they take from you? Is raising taxes really your idea? Or is it theirs, and they’ve convinced you that it’s everybody else’s, except, of course, yours, because in your heart, you’re sane and selfish. You want. Do you have a say in all the pork they lard on so that the soldiers can’t have body armor unless there’s a bridge to nowhere built somewhere?

Do you like the way they’ve tied up the game, the way they vote themselves pay raises, have more vacations than workdays, don’t even show up for votes, live so high on the hog you can’t even see them from where you are?

You can do something about it. VOTE THE BUMS OUT. Get rid of these people who are sucking you dry, mismanaging the country, causing everyone to suffer. And I’m not talking about Bush and Cheney. I’m talking about your lying, thieving “representatives” in congress. Bring those boys home. Both houses. Both parties. Both sexes. The ones who never lose. The ones you’ve made Almighty.

The Ties That Bind

Well, girls and boys, our favorite couple is back together. Met for a date in Unity, New Hampshire. This campaign is taking on more and more of a cosmic aura. Here’s the cosmic fact about Unity, aside from its name. 107 Uniters voted for Hillary and 107 Uniters voted for Barack. They couldn’t bear to disagree; if they had to, they’d split it down the middle. Or it’s a hoax. A hoax usually make you feel good. This made you feel good. I vote for hoax. This is a political campaign, after all.

But it was beautiful to watch – Hillary in a light summer suit, Barack perched in an adolescent slump behind her on a stool, like a good wife – and I fell in love with Hillary. A woman, not a girl. But she was girly at times, and a babe. She looked good. Not just good for Hillary, not just good for sixty, GOOD.… she’s Hillary – when she looks good, you feel a sense of relief. You relax. And that was her secret, folks. It wasn’t whatever Botox or (did she have time for?) plastic surgery (yes, she looked that good. Better.) It wasn’t the sexy false eyelashes. Or the several new and moving voices she seems to have learned, the subtle tones and pitches – HILLARY WAS HAPPY! She doesn’t have to hate Barack anymore. She doesn’t have to be afraid of anything. She can’t lose. If Obama wins, the Dems are in. If he loses, four more years – McCain said that was all he wanted – and she’s sitting pretty in the White House.

Bill didn’t show. He was out of the country. Wanted to get as far away as possible from the sound of his wife uniting with her erstwhile enemy. Bill’s still mad. And why shouldn’t he be? You send a girl to a man’s job, that’s what you get. See, folks, what he knows and what you should know, is that Hillary won. Even Barack knows.

Here’s what he said. You tell me if he doesn’t know who won. “… she can do anything the boys do, and do it better, and do it in heels!” He meant it. Especially, he said, the part about the heels. But “she did it better”? Then wouldn’t she have won? Well, folks, she did win! But you can’t have her because the Dems have a very undemocratic way of choosing their candidate. It’s not popular vote, and it's not state electoral votes that count; it's a formula. The people voted for Hillary. What Bill’s thinking is, “They wouldn’t have pushed me around like that! It’s because she’s a girl!”

Will the Ob have her for Veep? How can he deny us if she’s as wonderful as he says. And here’s what she said: “We need a leader with a partner that can bring about the change we all yearn for.” Would our Hill be talking about anyone but herself? You think she’s going to do it twice, and endorse some fool for Vice President because someone has decided he can carry a few states?

Here’s what Barack further said: “Stand side by side with me and Hillary.” What…with John Dough in the middle?

No, these two are coming together. And if we want them to stay together, we should tell them, loud and clear. Let’s not get pushed around, people, we want Hillary. Let’s have her!