38 Days and a Dear George Letter

Dear George;

There are 38 days left on the calendar and the fate of Animal Farm hangs in the balance. You may be sure that it is my devout wish that other forms might soon hang as well; from lampposts and rafters and over the entrances to the government institutions across the former land of the free and home of the brave.

Karl Rove, the beloved ‘Turdblossom’ and Boss Hogg of your corrupt and fascist administration has promised an October Surprise. It is an indication of the prevailing hubris that he can actually say something like that and no one pays any attention.

I’m assuming you’ve got all your ducks in a row; blindfolded and standing on orange crates with their nuts in a vise. These ducks will sing on command. Still, no matter how you tighten the screws they will still sound like ducks. As a turtle on a fence post, it is possible you can see some irony in this. It’s a good thing the people in the special effects department are on the job; like the guys at ESPN during The Saints game when they substituted all those canned cheers in place of the enormous boos you got during the coin toss. It is unfortunate that when they cut back to the live action, the boos that had been rocking the stadium, could be heard trailing away into the catacombs where Katrina lays down with the dead and the foolish hopes of the survivors.

This isn’t a letter about your time among us or the things you’ve said and done. It would take an army of scribes a great many years to detail them and the evidence of so much of it remains as palpable and obvious as an alcoholic’s morning fart in a crowded elevator. There is a stink upon the land as if the entire landscape had been reduced to that famous patch of highway in East Rutherford, New Jersey. I cannot fully comprehend how the residents of America can go about their business under such conditions, but they do. They go on and on and so do you.

No, I’m not going to get into the things you have said and done; the vicious lies and ugly wars, the attack your people engineered on New York City, the bribes and scandals and corporate swag raked across a blood-soaked table of unfortunate victims who just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. Your assault on The Constitution and the suspension of habeas corpus, your license to kill at home and abroad- those whom you deem to be a threat to the empire... torture...slander...suppression and all the applications of control upon the witless and unlucky... these are there to be seen and smelled and tasted... whether we wish to or not.

My intention here, George my boy, is to continue to remind the world that the clock is ticking and that you and your handlers are up to very bad mischief. You’ve been busy for a long time. This progression that began, possibly even before your father was de facto president, in those years following the expiration of Ronald’s sell by date and which got its first public announcement in the PNAC manifesto, is something that has been slithering like a shit eating slug through the camouflage of material distraction for some long period of time. It’s been feeding and fattening and its appetite increases with every bite it takes.

I just want to go on record and say I know what you’re up to. I know you are the bad guys and that there is no Al Qaeda except the one you created. I want to let you know that I know that Bin Laden has been dead for a long time. I want you to know that I know that the London Bombings and the Madrid Bombing and the 9/11 attack were all done by the same people for the same reasons.

I want you to know that I know how big your investment is and that you cannot afford to go gentle into that good night; that you cannot afford to lose and that you will do anything, ANYTHING, to make sure that you do not lose.

I want you to know that I know you have stolen every election since 2000. I know all about Diebold. I know that they make the ATM machines that hardly ever fail and that always give a paper receipt. I know that there is hard cold proof of all of this now and I also know why it never gets into the main stream media. I know that one of you is the other’s whore but I don’t know exactly what it is you do for each other in the darkness.

I know that the whole intention of the Afghanistan war has more to do with the Opium flow than anything else and I know that all of the bad management of the Iraq conflict; everything that ‘seems’ like an accident, is intentional and designed to create the opportunity to finally bomb the living shit out of the whole area. I know why Afghanistan was first and Iraq second and I know this is about hemming in Iran and what you plan to do there shortly. I know all of this and a great many others do too. There are far too many of us for you to kill us all.

What I don’t know is just what Mohammed Atta and several other alleged hi-jackers were doing on Jack Abramoff’s gambling boat. I know they were there because the FBI says so. No, I don’t know why they were there but I can guess. I don’t know how far Dick Cheney has his hand up your ass. I do know that it’s far enough to tickle your tonsils into speech when the need is there. It might not be far enough to reach your brain but, then again, it is quite possible that that is just an empty space where Dick waves to people now and then through your eyes. I do know why your eyes are brown and if they don’t look brown then I know why you wear contacts.

I know you are a coward and that if both you and Dick were put into a cell with me that I would have you both wearing denim skirts and make-up and calling me Daddy in less than twenty-four hours; but that’s not my métier. I’m not like you; that’s something else I know.

The real purpose of this letter George is to let you know that I’m not afraid of you and that I speak for a whole lot of people that can’t speak for themselves. I speak for the people that are too dead and too afraid to speak. I speak for those trapped into silence by the presence of jobs and families and the ordinary fear of the mortal state. I speak like V in Vendetta and the sounds that howl in the atmosphere from outrage over what you have said and done. I’m not St. George but, then again, you’re no real dragon either. You’re a punk in an expensive suit. You’re an inarticulate mouth breather; a fool and an embarrassment and a murdering thug hiding behind an army of your betters.

This is just to tell you George that I am not alone and there will never come a time when there will not be many like me. So, you may pull it off again. Then again, you might not. Sooner or later, you are going down and you are going down hard, into a well deserved ignominy and as an object lesson to the whole world about what happens when they don’t pay attention or back the wrong horse.

I’m not afraid of your torture or your false impressions of omnipotence and force. I fear far more the unbearable torture of my silence and complacency. I fear what I would become if I ever demurred to speak out against your venal, fascist ass. The day is coming George. The clock that ticks for these 38 days is also ticking toward another date. I hope you’ll have your best suit on for that day. I hope you’ll look your best when the carriage arrives and the doorbell rings.

52 Days to The Moment of Truth

And here we are, a few days closer than we were the last time we got together. Until November 7th I’m going to detail my observations along the way. I want to point out the things that I see and I want you to watch along with me and to add your observations in the comments section and we can ride the white water of these uncertain times together; ten eyes, or a hundred eyes are better than two. One of the things that make a society strong is in our ability to look out for each other. In real life, if I’m facing you, I can see what’s behind you and you can see what’s behind me.

In a sane society we are bound together by laws and understandings. Those laws are things that we commonly agreed upon. Our understandings are based on what we took from experience and it is a fool that doesn’t learn from the experiences of others so that he doesn’t have to experience them himself. This is not a sane society or time. This is a time of upheaval. This is a time of change. This is a time of sorting out. It is a time when the worst elements among us have gained the upper hand in the matter of appearances of strength and power. Hard as it is to believe, it is temporary.

Across the vast stretch of time there will be many a cabal of fools who gather together in an attempt to control the earth. No one has ever yet accomplished that. There seems to be some mystery here but this is not the place to explore it. I’ve got another blog for that. The sad part is that these fools do a lot of damage on their way to their own destruction. It would be great if there were some cosmic justice with an automatic pilot lightning bolt that would just carbonize these assholes every time they decided to go off on some escapade of world conquest. That feature doesn’t seem to be active in as timely a manner as we might wish. You can’t leave it in human hands, we’ve seen that. And that is why there are laws. Laws are good if they are good laws. Good laws benefit everyone. In principle America has good laws- or they used to have; they’ve gotten a bit draconian over recent times, especially when it comes to things like drug enforcement on the entrepreneurs who cut into the government’s action or the big dogs of the corporate realm. But I digress.

One of the saddest elements of those who want to take over the world and shape it to their will is that they are often cowards. This makes them especially mean. George W. Bush is such a coward. Personally, I‘d like to fiberglass him and water-board his ass on some big Hawaiian waves, but that’s just me. I despise cowards who hide behind armies of dutiful souls who fight meaningless wars for the personal profit of the few who will never even see combat. And that’s all war is ever about. There are few exceptions to these rules. War is big business.

Let’s go to my point and stop this philosophizing from my personal mountain top. Chicken-Hawk in Chief, Booga Booga Bush made an ominous statement the other day. He said, “They want to attack us again. Time is running out.” Every man jack of us ought to think about those sentences; sentences brief enough that this deranged moron actually managed to get them out in one piece. The clear facts are that ‘they’ didn’t attack us. ‘We’ attacked us. Unless you are some faux artiste or witless poseur in a coffee-katche forum in some backwater armpit of the internet, or one of the ranks of brain-washed lemmings that seem to reproduce without pause then you know this already. ‘They’ didn’t attack us in London and ‘they’ didn’t attack us in Madrid. The same people did all of these things and ‘they’ ‘are’ about to do it again. You’ve been warned by the ‘they’ in chief.

The real reason for this smoke and mirrors demand to enhance and legitimize American torture techniques to gain evidence is about what’s up ahead. It has nothing to do with the reasons given. What’s the point of torturing people who don’t have the answers? What makes this especially ugly is that the people doing the torturing are the people behind the attacks. Now there is a sad, sick irony for you.

It’s also about, “I told you so.” You see, when they launch their next false flag op they want to be able to say that they warned you it was coming but you wouldn’t let them pull out the right fingernails to stop it. Anyone who has studied the technology of fascism would be able to quickly see all the steps along the way. You’d recognize the Reichstag Fire-redux. You’d see the equation of problem-reaction-solution. You’d see the lack of public evidence, consistently gone missing along with the evidence lost in the midst of official claims of proof and personal assurances of guilt.

It makes me sad that base cowards like the American neo-con movement and their associates can just plunder at will in The Land of the Stupids. It makes me even sadder that the rest of us have to live in The Land of the Stupids. The Stupids may well deserve whatever happens to them. The rest of us might not.

Consonant with the certain evolution of the next big time terror attack is the mind-shaping that is now taking place in preparation for the election fraud also evolving in real time. Let me point out one thing here that should really clarify the reality of what I say. The company that makes the software for the computer voting machines is the same company that makes your ATM’s ...which...which...give you a receipt, a paper trail, any time you want it and which work like a charm just about all the time. Ponder this and do the math; those of you for whom 2+2=4 is not rocket science.

Perhaps the strongest weapon- and certainly Goebbels pointed this out- is the captive mass media. They are an arm of the government and the corporations. The media is the one who stands by the orgy bed holding a towel while these two have it off with each other. Presently the media is engaged in telling you that the congressional races are tightening, that there is a shift in momentum; that black is white and up is down. The truth is that a significant majority of the American people have zip faith in the Republican controlled congress and zip faith in that posturing nimrod swaggering around in the White House. It’s true that the majority of the Democrats are chicken-shit whores. That’s a given and I won’t dispute it. However, it is certainly to your advantage as a formerly free people to have the democrats win because there are some among them that will expose all manner of things once they have the opportunity. It will also shift the direction of the country out of the ditch and back on the highway. It’s checks and balances. Will they go off the road again further on? You can count on it... but it does buy us time.

52 Days people; 52 Days and counting. If it weren’t so ominous and if people weren’t dying and suffering from all that this present plague has visited upon so many it would make for exciting viewing. What will these pigs from Animal Farm come up with next? What will Boss Hogg Rove engineer? Have little doubt that it is going to be ugly and illegal. But laws are only as effective as the people who administer them. As you have seen with the Bolton nomination and so many things over recent years, laws are made to be broken and circumvented.

Right now, the best you can do is to ignore everything you hear from the media and this administration and turn out in droves to vote. If you turn out in record numbers they CANNOT pull off the fraud. This especially means the clueless, slacker, self-involved youth of this country. If you should all come together RIGHT NOW then you can put these gangsters out of power. It is very possible indeed. If you do not choose to do so then let it be on your heads.

Visible sings: ♫ 911 was an Inside Job ♫
'911 was an Inside Job' is track no. 1 of 10 on Visible's 2002 album
'911 was an Inside Job'
Lyrics (pops up)

9/11 and a Pack of Low to the Ground Blood-Bathed Shit-Weasels.

They lured you out of your car and into the bar and they gave you things to drink that you had never tasted before. You were higher and more drunk than you had ever been. You could hardly walk and at the same time you were tenser and more afraid than you had ever been. Someone had slipped you a megadose of the brown acid along with a whole cocktail of nightmares. You didn’t want to look up at the sky anymore because you could see who was riding on the night mare now and the stars were too bright and you hoped daylight would never come.

They took you back to a room full of mattresses stained with blood and semen and who knows what else there was glowing in that radioactive darkness of lies and things that changed shape over and over again but never fixed on anything you could identify. There was teeth and hair and red eyes that lit the room like infra red and you felt your clothes being torn from your body and then...

A whole gang of nasty men with breath that stank of the charnel house used you over and over again. They did everything that bad men sometimes do to women and you knew it didn’t matter if you were a man or not. The only clear truth was that you wouldn’t be a man again. Not in this life. You lost track of time and events. The boundary between life and dreams disappeared and you didn’t know after awhile if this was really happening to you or not. They took pictures while their associates took you in every opening. They took pictures of things you never imagined would happen to you. Occasionally you would see that there were other mattresses in the room and your mother and your sister and brothers and children; if you had any, were being used just like you. When they left they said, “See you on the Internet.”

You woke up the next morning with your mouth and everywhere else that opened from the inside out, caked with a sticky film of excrescence. You could taste all manner of things and you knew the meaning of the phrase about how something must have crawled up there and died. You saw your family spread out among strangers on fly-blown carpets and mattresses. Young children, old people... violated and torn; the men who had drugged you were gone. The fierce daylight came through the broken warehouse windows. You wished you were dead. But you got up and you cleaned yourself in a dirty toilet with brown water and you washed off your family and you took them home.

You are the American public. This happened to you on 9/11, five years ago. That was the first time it happened. Who knows, maybe you developed a taste for it. Maybe there were just too many of them, They had the guns and the uniforms and the identification. So you went with them, back to that warehouse across these last five years many times and you let them do the same things to you, over and over again; to your family and your friends and to everything you ever thought was responsible for making sure that things like this never happened.

During flashbacks you can see some of the men in the room. You see George W. Bush and his family. You see Richard Pearle and Douglas Feith. You see Paul Wolfowitz and Condolezza Rice dressed up in a neoprene waffen SS outfit with a strap-on. You know that strap on. You’ve felt it. You see Dick Cheney and Netan-yahoo, Larry Silverstein and Donald Rumsfield and you see people you see on TV and hear on the radio and read in the newspapers that talk about things that are happening in America and foreign lands and you remember that they were there photographing you and filming you and interviewing you about the things that happened to you in that warehouse.

Today, all of these men and women are going to be all dressed up for the 9/11 Piss and Moan Party. You’re going to hear about Arabs and wars abroad. You’re going to hear about not cutting and running and how we can do anything we want to any time we want to, because it is for your own good; just like the things that happened in that warehouse.

You are going to see all the people you were told to trust and who raped you in that warehouse talking about bullshit and telling you lies.

No one is going to come out and say that the unelected president of the United States and an assortment of neo-cons and Israelis and British Intel thugs orchestrated 9/11. You’re not going to hear that on TV or on the radio today. But I’m going to tell you.

This isn’t the greatest crime they committed. Yes, that was a bad one, like that first night in the warehouse. But the greater crimes are what followed; The Patriot Act and Homeland Security, the war in Iraq and Afghanistan, the secret prisons and Abu Ghraib, the murder of tens of thousands of people who didn’t know anything about anything and who would have never harmed you. Yes, there are other crimes; all that tax money and the gulf between the have’s and have nots, the tanking of the economy and all that debt; the terrible divide between neighbors over those who believe the lie and say nothing happened to you in that warehouse and those who were in the warehouse.

As they fill the screens today with films and pictures from that day, as you see people jumping from the towers, as you hear that saccharine, bombastic soundtrack that accompanies all the bullshit from all the paid liars- all the low to the ground shit weasels that repeat the bullshit. Remember this. This act was done by your government. The people that you didn’t elect and who stole the government sent those planes into those buildings and then brought them down with explosive charges.

Raise your glass to Larry Silverstein who bought the WTC complex even though it was about to be condemned and needed hundreds of millions of dollars of renovation. He bought that complex for 124 million bucks down and then took out billions in terror insurance very shortly before the attacks and then collected 7 billion dollars. Now that is what I call Horatio Alger. That is an American success story. Raise your glass to Dick Cheney who said, “Keep those planes on the ground.” Raise your glass to all the PNAC lying neo-cons who have painted Iraq red with blood. Raise your glass to Rudy Giuliani who knew what was going on and to everyone else who KNEW and toasted themselves while it happened; while the bodies tumbled in air.

Raise your glass to Jack Abramoff who hosted Mohammed Atta and a few others in the days before the attack. Raise your glass to George W. Bush and his pet goat. Raise your glass to the five dancing Israeli Mossad agents that the FBI arrested in their van that stank of explosives and was filled with box cutters and money. Raise your glass to their free departure back home. Raise your glass to the Marvin Bush security firm that took over the WTC security as soon as Silverstein bought the lot. Raise your glass to the liars who own the airwaves and who keep putting out this shit. Raise your glass!!! Raise it especially to yourself and all the dead Iraqi’s who were in the warehouse with you. Raise your glass to the ass that was once yours and is now pimped up and down Main Street USA along with the asses of your wife and your children and your friends. Raise your glass to your bottomless stupidity and lack of courage. Raise your glass to the loss of whatever may or may not have been good and noble in your country and in yourself.

On that day five years ago today there was no Bin Laden assault on America. Your leaders did this, together with British and Israeli intelligence, they did this. So when you mourn today, don’t mourn the dead from the towers or the wars that followed... mourn the loss of your balls and your convictions and the things you let happen to you in the warehouse when you believed a lie. And for all the days after when you went back to the warehouse of your own free will. And for all the things you never were and never will be. Congratulations America. This is your day. This sums you up. This says it all. Congratulations.

Beating a Dead Horse Until it Rises From the Dead.

Somewhere a dead horse is crying from a whipping that just won’t stop. It’s not just me whipping this horse. There are more and more of us every day. What once took courage because few people would say it, has now drawn such a crowd that you can sing along to your heart’s content and quite possibly no one will even hear you but you know you’re singing along and it makes you feel better to be singing... along.

Thanks to YouTube and Loose Change; flawed as the latter may be and thanks to people like David Ray Griffin and web sites like whatreallyhappened.com and college professors and scientists the world around and even a special thanks to the big league morons at Popular Mechanics... thanks to so many people, a long dead horse may ride again. The swells of a thousand Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s singing, “9/11 was an Inside Job” fills the theater as the horse rises to its feet and jumps right off the screen and almost into the seats. The horse thunders up the aisle and sprays the people in the near seats with lather and nasal spume. It seemed only a moment before that it was getting to its feet and already its been galloping for days. It’s that real. On it goes, out into the streets, to thunder down Broadway, dragging 9/11 memorial bunting behind it; dragging the next bloc of unwilling believers out of their stupor and on after the beating hooves on down to Ground Zero, that big hole in the ground that’s a sort of Mission Accomplished for New York that Iraq is for the country as a whole.

These days in an undisclosed location, Dick Cheney is gnawing on his liver. Dick’s half nervous and all hungry as he makes the expected line that it’s his liver and it tastes good. All through the American military, high ranking men in all branches are thinking the impossible and talking to each other too. Humpty Dumpty has to go down. Humpty Dumpty needs one in the brainpan; that big empty skillet that looks so much like the thing your dad used to change the oil. Humpty Dumpty has become a bad fart in the elevator. Humpty Dumpty stinks like a rotten egg. All the king’s men and all the king’s horses know it. Humpty Dumpty isn’t just one guy though. He’s a kind of Frankenstein cobbled together in parts and jumpstarted with probes. Humpty is like one of those living sculptures in a Hellraiser sequel just before Pinhead turns the chains and fishhooks loose.

It’s kind of like watching a Monster Truck Pull taking place on a tennis court in the middle of a big match. It’s got naked girls and free beer and no one is sure who is winning yet. Is it the monster trucks, the tennis players or the guys with their shirts off and loose among the naked women and the free beer? We won’t know till it’s over. What we do know is that it is very confusing and really exciting and sooner or later something is going to happen.

Outside the stadium are a few dozen guys in jumpsuits with nametags. They could be with the fire department, or the electricians union or they might be with some other group. The way they’re dressed it’s hard to tell right off. It looks like UPS and then it looks like DHL maybe, maybe not. These guys have all got big tool-kits and they’re heading into the stadium to fix something in the basement or under the bleachers. They’ve done this kind of work before. These guys have all been in a Philip K. Dick movie before and so they can go down into the stadium basement and come up in the Millennium Exhibit in London and then catch the Night Train to Teheran. They know the difference between an Arab and a Persian and they can play either one. They play dress up all the time in Iraq when they are ferrying car bombs around.

Now, back when Humpty Dumpty disconnected the FBI and the CIA and created their own secret police with the Homeland Security patches- just in case there were any honest agents left in the first two, the one thing they didn’t have any problems with was financing. You see, that 2.6 trillion dollars that Dov Zakheim stole from the Pentagon when he was the comptroller- back before the 1st 9/11... is more than enough to go around. That’s just one more thing that 9/11 made disappear off the radar. I remember Donald Rumsfield laughing about it. But you knew that right? You say you’ve never even heard of Dov Zakheim and that 2.6 trillion dollars is so damn much money that no way could anyone have stolen it and you didn’t hear about it. Well, my goodness, even Wikipedia talks about it. Just pull that horse blanket back over your head and go back to sleep.

And what was Mohammed Atta and his backup band doing on Jack Abramoff’s gambling boat?

What was Mohammed Atta doing, according to the FBI, on Jack Abramoff’s gambling boat? Yes, Mr. Delay, have a seat and I’ll be right with you.

2.6 trillion dollars. Yes sir, now that’s a pot of money. Gone you say? Uh huh. Gone and still gone.

Well, that Monster-Truck Pull tennis match is going along real good still and the guys in the uniforms with the name tags are moving through wormholes and that dead horse is still motoring down Broadway. Somebody put a few dozen WTC Memorial Wristwatches all up and down his legs and he stops every now and then to ask somebody do they want to buy a watch. ABC is getting into the watch business too and so maybe they and that horse are going to have to have a sitdown some time soon, Sopranos style.

Once things get as absurd as they have gotten then there is no limit to what some folk will dummy up and put out as gospel. It’s just the same as there is no limit to how stupid some people can be. Sometimes I start laughing about it until I remember how many people keep dying and it stops being very funny.

Today is September the 8th. Tomorrow is September the 9th. One of these days you’ll look around and it will be November the 3rd. Uh huh. And all along the way funny shit is going to start happening. You can rely on it. It’s going to get funnier and stranger by the day. It won’t even make you shake your head at a Monster Truck-Pull Tennis Match. Uh uh. That will be what passes for normal.

And all along the way, as we count down the days, people are going to wag their fingers at me; whenever they can manage to take them out of their ears and they are going to say that I’m crazy and that all the other people who woke up this dead horse and are singing along with all those choirs... well, they’re crazy too. And the funniest thing is that now the crazy people are in numbers equal to the people who aren’t crazy and who are walking around with their fingers in their ears and wearing those mylar party hats.

Maybe it will be enough just to Nuke Iran and Syria just before the election... or maybe not. Maybe the next attack on two continents at once will be enough and THEN they can Nuke Iran and Syria and maybe that will be enough. Maybe not. Maybe when that horse gets to Ground Zero and rears up on two legs and tosses that candy ass Humpty Dumpty off his back and Humpty goes to omelet land with a really bad smell, maybe they’ll even suspend the Monster Truck-Pull tennis match or at least do one of those ‘breaking news’ things while the match goes on. I don’t know.

I can’t know how its going to play out. I just know it’s going to be ten kinds of weird and strange and so I’m going to have to count down the days and you can ride along with me and we’ll see what we’ll see. Okay? Okay.