7 Reasons The U.S. President May be a Broken Robot Because Pepsi. Number 6 Will Leave You Breathless.

The Leader of the Free World is an unusual case. Something may be wrong. His grammatically unique pronouncements, curious non-familiarity with human culture, and his “hair”, seem to suggest he is other than human. But viewed as a machine he also falls outside the usual baseline metrics, to put it charitably. Experts suggest President Trump’s non-linear decoherence may be that of a mechanical man (or “tick-tock-twit”, as one expert colorfully described It) into which someone has accidentally spilled a can of Pepsi Cola. A whole can. Herewith, 7 symptoms that point to this explanation being the best we can hope for.


  1. It constantly purses its TalkPort Like an AI with a synaptic flutter
  2. While shaking hands at the White House It stared at the Japanese Prime Minister like a Lobbybot© with a stuck logic delaminator
  3. It grabs women by the crotch and loudly shouts about that, and in the next breath yells about buying furniture with a married “bitch”, suggesting It is using a repurposed behavior packet from one of the discontinued AssholeWorld models
  4. It squints and has a wildly protuberant thoracic module – familiar dual symptoms of cola syrup herniating an overheated Midsection Ophthalmic Bundle
  5. It reflexively makes the “zero” sign with its right hand when emphasizing a talking point, suggesting Its Onanism Impellor is locked to the “on” position.
  6. Its startling golf swing suggests that of a retrofitted animatronic Panda 
  7. Its strangely avian scalp cover is clearly designed to be quickly flipped aside for emergency tech intrusion into its misfiring blabbervault


And the Bland Played On

Nordie boycotters, Prancing “Patriots”, Freedom Fakes, Primacy of the Individual Phonies and Constitutional Amendment Scholars; your Russia loving, Kristen-Stewart-obsessed comb-over experiment is not a change agent—he is a world-sized diaper filled to the brim with publicly steaming crap. In six short weeks your diarrheic lightweight has already stunk up your beloved country so badly we’re going to have to tear out the carpets to get the smell out. At this writing our chronically squinty Pres is massively expanding his deportation mechanism in order to keep America safe. But who will protect us from Trump? Nobody. This has stopped being funny. This isn’t despotism, isn’t machiavellianism, isn’t even runaway narcissism. It’s plain Amateurism on a Godzilla scale that challenges descriptive language.

Peece in Our Time

I went to a speaking event at Campbell Hall this week where a couple of scholarly heavyweights, David Makovsky & Ghaith al-Omari, had a public discussion on the Israeli/Palestinian peace process in light of signals coming out of the Trump White House. These guys have each been on their respective negotiating teams since the 90s; they have granular knowledge of the process and the U.S.’s history as a broker.

They are also dear friends and articulate, witty spokespersons for the nuances of their respective sides of that seemingly endless process. They were both at pains to describe, in non-inflammatory terms, the vacuum of direction coming out of the White House, and Trump’s public remarks. They both referred fleetingly (and with faces bowed) to Trump’s apparent determination to put his son-in-law at the head of the negotiating table in future talks and—oh, wait…hang on, here comes Danny Kaye.

I’m looking at One State and Two State, and..I like the one that both parties like,”

Yea, Verily, Yea. President Trump actually said that. He’s done his homework, you gotta give him that. No contemptible pointy-headed intellectualism evident in this humanoid twine doll.

Paging Dr. Kozinski. You’re Needed in the Oval Office, Dr. Kozinski

Trump’s dry-drunk press conferences, indecipherable pronouncements, impulsive and cavalier covert operations, middle-school lexicon, frank, blinding stupidity and unexplained Russophilia  are more than a problem for columnists to gab about at the National Watercooler. The guy is an unfolding national and historical tragedy.

Though there is very very slow-moving evidence that the country is beginning to see into the maw of our common abyss, we’re still approaching the matter of our new “Leader”as if he is a Bad President in the standard mold. If only. He is as global and sobering a disaster as a tsunami on Christmas Day.

The NY Times, the WSJ—all the venerables, really—while continuing with their austere, clipped mockery of this eye-poppingly inept thumbelina, still parsed his ‘Israel Statement’ for clues to his approach to Mideast peace. What are we all doing, pretending this way? He can’t find Israel on a map or his ass with both hands. He doesn’t know anything and doesn’t want to learn anything. He’s going to smash the place up and not even know it. There is no malice. There is no anything.

The optimistic view is that Trump is merely an intellectual gnome and can be guided. It’s becoming clear, though, that he is in fact either damaged, drug-blunted, or suffering from some sort of chronic mental deficit. Honestly. And he waves off guidance. Can we all begin calling him out? He is not a conservative, not a racist, not a white supremacist, not an anti-semite, not a containable bad guy. He’s an extraordinary empty suit on roller skates with two machine guns. Maybe earning billions by putting up skyscrapers in Dubai isn’t that hard? Who knew?

Wanton Moron Gets a Press Pass

I personally believe Trump is deranged along some DSM continuum, and that this is an unfolding historical emergency. Meanwhile we snicker angrily at his “cabinet” appointments, bitch about his “racism”, “misogyny” and “anti-semitism”, feel only garden-variety embarrassment about his 5th Grade Class Treasurer statesmanship. The whole media mechanism is stunned into bland repose.

Trump is an historical accident so huge and tragic and ruinous we can scarcely bring ourselves to face and discuss him in those terms.

“Bill Maher Just Made a Very Serious Point about the Trump Circus”. There’s a screaming headline.

Here’s one from the ever-reliable bait ‘n switch HuffPost. “McCain Unleashes!” What does McCain say in the piece? “…in many respects this administration is in disarray and they’ve got a lot of work to do.” Settle down, former tortured prisoner of the communist NVA. What happened to you, John? Whatever it was, you’ve forgotten it. Your President is on the side of your tormentors. At least until he gets a better real estate deal from the ARVN.

Will you and the other liver-spotted ‘I-forget-what-I-signed-up-for’ jackasses SAVE YOUR COUNTRY? Congress, which famously does ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, has an historic opportunity to haul a deranged Tourette’s wrecking ball out of the oval office for the common good. Our legislators will never have been so heroic as the day they cross party lines and drag this shit-for-brains out of the White House before he does lasting damage to the U.S., or worse.

Left-Haters Turn Sharply Left

Yes, the Repubs wanted “ANYTHING BUT HILLARY”. She’s a harpy!  Nobody likes her! Too left-leaning! Her party’s programs are too socialist! She likes too much government! Gotta keep the Pinko Left out of power at any cost!

Hey Tortoise McConnell, Hare Ryan, and all the rest of you a-historical asswipes: your guy is in bed with Russia, Bitch.  Have you lost your minds? Or at least your McCarthy-Lite Decoder Rings? What do you have to say about Trump’s warm feelings toward the President of Russia?! That is, have you closeted everything you used to value? Or is this more of the Republican Heisenberg Principle?

Trump isn’t a troubling bump in the road we have to ride out. He’s a blood-borne illness that we in our Sea-to-Shining-Sea laziness and torpor have self-injected, just to see what happens. The Trump infection could hobble us for a generation, or cost us a limb. Trump is an historical accident so huge and tragic and ruinous we can scarcely bring ourselves to face and discuss him in those terms. He needs to be called out. He is a damaged man and he has the power and raw stupidity and momentum to fuck up the Republic.

Burning Down Your Own Tree House

Shame on our elected furniture on the Hill — “The Right”, the “Conservatives”, or whatever they uselessly call themselves anymore. In the wake of Obama’s term (which thanks to you deafened clods looks more like Camelot with every passing hour, THANK YOU) you angrily sold your souls to get “Any Not a Democrat” into the hen house. Congrats!! Some of you people have worked your entire lives for your ideologically defensible idea of what makes the U.S. a great place. What. Happened.

All your deeply held political philosophy, your veneration of the Individual, of Liberty, of the country’s founding charter – and of Reagan’s facing down the communists across the Berlin Wall—all that party majesty inheres in Donald Trump? You idiots have given away the farm to a shitheel who can’t spell f-a-r-m, and whose bestie is named Vladimir. That’s how desperate you were to have a “Republican” in “Power”?

Save Our Ship

Dear Bland Bastards/Would-Be Leaders—both “Left” and “Right”. Please – FOR ONCE – want something more for the United States of America than simply winning your decades-long ninny argument with the other side of the “aisle”. Please – FOR ONCE – want something more for the United States of America than your useless re-election.

Repubs, if you would really rather have this dumpster fire in office than literally any Democrat, you’ve forgotten everything you’ve ever stood for, everything your country yet stands for, and you need to go home. You are doing harm.

Dumbocrats. PLEASE DO SOMETHING REAL, YOU INCONSEQUENTIAL VAPOR. If there was ever a time that called on you to do something with repercussions beyond your re-election, this is that time.

CONGRESS: PLEASE PLEASE STAND UP. TOGETHER. There won’t be another opportunity like this one to actually find common cause in the salvation of something you love. Storm this barricade and gift us the sea change Trump’s radioactive ascension demands. Reset the whole game. This is that moment. What more do you need as a catalyst?!? An approaching asteroid? You’ve got one! Do the Michael Bey thing and make some history. You’ll save us from a real-time accident of epic proportions while earning the awed respect of an electorate that has grown accustomed to Congress doing ZIP. Write this ticket. This guy is no “Republican” and you know it. This isn’t about politics. At all.


Trump and Circumstance: Making the Case

From sea to shining sea, the republic is taking a cold shower. And whether one partakes of said shower to snap out of a drunken fog or to come down from erectile servitude, it’s a bracing habit to adopt, a reboot. Jefferson famously said we would need a good revolution every so often to keep the national motor humming and lubricated, though he wasn’t so far-seeing that he used the word “motor”. But he may have been talking about Trump. The New York Times’ likably clear-headed conservative columnist David Brooks went so far as to characterize the current madness as the possible beginnings of an emergent new political movement, though in my view that flatters the restless sea of knuckleheads who have taken up Trump’s “cause”, or “causes”, or “Tourette’s Outbursts”. Full disclosure: I may be one of those knuckleheads.

Open Carry on 5th Ave

What the hell is going on? We know damn well what’s going on. A billionaire Alpha-Loudmouth has entered the field and we’re enthralled. Why? Our Tom Thumb pundits, seated around their nonsensical, outsized pundit tables, marvel aloud at the wildness of this electoral season, shake their shellacked heads in half-grinning wonder and offer non-stop analysis, or at least enough verbal flatus to keep the methane-fueled news cycle from collapsing like a foul soufflé. Trump is a gift to the media, who normally have to overgrill the staid facts of the Body Politic to get this kind of juice. Suddenly Hilary’s EmailGate (or whatever the hell they’ve been calling it) seems quaint and cozy. Is the press really going to bird-dog Hillary about her e-mail server when the likely next leader of the Free World is saying stuff like, “I could stand in the middle of 5th Avenue and shoot somebody and I wouldn’t lose voters”? Trump is a gift, and I don’t mean that sardonically. Yes, he bloviates like an inebriated 5th grader, hollers unanchored nonsense for the record, and wears the squinting, pursed facial expression of a guy preparing to be slapped. But in the current field of jackanapes and anointed bots, he is a change agent like no other. Trump is our Jeffersonian totem.


Your high school social studies class with its bland descriptions of the three branches of lockjaw, I mean government, might have predicted this, though it seems to have caught the Fools on the Hill completely off-guard, variously stammering and posturing. Pipsqueak Harry Reid has been seen haughtily crossing his little arms while the Republicans run to and fro, rubbing their spotty hands together and worrying that Trump may make them look bad. Seriously. Conventional wisdom says Trump is the hideous Republican creature the GOP deserves, the freak-synthesis of all their wrongheaded Tea Party-cajoling and class warmongering. Trump is no more a Republican than Senator Mitch McConnell is an underwear model. Trump is an apolitical freak, a Talker on the stump without handlers, a script, or a lick of sense. It’s enough to pleasantly jolt the chloroformed American electorate into a sitting position. And why shouldn’t we be excited? You don’t have to like Trump to adore what he is doing – taking a hatchet to “American Politics” and the palsied wraiths in D.C. This Trump veneration is not a protest movement. It’s a mad rush for anything that looks like a cracked window in a room filled, for a hundred years, with suffocating smoke. This unlettered billionaire dimwit in purple silk tie and almost endearing lower middle-class flyaway comb over is a trickle of air in the sealed and smothering Room of political discourse in this country, and we’re clawing over each other to draw a breath. I mean, did you hear the crowd at the Fox-hosted debate on March 3? It sounded like a gallery of Mixed Martial Arts enthusiasts with beer bongs. The Donald seems to have awakened the collective electoral Mr. Hyde whose latency has actually long been threatening to kill our political spirit from within. Now that Trump has reanimated the once-supine corpse of American electoral politics we may see a little action.

Reflux Pageant

The Iowa caucuses were the canary in the coal mine. In that first so-so contest of the 2016 Presidential Decision, with the nation watching to see if a blabbermouth know-nothing billionaire could really win any of these state contests, the sanctimonious, worry-faced Ted Cruz “beat” the amusing curiosity that was Donald Trump. Cruz then swaggered up to the microphone and, dripping with the stilted theatrics of a just-elected 7th grade class treasurer, regaled us with the sort of gasping E Pluribus Sputum that characterizes the very worst of this country’s dumbass political tryouts. Sure that he was at the very beginning of a steamroll, Cruz wheezed and barked his way through a wave of clenching self-congratulation in Iowa while his wife, who is reportedly thrice as smart and gifted as her hubby, looked up at him with that American Political Wife expression of adulation. This is a mold we have long been aching to break. Every election cycle is a reflux pageant of cloying dullards saying nothing nothing nothing (nothing3) in a rain of colored balloons. This cycle promised to be no different. Then came the aptly named Trump.

Rogues and Pogues

Let’s glance quickly and dismissively at the other candidates and the howling vacuum into which the Donald has inserted himself. Hilary stands to become our first woman President, she of the over-rehearsed sing-song and scary doll cheeks and vaguely North Korean pant suits. Really? Her? No she didn’t kill Vince Foster (though Trump might if he saw him on 5th Avenue) but do you, reader, not have a brilliant and informed and articulate powerhouse of a woman in your sphere who couldn’t better Hil by a country mile? Ted Cruz, what to say? If you wanted Grandpa from the Munsters to be president you should have voted him in back in the 60s when his show was a hit. Marco Rubio – the Cuban Robert Redford. Some of his advisers are quietly suggesting he drop out before the Florida primary so as to avoid the embarrassment of being drubbed in his home state by a shouting new yorker with a rooster on his head. Rubio did handily win Puerto Rico, though. Stop the presses. John Kasich is said by all who know him to be a stand-up guy and a gifted politician. There is, however, a mild charisma deficit, such that he vanishes if you look straight at him. This could prove tactically beneficial in an international stare down – but at the end of the day a President who vanishes when you look at him is probably bad for the brand.

Taxes Toast

And then there’s Bernie…the unrepentant pinko from Vermont with the puzzling Brooklyn accent. He wants to give us everything for free by raising a few taxes on a small subset of industrialists and bluebloods. Hey, it works in Europe (more or less). Oh wait, that’s why we broke up with Europe a scant 240 years ago. We had to shoot our way out of that relationship. Yeah, that nasty split was all about dough. An old story. Come to think of it, the American Experiment began as a tax protest; colonists in politically incorrect loincloths and face paint throwing tea into a harbor, to be exact. As national pastimes go, tax hatred in the U.S. is second only to the consumption of canned peaches in heavy syrup. So…feel the burn. HELL yeah, we want free college and health care here in the states, but raising taxes on anybody here to pay for that stuff? Um, that’s Stalinism, bro. Besides, the tiny trillionaire cabal Bernie is determined to soak for the free stuff the rest of us will get? They’re the management company that maintains the White House. We love you, Bernie! C’mon, we’ll call you a cab.

Trump is not Republican excess personified. The truth is simpler and more interesting than that. He’s a cursing, self-contradicting, boorish, racist, Pope-poking genie who, whatever happens this election cycle, is never going back into the bottle. Now the GOP Backroom Brain Trust are openly cooking up a Kooky Convention plan to steal any possible victory away from Trump at the 11th hour; red meat and a vindication for the millions who are aligned with Trump simply because they can’t stand the deal-making machine that is now so publicly determined to stop him. Yes, the genius Republicans are hurriedly shoveling vitamins down the neck of their own insurrection.

Grab some popcorn and sit back. They may well have to take up torches and chase our new Candidate Karloff into the nearest burning windmill to wrap this strange little episode, but at least we and our fellow villagers will be able to look at each other with wild grins and say, “Wow! Wasn’t that something?! Let’s do it again!”

Go Donald.

Emancipation Declamation


Our Honda died. She was euthanized, actually.  No. She was towed away as an unmoving derelict. 72 hours, folks; keep your cars on the move or the City kidnaps. The punitive expense of buying our hobbled dear out of impound compelled us instead to sell to our friendly and honest longtime mechanic. He would make some repairs and give her the semi-active retirement she deserved. I last saw her parked in front of his garage on that side street in downtown Goleta. I was in that neighborhood running a work errand and glimpsed her as I passed that block. Her pursed little Honda mouth didn’t change expression but I felt her trying to move when she saw me. I got misty then stopped myself. Keep driving, dumbass. Her final symptoms; indecipherable and always burning Check Engine light, dangling side-view mirror wrapped in two pattens of duct tape, AirBag warning lamp an overfamiliiar Christmas-colored bauble on the instrument array, oil leaking everywhere and amazingly without cease, a sort of automotive Hanukkah.  The car in its prime was a loudly spectacular totem of middling-class and middle age; the dreaded White Station Wagon. She had finally as many miles on her as the u-turning Apollo 13 Command Module, and was sometimes as smoke-filled.  I was sad to see her go. We become attached to our cars, yeah. The grills become grimaces, the headlights eyes, malfunctioning seat belts the saddened, panicked grasp of a death-bed jalopy. I won’t miss waving to friends out the window of a long white station wagon, though. That I won’t miss.  So we’re a sudden one car family.  It’s taken some hasty getting used to. Now I take the bus, yet another window through which you won’t find me excitedly announcing myself on arrival. Being a bus rider, though, does make me more fully human. Oh, and more attractively urban.

This morning the ride rattles, lurches, bumps, hisses. What holds the bolts in place on these juggernauts over the years? I look deliberately down the length of the bus from my seat near the back; the Mike Nichols shot at the end of The Graduate as Hoffman and Ross’ smiles fade and they realize the dawning fucked present.  As my ride chugs and grunts and turns through the mean streets of SB, the expressionless, staring whole of the passenger list dazedly sways like sea grasses with the stiffened twisting progress of the thing.

A large black man in a worn blue jumpsuit always sits in the same spot and is mildly affronted to have this new interlocutor, me, drop into the adjacent seat for the 4th day in a row. Calling him a ‘large black man’ raises internal alarms as I write, not sure why. That’s just the deal, I guess. If you know why it’s a little jarring to write large black man, let me know. If you are a large black man you may be particularly qualified to school me on this one. I can be taught.

He seems interested in the stupid little challenge of our personal spaces intersecting, a Venn Diagram to celebrate the 50th of the March on Washington. I plop down every morning with my laptop and girlish little lunch box, his draped arm dangles partially and deliberately into the space between us, bemusedly, it seems, though he remains stone-faced. He shifts his arm every morning, minutely and ceremonially, a centimeter closer to me, demonstrating both his situational awareness and his general ascendance over my blanched, white, culturally lightweight little ass. I infer all this from an arm.  The man seems to have more specific gravity in the bags under his eyes than I do in the whole of my bantamweight being.  This is a form of White Envy, though there is nothing historically to be envied. Is there?  The Oppressor gets his comeuppance by being shown, finally, to have only a European dandy’s paper-thin Beau Brummel costume to show for his bloodied efforts, while his formerly defeated charge gathers an unstoppable strength and rises and rises on the column of righteous fire, and moves his arm at will on the number 11 line.  My obeisance to his strength smacks lightly of yet more inescapable racism. How? Because he’s a sleepy hardworking guy in a jumpsuit and not a glowing totem of endurance born to accrue lavish heaps of my chickenshit praise.  Right? I imagine if he knew what I was thinking he would be disgusted with my busy array of romantic presuppositions. My prejudices, I guess they’re called. Or he might find it flattering and ennobling. There. Another layer of shellac for you, sir. If you could wear my overwrought thinking you’d need another cane just to get you to the door of the bus. I wouldn’t daydream such majesty into a white guy in a blue jumpsuit on the bus. Why not?

I sometimes see a large group of African-Americans gathered laughingly, I would hesitatingly say ‘joyously’, before a church on the near East side, downtown.  The sight of them milling about and laughing and leaning into each other on a sunny Sunday morning outside this handsome, demure little wooden church makes me envious and inexplicably excited and happy. Another species of racism, a gladdened broad-brush tone poem that finally insults through a refusal, or simple inability, to individuate.

Across the bus aisle two peeps are asleep,  one in a ‘hoodie’ (freighted), the other a small attractive brown woman the beautiful color of a polished walnut (dare I), maybe middle aged, in an inevitable-seeming brightly colored shawl, her lustrous hair pulled back, the skin of her face smooth and beautiful, her blue jeans threadbare where visible. Her ears are predictably and disappointingly plugged with ear buds while she sleeps, the white wires trailing. Apart from that she could be straight out of a Diego Rivera painting, expressionless and indomitable, doubled over in her colorful shawl, a huge undefined hump of nourishing Marxist encumbrance strapped plainly to her bent back. But she’s not expressionless here on the bus. She’s beautiful.  The  properly tuned academic will see my gazing for the subjugating Colonial-Think it can’t help but be, a rattling of chains.  Does a small brown woman in a colorful shawl have to be a symbol of third world struggle?  Are small brown peoples always bent under bushels of grain? No. Many of them are surely CEOs, Corporate Raiders, Divorce Attorneys, Thieving Hedge Fund managers and such, and some of these well-to-do will have found a way up and out of the sometimes grinding penury that defines their fellows. They will have grabbed the brass ring, entered the First World orbit at that laudable remove from the poverty-stricken natural order.  Better to live in comfort than in wholeness. Everyone wants comfort and the argument that the disenfranchised may be aspiring to something that is actually beneath them; it’s a specious, racist point of view. People just want to be comfortable. It’s a fact.

Then at one of the stops a young handsome Latino guy gets off the bus in his dangerous-looking baggy clothes, ‘shorts’ down to here, voluminous white t-shirt, knee socks like Bruce Jenner wore in the 70s; the loose-fitting uniform of a brawler, I imagine, the flying fists and jabbing knives unrestricted by the tailoring that, in another reality, would make this handsome guy an Armani model. I guess he doesn’t want to be an Armani model.  As he passes my seat I can see a longish line of blue script on the back of his bobbing head, above the occipital ridge, can just barely make out the blue tat script through the translucent scrim of shaved hair. He passes and the tattoo is lurking on the back of his receding head like a warning, a finger waggling a threat to the staring masses as he pushes daily through an ongoing little clot of cowards. At least that’s how it seems to my silly awed witness.  He exits the bus with a fitful hop and sees a friend. With big beautiful smiles they hoist their hands in that long drifting preamble to the Handshake, hang their hands at chest level for 5 or so seconds, palms down, as if to say “Hey, my little cousin Carl is only about this tall!”. Then the hands fall together in a sudden, fluid and complicated series of twists and bumps and sliding, then a brief, spartan full-body embrace. I realize I’m staring through the bus window at all this and feel even more diminished. Compared to that Knights Templar handshake, street-esprit de corps and manifest commonality of purpose, what do I have? A tight t-shirt and bald spot. Then, hoisting their backpacks, the guys hustle down an oleander-choked passageway alongside a nearby building, and are gone. Florists, model airplane enthusiasts, aerospace engineers. Butchers, bakers, candlestick makers. I don’t know shit. In the absence of knowing I presuppose something like this; danger, pain, a warrior spirit. Through no personal experience of same. At all.

One night over dinner Stella queries us about a sweeping new definition of racism she picked up on the playground. At first recess that day one of her friends solemnly informed Stel that her parents had laid it all out for her the night before and the essence was this; simply noticing that someone is black is itself racist. Try hard not to notice. Built into that idiot proclamation is the inference that ‘black’ is a pejorative, and that being put on high alert not to notice something actually works. The poor child is being raised by sprinting cowards. One could get a nice tan from stupidity this radiant. We loudly shout to Stella that her friend’s guardians are dim-bulbs. While our cultural quarterbacks try to move the ball in the direction of a character-driven, colorblind society, the little girl’s folks and many many many of her desperate, race-horrified ilk are rooting for actual blindness. That may be the end game; a gouging out of the senses. Kind of a reverse burqa. You can’t judge what you can’t see.

With eyes closed we’re all the same curious stumbling ahistorical dimwits, but living with eyes closed is screwed. Our kinda-cute if-not so-death-and-misery-dealing melanin obsessions continue to maim the world, and artillery rains down on the hapless, and chinless frightened little men sneak out in the evenings with the wife’s ironing and by firelight call themselves Grand Wizards and so on. We’re a riot. And we’re all clods. Agreed? Sorry about that kidnapping and murder thing, and sorry we continue to fuck up. You do, too. But I guess we’re still owed that. It’ll take some time for the imbalance to redress. How long?

Dadaist Sanctity – This is Not a Life

wpid-0107_Dr_Benjamin_Spock_Wikimedia_CommonsDear Gifted Public Servant, I mean no disrespect when in the echoing, legitimacy-conferring, statue-festooned halls of power I drop my souvenir Pentagon gift shop bag onto the polished floor and in a spray of projectile mouth juices begin to shout uncontrollably. It can’t be helped. You are a moron with the world view of a herring. To wit – when is Life Sacred? A legislative puzzle that torments, often across several turgid news cycles at a throw. Gifted Public Servant, I put this question to you because it confounds you, very publicly. I ask you this because in your sonorous public pronouncements on the matter you are a touching fool, a poignant reminder that even wall-eyed idiots can often dress themselves.

In the legislative chamber you will take the dais and hold forth excitedly on the sanctity of a fetus (a person, you point out), its having been infused with Specific Spiritual Gravity in the instant the sperm rudely head-butted its way into the blase and distracted egg. You’ll move your arms around in a Marceau-charade of righteous distress. Abortion is murder. While we are suspended John Glenn-like in our water-filled capsules (godspeed!) we seem to enjoy all the angry protections of our nation’s ironclad charter and the kneesock enthusiasts who composed it. Life begins at conception. Period. When does life end? For some it ends in the middle of an otherwise pleasant family outing in rural ____stan, a benighted place where, it is believed by some limp-weinered liberals, these devils gather to eat sandwiches in the sun and chat with family. A grown fetus in a faraway land may be poised to take a sip of tea. In roars the Phallic Party Crasher, an eyeless flying robot from the First World, come to secure Our Freedom in a messy flash of overcooked, previously sanctified viscera.

Gifted Public Servant, no matter your often teary, abject devotion to seedling spirits from Heaven, your raised right voting hand will opt to burn away grown fetuses in gusty explosive fires. Meanwhile your left hand caresses God’s Word and pleads on behalf of the spirit-filled zygote. Can you have it both ways? Yes. You are following the biblical injunction to keep your right and left hands in separate rooms. That is your gift. Your ethical bipolarity draws fancy comparisons to those quantum doo-dads which occupy several mutually exclusive reality states at once, and which can even be changed by the very act of observation. Sound familiar? So your seeming collapse of logic actually has its provenance in quantum fanciness. (Use the ‘quantum fanciness’ defense next Sunday when the libs corner you at your speaking engagement outside Ye Olde Flintlock Dispensary.) Gifted Public Servant, the zygotes have grown up in another jurisdiction, presumably at the behest of another, non FDA-approved God. Yes, you are an accidental pantheist. These folks are yours to Judge. We have seen to it. Judge them harshly. The limb-dispersing, life-story-concluding missile blast will leave a smoldering hole where fetuses gestured and laughed only seconds before.

For all that, the conflagration is very very far away. The eruptive hellfire will not ruffle or otherwise discomfit the pretty suit your keeper on K Street bought you, and which you don each morning without any evident sheepishness. The explosion will not alarm your extramarital pal, who it’s fair to guess would in any setting indeed be panicked by flying human guts. Gifted Public Servant, I ask you; what would protect these distant unfortunates from your remote-control righteousness? Were all the wedding guests to sport dangling umbilical cords, might that give you pause? Hey, you wouldn’t harm a fetus, would you? You promised! The ‘Stans could do a booming business in the sort of fresh placental accoutrement needed to protect them from the eyeless wrath of the Party Crashers we count on to keep the Homeland free and easy. Yes. A Pakistani wedding guest sporting a fashionably exaggerated, drone-visible Donna Karan Umbilical Accessory might just stand a chance. Our elected Dronestrike-and-Zygote-Adoring quantum ‘lawmakers’ might just give you a pass.

And now a word to our unwitting adversaries; if you have the irrevocable misfortune to be born in an Enemy State (that is, any place outside the contiguous United States, sometimes including Hawaii; Alaska is recently off the hook), for God’s sake hang onto your umbilical cord. It may come in handy later when you find even the Selena Gomez FetalWear out of your reach at the Lahore Walmart. Remember and repeat: fetus HOLY – wedding guest in ____stan COLLATERAL. This Freedom® business is getting complicated a big ol’piece of chocolate cake.

Top 1% Bracing for Martial Law

The breathless Insurrection Groupies are quickly laying out their wares in the wake of the Boston bombings;  The Government Blew Up The Marathon And Blasted Screws Into A Crowd Of Americans And Others In Boston That Day. Naturally! The government wants us to embrace Martial Law in our terror, is killing its own in order to condition us for the coming gulag epoch. Conspiracy is in the air. Yuck! Open a window! Fact is, we are wealthy bored fatheads, daydreaming of conspiracy and revolution in our Nordstrom-issue Che t-shirts, spoiling for the coming war against the jackbooted government army. First they’ll take our guns, next they’ll want the Prius! Where does the madness end?  There are now so many conspiracies they are tripping over each other by the water cooler at Devilish Cabal Headquarters. It’s a sort of National Munchhausen Syndrome. It’s no secret that governments keep secrets. So do teachers, parents, 8-year-olds, firemen, astronauts, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers. There is no magic in secrecy. There are secrets, of course. Some of them probably paradigm-changing, many banal and clerkish.  Yes, there are closed-door meetings wherein unnamed men and women conspire to empower and enrich themselves at Our expense.  But a government Conspiracy to bring in martial law and strip us of our rights is not exactly what the Billionaire Black Helicopter Commission wants. The U.S. has about 4% of the world’s population and about 30% of the dough. Our POOR are in the world’s top 14% of earners. THE U.S. IS THE 1% IN MOST OF THE WORLD. We are right to moan about income inequality etc. That’s real. But make no mistake; we are fat rich jerks, and the rich are getting richer by the hour.  Not all of these ‘entrepreneurs’ are of the Adam Smith variety. Wealth = Power = Wealth = Power = Wealth. Repeat without rinsing.  Do you REALLY think the capitalist cartel, the Lever Pullers whom conspiracy pornographers place at the center of their fever dream, are going to turn the U.S., their freaking Cash Cow, into an Orwellian Martial purgatory? Things are sunny for the leveraged set! The Black Helicopter Billionaires don’t want jackboots kicking in taxpayers’ doors in the middle of the night. That’d be like arresting and waterboarding your own piggy bank. We can salivate over our gov’t takeover fantasies all day. It’s happening elsewhere, folks. We’re spoiled little First World bitches hungry for awesome adventure. If you’re starved for an insurrection against a cabal of government murderers, there are plenty of freedom-craving benighted places in the world whose broken populations would be happy to host you and arm you and send you to the front. The bad news is you will have to leave your centrally-heated three-bedroom dish-antenna cluster to do it. And you may be shot at.

Missiles of April

At this writing the portly newish Boy-King of N. Korea is threatening his immediate and equidistant neighbors with nuclear annihilation, apropos of nothing in particular but his desire to keep the Hermit Kingdom and the Magic Kingdom on separate planes. It’s possible that Exalted Leader has been distracted momentarily with a plush toy so his keepers can take the reins and have a little fun. Our own strange, stammering, perpetually fatigued new Secretary of Defense, Chuck Hagel, has meanwhile held several press conferences wherein he has drawled with limited success various forms of the word ‘bellicose’, which is a term Pentagon arrivistes are trained to overuse on these occasions. Hagel seems barely competent, but only when he speaks. Big ships are being moved around. Futures traders and people with epaulets are on high alert. Dear Diary; if the earth is to be scorched with N. Korean mischief-radiation, let these words be a testament to man’s ongoing and occasionally endearing clown-attempts at appearing important. Here me now. Contrary to their expressionless delight in the prospect, the bugs will not one day have All this Glory back, and the Age of Enlightenment will not be reduced to a tattered theme park brochure they munch and excrete some ages hence. The Dominion contract we were so generously offered in Genesis still stands. Back off, Kim Sung Jim, or whatever. You will be pelted with the softening, bruised Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. It’ll be like when that Bette Davis apple tree in The Wizard of Oz threw apples at Dorothy, scaring the shit out of both me and Dorothy. Except it’ll be the Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge.