Dr. Faustroll Writes the Wrongs

“Attention, shoppers!” David Alan Grier will probably say on the next Chocolate News, “Have you lost your damn minds?

When I was a kid, Black Friday was a character in Daniel Dafoe’s Robinson Crusoe and a movie starring Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi, the Brad Pitt and Robert Downey, Jr., or Vince Vaughn and Jon Favreau of their day. There was none of the horse exhaust about the day after Thanksgiving being the first day that most businesses broke even or anything like tax freedom day. The day after Thanksgiving was the day we all used our Christmas Club money at the five and dime and John’s Bargain stores to buy the tacky gifts we could afford for the family.

Black Monday on the other hand was the day in October where the stock market crashed and people jumped out of windows in Manhattan as if demons were flying planes at them, which is probably where al Qaeda got the idea for 9/11, along with remembering how the CIA helped Salvador Allende commit suicide by self-inflicted airstrikes in 1973.

I can’t remember when Black Friday trumped Black Monday in the minds of the NOMPH, but I’m sure it is offensive to African Americans, no matter how positively the accountants and communications officials attempt to spin it.

Let’s be serious for a moment as we pause and wipe our bums after a bout of Hershey squirts induced by too much rich food and drink and admit that Black Friday has come to mean those days when people in the NOMPH™ do really stupid things, and although many African Americans often do stupid things, there aren’t as many of them as there are white folks, so it only makes sense, going forward, that the day after Thanksgiving be called White Friday or Kermit the Frog Friday or Sarah Palin Friday or anything more in keeping with the true spirit and execution of the day.

Today, for instance, shoppers at a Walmart in Nassau, NY, on Long Island, an area not particularly well-known for being overrun by stupid black people, trampled a store employee to death and injured several others who attempted to come to his aid. When police and store managers asked shoppers to leave so they could tend to the injured and dying in the carnage, shoppers refused, citing their inalienable right to the pursuit of happiness, noting that they had been waiting in line for days for an opportunity to purchase Samsung TVs and camcorders, collectible plastic action figures, upright vacuums with HEPA filtration, digitally autographed posters of the Jonas Brothers, and DVDs of the Incredible Hulk.

These are the kinds of people that make the nation of miserable phucks such a tempting target for actual humans who are just damned tired of being trampled by obese idiots stampeding to be the first in line to add to their credit card debt by buying geegaws and doodads with the life expectancy of the common housefly.

The news accounts I’ve read indicate that the name of the 34-year-old store employee who died because he couldn’t get out of the way of the mindless avarice and gluttony of white holiday celebrants in Nassau was Jdimytai Damour, who lived in Queens, a borough of New York, where I grew up. The guys I grew up with had names like Jimmy, Johnny, Billy, Eddie, Mickey, and Bobby the Plumber. The girl names were Nancy, Joan, Linda, Ruthie, Lorraine, Jeanette, Bernadette, and Phyllis the Hummer. If I had known a Jdimytai, I think I would have remembered. I think he would have gone to Boy’s High or Brooklyn Automotive, and me and my friends would have fought him and his in the lot outside after the game was over.

I don’t want to imply that the rampaging white herd of bargain hunters trampled Jdimytai because they couldn’t pronounce his name and were tired of having to feel inadequate about their language deficiencies. And I have no reason to believe that Jdimytai was not as white as the shoppers crushed him beneath their Nikes and Doc Martens and Adidas and Tom McCanns to get the best early deals of this dismal holiday season, but I kind of doubt it.

Not even a Walmart manager deserves to die while opening the doors to let the rats come pouring through, as Bukowski used to write, which is why I have still not abandoned my keyboard and why I type every day, whether you need it or not.

And don’t forget, you fervent patriots of the NOMPH, there’s only 26 more shopping days until Baby Jesus opens His presents. How about some bloody scraps of Jdimytai’s uniform? I’m sure someone has them for sale. Check eBay or craigslist, where you don’t have to worry about your wonderful neighbors crushing you into the pavement to save a couple a bucks.

My phynancial advisors here at the Portland Patafysical Outpatient Clinic, Lounge, and Laundromat have taken me to task for my recent post about feeling Appaulsoned at getting Bernanked again in the slow-moving train wreck of the ongoing Wall Street bailout. They claim I have oversimplified the concept of debt by neglecting to mention that interest and fees will be added to the burden of paying back the money we taxpayers are gladly handing over to the wealthiest people in the world. There are also fees for late payments, and in some cases you can get dinged for pre-payment.

They also said my suggestion that we will have the opportunity to repay the bailout money over an indefinitely long period was, according to our chief pata-economist Stephen Cranefool — “Pure poppycockadoodledoody.” The best we could hope for in arranging a loan to buy a $1.7 trillion imaginary house constructed entirely from recycled paper, my imaginary experts argued — assuming our credit was A+ — was a fixed rate 30 year mortgage at 5.65%.

So I whipped out my trusty amortization spreadsheet and crunched some numbers to see what each man, woman, child America would have to pay on a monthly basis for the next 30 years to keep the NOMPH™ out of foreclosure.

I had expected to report only more bad news on this glorious day of annual thanksgiving for the luck we all have at being able to live in a place with as much freedom, justice and American Way as the NOMPH, but I’m surprisingly happy to report that the results were not as dire as my earlier post had implied. In fact, I think I’ll have a triple portion of turkey this evening, I’m feeling so confident about our future, yours and mine.

It turns out that as I type this, we have a population of 305,755,698 eligible taxpayers to spread the wealth around and to ensure that our owners keep themselves in the lifestyles to which they have become accustomed, each of us only has to pitch in about $2.83 a month. Even if we assume that the rich are probably also going to stiff us for their share of the loan payment, you have to remember that they are less than 1 percent of our total population, which means if the rest of us had to shoulder the entire load, the payment would only increase less than a nickel to $2.86 a month.

When you forget about the big picture and focus on what the bailout means to your pocket, it turns out that $1.5 trillion costs every American about a third again more than the basic annual membership to National Public Radio, all things considered.

In the worse case scenario, where only the 64% of the population that actually has jobs had their wages garnished because the rich wouldn’t pay and the unemployed couldn’t, it would still only run about $4.47 a month, which is really a bargain when you consider this is the greatest and best damned nation on Earth. Even better, this plan gives us all a chance to be part owners of it, so how can anyone say we are only buying up toxic debt? Do you realize that we’d all own nukes and those nifty little drones? What a Fourth of July we could have in 2038 when we finally get our quit claim deeds!

So when these bleeding heart liberals start bitching and moaning about having to pay $865,854,000 monthly for a total of $311,707,326,000 in payments, including $161,707,326,000 in interest, because these numbers seem so unattainable and unreasonable given the level of incompetence and criminal behavior required to have run up a $1.5 trillion credit card balance in the first place, ask these nabobs of negativism how they came to be so stingy that they can’t spring for a dime a day to keep capitalism thriving in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

So Happy T-Day to all. Eat, drink, and go out shopping tomorrow to keep us safe from terrorists and reality.

At least he hasn’t yet started blaming the economic crisis on Biraq, who appears to be proposing approaches on a daily basis to which Wall Street, which should not be confused with Main Street — where the people who work on Wall Street apparently reside — appears to be responding by trying to recoup some of the trillions in equity lost by IRAs and 401Ks in the past couple of weeks by funneling it into day trader profits.

As the liberal media reloads the cliché Gatling gun of easy to repeat poopadoodlisms designed to convince an already self-abusive brain-damaged NOMPH™ that someone in America actually cares about the losers who have proven that 9/11 changed absolutely nothing, things are looking up for you and me!

The fact that Obama’s middle name is Hussein is not nearly as troubling to me as my correct phonetic spelling of his given name. The first time I typed it, I was sure the Rapture was upon us, or I would have been if I believed in any of the horse exhaust that passes for socio-religious and philosophical discourse in the NOMPH.

I find it sad that a pie-bombing can now land a student in jail. I find it sad that anyone who chooses to combat the dead-end lunacy of the neo-condi rice and beaners and their loyally liberal suck-up opposition with intelligence and wit can end up detained indefinitely to protect us from the evil of those who visit the malls for community, companionship, and camaraderie rather than to shop.

Let me make whatever position I may someday be called upon to defend under extreme interrogation methods perfectly clear: if I hadn’t been born in the NOMPH, I wouldn’t choose to be an American. Even though my mother’s side of the family was Cherokee, I consider being an American an unfortunate accident of birth certification.

If I were a full-blooded Cherokee, I would be ashamed to call myself a native American. That’s like admitting you like to buy into toxic assets created by the people who claim to own the land you happen to stick to.

As I have said throughout my life, I find voting reprehensible. I find it demeaning. I find it the latest in a long line of actions taken by those in power to keep those who aren’t thinking they give a good goddamn about sound economic and foreign policy that only keeps their real or imaginary slaves in line and loving it. Use your cell phones to vote, people!

Of course, the sociologists and psychologists and psychiatrists out there, particularly those of the more liberal persuasion, view my lack of commitment to any community and my disdain for authority and teamwork as a clear indication that I need group therapy, if not mandatory medication and electroshock.

If the medication was hallucinogenic and illegal, I might consent, but why plow money into an industry that plows it back into a system that wants you to buy its FDA approved imagination suppressing anti-depressives?

I’m not depressed. I’ve never been depressed. I’ve been angry. I’ve been euphoric. I’ve almost slipped the surly bonds of life at times and spit in the face of God, but I’ve never been depressed. I’m sure my attitude has occasionally provoked profound depression in the casually optimistic who prefer to avoid looking at the world they live in and help perpetuate on a daily basis.

Which is one of the reasons I seldom vote. I confess to voting for Biraq, because I like the sound of his name and the cadence of his voice when he speaks. I’ve only voted a couple of times in ludicrous life, and each time I felt like I soiled myself, like I condemned my transplanted baboon’s soul (that’s another post for another time) to an eternity of perdition standing on my head in a cave full of pheces in Pennsylvania. And voting for Biraq was the only time I cast a vote for someone or something on the winning side. I am suspicious of this outcome. I suspect it means I have finally sold out.

Is this the way the world ends? With no whimper and no bang? Just some articulate house Negro from Chicago nattering on as if 9/11 never happened? Wait till Bush finally asks Cheney why Biraq is giving all these damn uppity speeches without inviting him and the man behind the really Big Decidings for the past eight years finally tells him the truth.

We may finally find out what the FIrst Idiots means when he says that all options are still on the table.

Did this fupduck administration just convince you that tossing another $800 billion into the golden parachute pool for Bush and his buddies is going to make things better for you and your family? Does anyone understand what the combined bailout figures thus far tossed off by this crew of morons and immoral Christian nihilists amounts to?

Not counting the supplemental budgets for Bush’s war to avenge the failures of his father’s stupidity, in the last month and a half, we’ve been Bernanked and Appaulsoned with another $1.5 trillion dollars of taxpayer money that is going to pay for absolutely nothing.

I have yet to hear anything from these people that explains how buying expired lottery tickets is going to make winners of us all in some drawing that is never going to happen because no one actually has any money to pay the prize. Is anybody paying attention? Does anyone have any grasp of proportion anymore? Doesn’t anyone at least know how to use a calculator or a spread sheet?

Let me simplify the concepts in terms that even those among you who prefer to be left behind and are proud of it and vote to prove how proud you are can understand. I admit that the idea of dealing even in hundreds of thousands of dollars is beyond the comprehension of most Americans, unless you are Joe the Plumber, who obviously doesn’t have a clue.

Let’s think about numbers in terms of time, which most of us also don’t have a lot of. Let’s say you owe 100,000 hours and that you can pay back those hours one at a time without interest going forward, it would take approximately 11 years to repay that debt if you worked 24 hours a day every day until the balance reached zero.

Let me reinforce the idea that we are talking repayment hour per hour with no interest calculated on a never-ending work schedule. As long as you remain alive, you are working off your debt.

Let’s increase your debt to 1 million hours. To bring the balance to zero, you better lose some weight and start a good exercise program because it is going to take you 114 years to break even. For breeders, this is not good news because the debt is already screwing with the great grandkids, assuming they haven’t been killed during a terrorist attack on an Orange Julius stand while doing their patriotic duty of shopping and pharting to spread freedom and democracy.

How about a billion hour debt? Well, you know, that works out to about 114,469 years to break even. If you look back over the great history of this nation as we get ready to celebrate Thanksgiving by eating more than a family of ten in Zimbabwe for a month, I suspect that many of the native peoples hadn’t arrived here 114,469 years ago. Hell, if you really based your sense of reality on the Bible, like the First Idiot allegedly does, that’s more than 90 thousand years earlier than the Great Cosmic Poobah flipped the switch and said that light was a good thing and the darkness laughed at Him for it. I’m still laughing. How about you?

But why stop at a billion when the liberal media is unwilling to question 700 and then another 800 of those billions? What’s a trillion hours work out to? What is it going to take to work off a trillion hours or, even more to the point, considering today’s latest Punch and Judy press conference, 1.5 trillion hours?

Whew. Thank God.

I was starting to get nervous there for a second, but the good news is that it will only take about 171,703,297 years to pay off an accumulated debt of 1.5 trillion hours. This planet is generally believed by people who are not blind believers in nonsense to have existed for approximately 4.5 billion years, and those among us, who are not caught up in philosophical discussions involving the fullness of glasses we are not drinking from, will accept the possibility that the planet may very well continue to exist for another 171,701,297 years.

I confess that I have slightly overstated the problem by putting the responsibility for paying off the hourly debt on the shoulders of one American, but do you really think the government is not going to get whatever it can from you and your gene pool when the other low lifes who never pull their weight renege on their debts and stiff you for it?

I’m not going to get into a deep dive involving how many years the planet will continue to be hospitable enough for your offspring and their offspring to continue working at meaningless low-wage jobs to pay off the debt you just blithely allowed the most corrupt administration in the history of mankind to demand that you thank it for.

Give yourselves all a great big hug for the holidays. And write when you find work.

You know, there is nothing quite as invigorating as listening to the First Idiot justify something vice president in hiding Lon Cheney obviously ordered him to say. It’s not that Goober isn’t believable as an incompetent rube who represents exactly the kind of leadership the NOMPH™ deserves. In truth, the citizenry of the NOMPH has yet to fully enjoy the spoils of eight years of victory on the sea of joy and rapture!

Bush took time out this morning from his busy vacation schedule — after pardoning several violators of environmental and wildlife regulations, tax evaders, embezzlers, bank defrauders, and shooters of bald eagles — to tell the three or four dozen Americans (primarily members of the liberal media and al Franqen sympathizers) who even bother to pretend he should not be standing trial for crimes against humanity in The Hague that he wasn’t using taxpayer dollars to cover bad bets made by deregulated financial institutions formerly influenced by his brother Neil during his failed administration.

The latest polls seem to indicate that Bush’s popularity has fallen to a level unseen since the Pleistocene era, with numbers that imply he enjoys only lukewarm support from his political appointees, their lawyers, and immediate family and friends.

So Bush once again inserted the earbud connected to the medulla-interfaced iPod Touch surgically implanted in the space previously occupied by his alleged soul and relayed the party line to eager reporters, who were hoping to make it big and one day become the next Robert Novak, perennial winner of The Daily Show Douchebag of Liberty award (2005-2007) for journalistic integrity and costive excellence.

Not content to merely smirk and scratch his crotch, the demented lameduck Decider appeared determined to confirm his rumored upcoming Paraguayan exile by placing the blame for the current economic crisis squarely — don’t ask, don’t tell — at the deformed diabetic feet of the Clinton administration, when Bubba presided.

“This is a tough situation for America,” Bush recited, trying to keep from busting a gut, “But we will recover from the excesses of the previous administration that stole the Ws off the keyboards on all our computers and stained the rug in the Oval Orifice, using our proven 12-step program. The first step is to secure our financial system by admitting our addiction to foreign oil and environmental extremism, and that our economic lives have become unmanageable. Amen.”

“And I’m standing here as a born again Texan to tell you that if need be,” Bush shouted, thrusting his pelvis toward the podium for emphasis, “We’re going to keep making these kinds of decisions again and again based on the notion that a power greater than ourselves can help restore sanity to safeguard our financial system in the future against the liberal terrorists and Democrats. I assure you that all options remain on the table.”

Bush’s latest effort to appear relevant in a world that passed him by a couple of years ago involves guaranteeing more than $300 billion in losses at Citigroup that many argue constitute the worst collection of bad bets ever made during the history of human civilization. The dinosaurs also made several monumentally bad bets on the future, but they were not a representative democracy in the strictest sense of the word. And they all died of AIDS, which is apparently not going to happen with most investment bankers.

In addition, average formerly working and now unemployed Americans who have already been swindled out of their retirements, health care benefits, and real estate value during eight years of irrational Bush meat exuberance will give Citigroup another $20 billion in unmarked bills of small denominations in addition to the $25 billion delivered to the bank by armored convoy a few weeks ago as part of the $700 billion bailout passed by Congress in October.

The president defended the plan by noting that he did not “cave in to a Citicorp demand” that the government issue debit and gift cards to the bank for its exclusive use in salvaging its pride to provide as gifts for lobbyists. No one bothered to correct the president for his misuse of the corporate name for the institution he had just committed the young of his country to pay tribute to for the next few centuries. The toxic entity Bush sacrificed the first and subsequent born of the next several generations of Americans changed its name to Citigroup to make it more user friendly to ordinary investors, which it commonly refers to as suckers.

“We decided that a toxic equity line of discredit was the way to go,” the president said, seriously, staring into the camera as if a proctologist was giving him bad news by whispering up the stainless steel scope. “No need to throw the good money out with the bath water. I know there’s some in this country that’s still not for me, which is the same as being against me, which is not a good thing when there’s a war going on that you should keep on shopping to fight, but I’m not set in my ways. I know that I been fooled before, like most of us was when the stock market went tits up because of the election results involving the Internet.”

“No one should misunderestimate my dissolve to lead this country through the dismal swamp to the future of astroturf and energy independence with offshore drilling,” Bush proclaimed. “There’s an old saying in Genesee, which is knowed for its cream ale production — I know it’s not taxes, which you can read from my daddy’s lips and probably in Genesee — that says, fool me once, shame on, well — what the hell, you can’t help it. I know I can’t. But then again. You know. Who knows how many times you get fooled when you think you haven’t been fooled. You think the Democrats have all the answers? Well, fine. Bring it on. Once, twice, three times, a lady can fool you, but you think Nancy Pelosi is a lady? No way. And that’s why I think my plan is best, because of my mandrake. And God bless America.”

I was working in this office where it seemed like every 20-something who had to open the bottom file drawer was always wearing low-rider jeans and a too short top so you didn’t have to imagine what a distaff plumber’s butt would look like. But even stranger than the willingness of these young ladies to make me want to inform them about Crack Spackle was the fact that every one of them had a tattoo spreading across the spine from cheek to cheek right where the crack began. Some were roses, some were floral patterns, some were abstract designs.

I began having nightmares where hundreds of file clerks would be trying to pick pennies up from the floor as their butts expanded and their tattooes deformed like overly-inflated balloons. In my dreams, I began sticking pins in their bubble butts to keep them from expanding to where they threatened to consume all available space in the building.

My nightmares are often binary these days. My dreams, on the other hand, have thousands of options, the way reality used to have thousands of options before the big binary push to keep everyone on topic, no matter how boring or futile.

And then a couple of days ago I woke up laughing so hard that I partially pissed myself before I stumbled to the john for some late night prostate relief. My wife wanted to know what the phuck was so funny at 2 in the morning that I had to wake her up. I told her I’d let her know after work the next day.

In the dream, I had gotten a tattoo on my butt. It was the perfect tattoo for an irascible old fart. And that morning, I called the Butt Butter parlor over in Snooseville, and I drove there after work to get my dream tattoo. It’s an arrow on my left buttock pointing at my old hairy bunghole. Over the arrow, it says: CAUTION! And under the arrow, it says: CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE.

I can’t wait for my next TSA cavity search at PDX.

I’m guessing that idea doesn’t evoke much irony these days, after eight years of idiotic unimaginative malignancy that some people in the NOMPH™ will no doubt miss. I’m sure they are still assholes around who wet dream about a Palin/Gingrich ticket in 2012. John would probably welcome that prospect and do another version of Scumbag to celebrate the lunacy implicit in the American political process. Maybe Dweezil would provide accompaniment.

Imagining a world where there was no John Lennon is inconceivable. Jesus I didn’t have to know about. Marx, Hitler, McCarthy, Pol Pot, Nixon, Mohammed, the Bush family, Harry Truman — all of them I could have done without — but I’m guessing that John Lennon didn’t mind having walked the same earth as those phucktards.

I remember precisely where I was the night John Lennon was killed, just as I remember the fight that broke out in the gym at William Cullen Bryant High School the day that John Kennedy died. Or watching the Space Shuttle spew the remains of the first teacher in space. Or watching the footage of New Orleans after Katrina. To me, September 11, 2001 was no big deal. It was pay back for a national life of crime, which included the willful execution of John Lennon.

I was sitting in Troll’s in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, watching the Miami Dolphins play the New England Patriots on Monday Night Football on December 8, 1980, when Howard Cosell broke the news. Imagine that. Howard Cosell was the voice I heard when I learned that someone had just shot John Lennon. I can’t remember who the other members of the crew were that night, but it seems like it was Kathy Griffith’s hubby Frank and either Dandy Don Meredith or Fran Tarkentin. My impression at first was that Cosell’s booth mates thought he was joking, but I knew as soon as I heard him say that a tragedy had occurred involving John Lennon that the world had truly changed.

To me, this was an attempt to snuff out the dream, and the nearly 30 years since seem to indicate that Mark Chapman’s cruel and inhuman act against a man who once wore a tampax on his head to embarrass Harry Nilsson, a man who wrote the better parts of most of the Beatles’ songs, a man who had the balls to be funny and irreverent and stare down the Nixon administration — the slow dismal slog of 30 years seems to indicate that George Bush should give Mark Chapman a medal of honor. He did every bit a good job as Brownie.

Imagine no religions. Imagine no politicians. Imagine the opening lyrics of the song that got him killed:

Imagine there’s no Heaven
It’s easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today

Tom Brokaw, eat your Campbell’s hearty good food jock out!

The Greatest Generation grew out of a corporate strategy that successfully championed the concept that a bunch of homeless people who did not have universal health care and were not prescribed the correct meds to cope with their pre-traumatic stress disorder could be turned into war machine fodder and love the country for it. Or at least not complain enough to get the liberal media to report their grievances, except to imply that shell-shock was cowardice at best and a sign of faggotry at worst.

Before the burgeoning green revolution, corporate monsters already understood that they could profit from the good will of ordinary losers by leaving piles of trash throughout the country that the homeless could put in their shoes to avoid paying the cobbler to fix a commodity that today’s binary people simply recycle to make toxic artificial turf for public school athletic fields where parents can dream of selling their children to professional sports owners. Hell, even Steven Spielberg made money on that strategy in Saving Private Ryan, one of the most dishonestly propagandistic films made since It’s A Wonderful Life.

My old man lined up with a bunch of his buddies on December 8, 1941, to help the country reduce its unemployment roll, although I’m sure it didn’t occur to him or his soon to be dead buddies at the time. He joined the Screaming Eagles because he was a stupid asshole, but he never got out of the states. He broke his back in a jeep accident at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, and he occasionally limped and cried from the pain for the rest of his meaningless life.

I still don’t understand what makes Americans accept whatever they are told by people in positions of authority as truth, justice, and the American Way. Well, sure, it’s the American Way, but there is no guarantee of truth or justice. I’ve never seen evidence of it. Kafka understood the concept of justice. Americans just believe in it.

It’s easy to be an ignorant asshole in America. Without ignorant assholes, the terrorists would have already been defeated by their own sense of futility.

Of course, all this ignores the original Declaration of Independence and the indisputable evidence that the founding fathers of this nation of miserable phucks (NOMPH™) were terrorists, given the fubar definition championed by the current first idiot and his handlers.

Take arms or alms? That’s not the question.

I’m doing fine compared to most of the people stuck to the surface of this planet because of what Sir Isaac Newton observed when the apple fell. I seem to remember an apple was involved in the expulsion of the innocents from the Garden of Eden or Evil or Getting Even, depending on your ignorance of the topic, and I wonder how the current crop of annihilists are processing the information that what their government and society has to offer them is nothing. Not a goddamn thing.

That’s what I had come to understand during McCarthy’s reign of terror, which I believe was not at the time considered a scumbag system based on rewarding those who would sacrifice their friends and relatives in exchange for someone to humiliate in the liberal media.

My, my, how far we have come.

Good luck to you young dinosaur eggs and hungry pups. You think you’ve got problems? I don’t think so. You don’t write history unless you can trample your enemies, and your enemies in this case are the people you vote for and admire. Really. This isn’t news to most rational people in a society where most marginal intellects are left behind because it’s just better that way. You have been royally phucked by the Handicapper General. Enjoy it.

I expect these are the first of the high profile administration boogeymen (no racial slight intended, considering one is massa and the other the house nigger, a term even al Qaeda was reluctant to use in connection with the president elect, a hightone from Chicago, who so far appears to be the most rational person elected president of the NOMPH™ during my lifetime) who will fly the friendly skies to Paraguay to avoid lengthy prison terms for being stupid arrogant bungholes, unable even to grasp a binary worldview.

Do I feel gleeful that Darth Vader and Fredo are the first of the rotten apples to stand a chance of terminal composting? Are you out of your damn mind? I never feel gleeful. Gleeful is so gay that it makes blackness look like the order of the day, and you know how unrealistic that is.

Why isn’t Foolish 43 himself on the list of indictable phucktards? How about Turd Blossom, Condi, Hurricane Karen, Brownie, Big Brother George, Nasty Andy theTangent Man, Sweet Jan, Tiny, Corndog, and Bushie? How about the author of My Pet Goat?

These people should have been hunted down and rounded up and interrogated years ago with electrodes attached to their genitals and hoods tightened around their necks. To explain to the world and the confused and occasionally collaterally damaged people who wander around on its surface that representative democracy deserves representative justice. If our leaders order our soldiers to abuse your citizens, your citizens should have the right to order our soldiers to abuse our leaders. What’s fair is fair.

Of course nothing is fair, and things are even less fair for you who don’t live here having to complain and whine and moan about the loss of equity in mansions or the plummeting value of investments or the inexplicable erosion of retirement funds.

Make no mistake. I am perfectly aware that the people I am writing to probably will never read this. Those who do will probable see excerpts in text messages on their mobile phones. I like to think what I do is for the people who will transcribe what they read onto sheltered stone surfaces that already have been plastered by the imaginary graffiti of thousands and thousands of years of people transcribing what they have read on the ephemeral media to pass it on to those hundreds of thousands of years in the future who will puzzle over what it means.

I can’t do anything for anyone living today. Why would I want to waste my time? Why would you want me to?