Shem Mountainson: The Man Who Should've Been John McCain's Running Mate

As Brendan Gill said of someone, "He took what he could not help about himself, called it a principle, and congratulated himself on practicing it."

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Being a conservative in America is like attending a Russian fashion show: whether the models don evening wear or swim wear, it's all just a gray smok. And no matter what you want out of life, conservatism precludes you from thinking about or questioning your party's choice of leaders or policies. For much of his campaign, John McCain was vilified and ridiculed by conservative commentators. Now that he's the Republican pick for president, he's known to walk on water and raise the dead. And can turn water into Diet Fresca. Rather than flaunting these powers newly attributed to him by conservatives, John McCain has merely chosen a pretty woman from Alaska as his running mate.

And Republicans have embraced her as their own!

When Sarah Palin couldn't name a single newspaper or magazine that she reads, conservatives trumpeted: "She's a free-thinker! She doesn't want to endorse any one newspaper or magazine!" When she claimed she had foreign policy experience because she could see Russia from her home, conservatives nodded and accepted that because, yeah, life is that easy -- that absurdity affirmed their quietly held belief that they, too, could fly an airplane without training because they'd seen one fly, or be a movie star because they'd watched a movie, or hit a home run because they'd seen a baseball game.

I wish we could go back in time to the night before Sarah Palin was tapped as the vice presidential candidate, when McCain awoke in bed and said to the aides surrounding him and Cindy, "Let's piss off Karl Rove and choose someone from Alaska as my running mate! A fucking woman!" I would go back to that moment, and have McCain choose, instead, Idaho alderman, Shem Mountainson; a cross between Ed Gein and George "The Animal" Steele. Shem's six foot five, weighs all of 400 lbs, chews tobacco, wears voluminous overalls, and trudges around in workboots clumped with pig shit. Shem -- who believes in "freedom" -- brews his own booze, pays taxes when he feels like it, and wins every argument -- political, religious and sports-related -- with his irrefutable rejoinder, "Shut yer stupid mouth!"

Revising Recent History

McCain chose Shem as his running mate, and soon after every conservative in the country was joyfully shouting, "Shut yer stupid mouth!", driving around in SUVs with bumper stickers that read McCain/Mountainson '08 "Shut yer stupid mouth!"

Shem was intoxicated during interviews with Charlie Gibson, Sean Inanity and Katie Couric. The New York Times published op-eds lamenting Shem's public drunkenness, his tobacco spitting and free use of profanity during the interviews, saying it showed a lack of respect for the campaign process, for the office he sought, as well as for the voting public. Glen Beck responded that evening, "Respect is for the dead. Let Shem be Shem!"

At the one-and-only vice presidential debate, Shem entered the stage wearing stained overalls, leading his pet goat by a rope leash, and trailed clumps of pig shit across the carpeting. Mid-way through the debate, as Shem inebriatedly explained that he possessed foreign policy experience because he could identify a globe as "the earth", he spontaneously vomited onto his podium. Debate moderator, John Roberts of CNN, didn't notice this, but left-wing bloggers certainly did. Shem continued with the debate, and by the time of the nightly news afterward, everyone was talking about what had come out of his mouth.

"How low can Shem go?" Keith Olbermann lamented. "Ridiculous!" cried The Huffington Post. "Did you check the tits on the hottie in row fifty-three?" wondered TMZ.

Republicans being a party of uniters, circled their conservative wagons around Shem. "What? You've never vomited?" Bill O'Reilly sneered during his Talking Points. "Elitists!" cried Rush Limbaugh. "Only elitists don't puke!" And from Anne Coulter, "I'm so conservative, I vomit after every meal."

In a speech the following day, Nancy Pelosi was seen wearing an outfit that was growing in popularity among Democrats -- a pair of overalls overtop of her pantsuit. Halfway through the speech, she went into a strangely contrived coughing fit. Later, conservative bloggers accused her of trying to vomit during her speech. Pelosi adamantly denied the charge, claiming offense that anyone would think her capable of such shameless pandering.

During an open air event, wearing an enormous pair of brand new overalls over top of his business suit, Ted Kennedy vomited copiously while making a case against the election of John McCain as president. One teary-eyed observer who identified herself as a life-long Kennedy-admirer said, "He's still got it in him!"

When John McCain was asked about his running mate bringing a goat onstage during the vice presidential debate, the Republican nominee replied, "What goat? There was no goat. That's a conspiracy theory floated by far left-wing bloggers and propagated by the corrupt and compliant maintream media!" He closed his eyes, regained control of himself and said, "I dispute the premise of your question that there was a goat there in the first place." When asked about his running mate appearing drunk during interviews, McCain growled testily, "When I was a prisoner of war in Hanoi for five and a half years, I wished I had the opportunity to get drunk!" There was a lengthy pause as reporters sought to understand what McCain was talking about. When asked about his running mate vomitting on his podium during the vice presidential debate, McCain abruptly left the room.

President McCain

After winning the election, John McCain celebrated at his victory speech by feigning a heart attack. There was a moment of "ooh"s and "ahh"s throughout the ballroom, but all turned to joyous laughter when the new president straightened up, smiling, and approached the microphone. There were hoots and hollers. McCain gave a thumbs-up and bellowed, "Shut yer stupid mouths!" The applause redoubled.

But scandal followed Shem Mountainson into the vice presidency when The Smoking Gun published photographs of him making out with his seventeen year old daughter. Tucker Carlson, Marv Albert and Bill O'Reilly leapt to his defense, but for a day there were even conservatives tsk tsking Shem's behavior. When it was revealed that he was making out with his seventeen year old step daughter, The Drudge Report posted an unflattering photograph of Camile Paglia on its home page with the heading: "Ya Burn!"

One of the first declarations John McCain made as president was that the nation's economy was "as strong as Henry Paulson's voice," and lustrous as his hairline. The markets reacted negatively, but with the inauguration over with, and George W. Bush and Dick Cheney having long ago cashed out their chips in the $700 billion bail-out of Wall Street, who gave a shit? No one. Dennis Miller proclaimed John McCain "America's funniest president."

Breaking with the convention of pardoning criminals upon departing from office, John McCain jailed David Letterman upon entering office. Letterman was placed in gen-pop at New Jersey's Rahway prison wearing a dress and make-up and a sign that read, "Ugly girl." When asked about this complete break with tradition, and about the violation of Mr. Letterman's rights, McCain Administration spokesman, Toby Keith, looked squarely into the press pool TV camera and drawled, "Shut yer stupid mouth!"

John McCain's appointees

After the death of Chief Justice John Roberts in a waterskiing accident, Judge Judy was made Chief Justice. John McCain attempted to pardon Chief Justice John Roberts, but it had to be explained to him that he could only pardon crimes, not actual physical death.

Ken Lay was made Treasury Secretary after he revealed that he had faked his death in order to avoid prosecution in the Enron scandal. John McCain quickly pardoned him and then gave him an awkward hug.

Penn and Teller were made Attorney and General for their many years of conservative devotion. Their first act upon taking the post was to make the Constitution and Bill of Rights actually disappear. For once in their careers, they did not reveal how the trick was done.

Bill O'Reilly was made Information Czar and given the chairmanship of the F.C.C.

Rush Limbaugh was made the Archbishop of Canterbury.

And blogger Andrew Sullivan was welcomed back into the conservative fold and appointed as President McCain's liaison to the gay community and made Secretary of Indian Affairs.

As a parting gift to George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld, Condeleeza Rice, Alberto Gonzales and, of course, Karl Rove, President McCain sent them on an all-expenses-paid trip to Camp David. There, an air-raid siren screamed in the middle of the first night and the group was whisked into the site's lead-lined bomb shelter -- and then the entire complex was filled with cement.

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The question must be asked: What's wrong with conservatives? They're on a sinking ship but only think, "Jeez, the water's getting closer. I can see my reflection even bett--"

America the Affable

America the Affable nation is a large, loud, red-faced man of 350 lbs, his Applebee's/Ben-and-Jerry's/McDonald's girth straining against the front of his XXXL Polo shirt, torturing the belt that holds up his khaki pants. He stands at a bar buying drinks for other nations: England, Estonia, Italy, Australia . . . once in a while, Canada cadges a drink. All America wants is to be liked, so he tells jokes:

"You know how you can tell an elephant's been in your fridge?"

Kyrgastan, Turkey and Morocco shake their heads.

"You'll find his footprints in the butter!" America bellows laughter, casting a needy eye at his audience. Seeing their fun flagging for even an instant, America pulls out his gold card again and orders another round of drinks. Except, the bartender comes back and whispers to America that the card has exceeded its limit. Pained, smiling to hide his confusion and embarrassment, America turns to China, sitting far off to the side, and gets a new gold card from him. The bartender gives it a try and its credit limit is good to go -- more drinks are had by all.

Amid the drinking, in between the jokes, America gets serious, speaking about the lone gunman who killed his beloved president, John F. Kennedy, in November 1963. The other nations share glances; a few roll their eyes, silently saying, "Whatever you say!" knowing full well that that the CIA assassinated President Kennedy. So, America bellows another joke: "You know, I wouldn't want to join any club that would have me as a member!" A few of the English speaking nations chuckle, more out of a desire for another drink.

"You know, that 9/11 and those goddamned terrorists," America says in a serious moment. "Diabolical, how those 19 hijackers managed to outwit NORAD!" Canada, England, Germany and France exchange looks, as if to say, "Yeah, right!"

American continues: "The world's a better place without that asshole, Saddam Hussein."

Estonia raises a glass to that.

"All we want to do is bring freedom to the middle east," America says. "Is that so bad?" Tadzykistan would have replied, "No," if he understood what was being said. The countries who do speak English put down their drinks and make their move to get away from America. But America -- affable, if nothing else -- senses his duties as host are momentarily neglected, and promptly orders another round and a pile of appetizers. Who can pass up free drinks and cheese-and-garlic snazzers? No one.

"I've got nothing to hide," America says, his speech slurred by his eighth or ninth Harvey Wallbanger. "So, if the guv'ment's gotta listen to my phone calls or read my mail, I don't care. If it catches even one terrorist, it's worth it!" Belgium finishes his drink and slips away.

"The terrorists are using our freedoms against us!" America says, pounding the bar with his hand. "They hate our freedom, but they use it against us. So, the guv'ment wants to take away some freedom. I say, great! Take it! Cuz, who the hell knows where the next attack's gonna come from?" Canada finishes his drink, but is too ineffectual to leave the bar. Canada stands there, a patient, distracted, quietly disagreeing audience.

"So, if we gotta bomb I-ran," America goes on, "and all its friends and network, then we'll do it! Cuz, it's about freedom, and . . . and . . ."

"Democrazy," Kyrgyzstan offers in broken English, clacking the ice in his empty glass, hoping for another free drink.

"Yes!" America says. "It's about democracy! And if people have the chance to vote, they'll vote for freedom, just like we do in the U.S. of A!"

England and Italy, France and Germany have finished their free drinks. So have Poland and Sweden and Iceland and Denmark. The moment they set their empty glasses on the bar, America senses their desire to leave. Switzerland consults his wrist watch. Germany clears his throat and edges away. The group moves for the door.

"Wait!" America shouts. "We've still got chicken wings and potato skins coming! You can't leave now!"

The nations claim other responsibilities require attention.

"Ah, hell!" America says. He looks at Afghanistan, Pakistan and Iraq, whose drinks -- for some reason -- were never mixed properly by the bartender; they had spent the evening sending drinks back, arguing with the bartender, demanding their drinks be made as ordered.

"But who the hell mixes cranberry juice with Jim Beam?" the bartender says, exasperated.

"Hey," America says, "freedom's all about getting what you want, when you want it. Ever hear that the customer is always right?"

"Sure," the bartender says, "but I'm not going to mix drinks in my bar that'll make people sick."

"If they wanna be sick," America says, "they have the freedom to be sick!"

"Not in my bar!" the bartender says.

"What kinda business are you running here?" America demands.

Having imbibed too many gin-and-tonics -- which the bartender gave him, instead of pineapple juice and sambuca -- Afghanistan punches Pakistan in the face.

"Hang on a second!" the bartender shouts. "There'll be no fighting in here!"

Pakistan grabs Afghanistan by the shirt and head-butts him in the face, breaking his nose. The bartender jumps over the bar and wields a baseball bat. As he tries to break up the fight, Iraq drinks his nineteenth Bloody Caesar. He'd been ordering drinks in a mumbling, heavily accented voice all night; the only word the bartender understood was "blood." He was partially correct -- Iraq was ordering blood and apple juice; the bartender gave him Bloody Caesars.

Iraq grabs a handful of peanuts from a dish on the bar. As he chews them, one slips down his throat, causing him to choke. Amid his choking, he proceeds to puke up the last eighteen Bloody Caesars America bought him. America stands away from the fracas between Pakistan and Afghanistan, looking at Iraq, seeing $223 in drinks vomited down his shirt and pants, the bar and floor. All of the other nations take this opportunity to exit the bar.

The bartender manages to separate Pakistan and Afghanistan, sending each on his wounded way. After surveying the hopeless mess that Iraq made, the bartender goes back around the bar and cashes out America. The bartender slides the gold card through the credit card machine, but with the huge, uneaten orders of chicken wings and potato skins and jalapeno snappers and blooming onion and nachos-with-five-cheeses and pizza poppers and garlic jabbers and grease grabbers, bacon sliders and cheese slammers, along with all of the drinks, has exceeded the gold card's limit. The bartender discreetly advises America about this.

America, red-faced and with no laughter left, goes back to China, who sits off to the side. China hasn't ordered a thing all night. They exchange a few words and China hands America another gold card. America returns to the bar and pays his tab. Turkey, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Tasmania linger with hopeful expressions, trying for more free drinks by sheer force of silent will. America looks at them and begins to tell a joke, "A priest, a rabbi and a minister go into a bar . . ." Turkey, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Tasmania turn and leave.

Alone at the bar with a drink's receipt long enough to wrap around his immense waist, America picks at the appetizers laid out before him like a redneck wedding banquet. He's in the middle of quaffing one of the potato skins when China approaches. "We leave now," China says in three, militaristic syllables.

"But looka all this food," America says. "There's kids starving in Chin -- in India. I can't leave all this!"

"We leave now!" China says.

America shoves some pepper snazzers and pizza bloaters into his pockets, jams a handful of nachos into his mouth and follows China out of the bar. Outside, China climbs into the back of a rickshaw. "We go!" China barks. America, still chewing his last handful of nachos, lumbers to the front of the rickshaw, bends down and picks up the two pulling handles. He grunts with the effort; feels his drinks and masticated food welling in his throat.

"We go!" China barks.

America starts down the road, pulling the rickshaw, winded after half a dozen steps.

"Faster!"

America swallows the last of the nachos. His ulcer pokes at him from the inside-out.

As he passes a gaggle of pretty girls in halters and mini skirts walking down the sidewalk, America sucks in his gut and picks up the pace. He can't wait to get home to his hovel, to his pain relievers and heated pads, to his ointments and analgesics -- to all the remedies that are scientifically tested and government approved to make him feel better.

Das Phelps Phenom

Much as I've been trying to avoid the bloody Olympics, there's no getting away from news of this Phelps porpoise who's won eight gold medals. It's interesting, when Michelle Smith of Ireland was having similar success in the 1996 Games, she was immediately accused of doping -- even though she passed all of the tests. Phelps performs this feat and all anyone talks about is his 12,000 calorie-a-day diet. In the same way it took years for Marion Jones to be caught for her steroid use, I'm sure the same thing will happen to Phelps. But with Iraq going so badly, Afghanistan consistent ugliness on the periphery, everyone should enjoy Phelps' success. But I have no doubt he's merely on some new steroid for which there isn't yet a test.

In the Neighborhood

Throughout the summer, for reasons I can neither guess nor discern, every weekend night is punctuated by fireworks. Sometimes it's just the anemic pop of neighborhood fireworks going off just after sundown for some kid's birthday. Other times, though, they are the full-on artillery barrage fireworks sounding in the distance; the din of thousands of dollars per explosion. Sometimes leaves me wondering what I'll find of the city Monday morning.

I went for a bike ride with my wife this morning to Tim Horton's for coffee.

As I pumped our bike tires with air, our bland born again Christian next door neighbor was outside with her son. He's an adorable little two year old who's apparently talking and quite animated. I heard him speaking and making some interesting sounds, so I called over, neighborly, to her and said, "Wow, he's talking up a storm!" She gave a wan smile. I then commented to my wife, "Huh, the baby talks more than she does." Since I telephoned her and her husband one night last year, accusing them of being inconsiderate assholes for having their hot tub underneath my bedroom window and waking us up one night splashing and carrying on in the urinal font with friends, this cold fish has been one frigid carp. Her husband pieces together a pretty sturdy living between a tool and die shop and being a pilot-for-hire. As a consequence, he's never home. Can't blame him.

As we rode down our street this morning, we saw the remnants of the Philistines' night last night. The Philistines are a gaggle of harmless, noisy beer-drinking neighbors who have turned their three or four properties into a sort of impromptu collective; a sort of Scientology camp for factory workers and women who shout with men's voices. Every weekend night, they light a bonfire in this one driveway -- why they don't go into the privacy of the backyard, I'll never know, other than to guess that nobody could observe them having their wonderful fun time back there -- stoking up particle board and other assorted scavenged flammable objects in a metal fire pit apparatus. They gather around it like a tribe from ten thousand years ago, doing strange hoofing dances in the orange light, imbibing intoxicants, bellowing laughter over statements that are just not funny.

This morning, the driveway around Philistines' metal fire pit was littered with charred bits of what could have been wood or a human femur, beer cans, I'm sure I saw a few teeth glittering in the sunlight. Over our air conditioner and fan last night I heard a few rumblings from that direction. I had the feeling if I'd gone over there right then I'd have found them devouring the right leg of the mail man.

Further down the street are the Rocket Scientists who didn't quite make it to the space program. Instead, these men-children build, fine-tune and test-fly ultra-mini mini bikes: motorbikes a little bigger than your average coffee maker. Everyone should have a hobby. I don't care how others amuse themselves. My only beef with the Rocket Scientists is they haven't yet perfected an ultra-mini mini bike that doesn't roar like a garbage truck when they do laps around the neighborhood. Seeing these louts on the contraption almost makes up for its wretched roar -- grown men crouched on this toy-like vehicle that goes just fast enough to break a collar bone or flatten a nose if someone took a corner too tightly. Then I conjure the mental image of one them riding it down to the gas station for a fill-up, cradling the ultra-mini mini bike in an arm like a little terrier, as he gently applies the gas pump handle to its wee fuel orifice. The ultra-mini mini bike is probably bathed in the kitchen sink, evenings, and probably has its own blanket-lined box in the garage. When it comes to repairing or calibrating this pet vehicle, I imagine the Rocket Scientists affixing a jewelers' monocle in an eye and working on the thing with watchmakers' tools. Everyone should have a hobby.

Coincidence Theorists

I'm just after watching a program on TVOntario hosted by Steve Paikin, Conspiracy Anyone? Below is an e-mail message I just sent to TVO regarding this program and my opinions about how it handled its subject:

The premise of the TV show Conspiracy Anyone?, about conspiracy theories, was flawed at its base. The host operated from the idea that the official stories of great historical happenings, such as the JFK assassination and the 9/11 attacks, are true, and who are these nuts who believe otherwise.

Why did George W. Bush need 9/11? The U.S. public would never have supported an unprovoked war with Afghanistan. Nor would it have supported the war against Iraq -- and Iraq was absolutely tied to 9/11 by George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld, and the rest of that corrupt bunch. Also, look at Naomi Klein's Shock Doctrine. In moments of great trauma like 9/11, legislation like the PATRIOT Act are rammed through with no opposition. That never would have succeeded without 9/11. Nor would the Total Information Awareness network or George W. Bush's warrantless wiretapping of Americans. 9/11 occurred to give America a supposed enemy, it occurred so that constitutional rights could be suppressed, so that Guantanamo Bay could be turned into a concentration camp. 9/11 did just what the attack on Pearl Harbor did -- it brought America's focus to a fine point, a concentrated point of accepting war. If you look at who has benefited more from 9/11 -- George W. Bush or Osama bin Laden -- I think it's very safe to say that George W. Bush benefited greatly. Multimillionaire Osama is living in a cave somewhere. Also, the failing presidency of George W. Bush was buoyed immensely by 9/11. Look how the Republican Party moved the date of its 2004 national convention to very nearly September 11th. The Republican Party took on 9/11 like a celebration, wrapping themselves in the flag, drowning out dissent with the singing of patriotic songs.

There are more people questioning official stories these days because mass media rams these events down our throats. Also, there are people who have the time to ask the tough questions (bloggers and independent journalists, like Barry Zwicker -- regarding 9/11, for instance, why were some of the supposed hijackers said to have been aboard the planes that perpetrated the attacks found alive and well abroad, horrified that their names and pictures were on the FBI's widely disseminated picture line-up; the numerous people (firemen inside the buildings) the head custodian of the Twin Towers, heard bombs exploding in the building; the stand-down of the military; the insane coincidence of five sets of war games occurring on that day. Why aren't reporters asking these tough questions? Access. Look what happened to Helen Thomas in the White House press pool when she asked tough questions of George W. Bush. She was frozen out -- no longer seated up front and granted the first question any longer, but seated in the back and completely shunned. Thomas is a veritable institution in the media, so she could weather such retribution. A lesser known reporter would have probably just lost his job. When Peter Jennings died, it was reported that he was worth $51 million. I posit that Peter Jennings had 51 million reasons not to ask the tough questions. He was extraordinarily successful taking the soft, scripted route, working for the Disney Corporation.

The Internet film Zeitgeist appeals to people because we have come to learn our institutions aren't trustworthy. The host of Conspiracy Anyone? operates from the premise that our institutions are beyond reproach and who are these crazy, marginalized people who'd question the honesty of corporate executives, clergy and greatest of all, politicians. Each institution has been proven time and again not only to be corrupt and self-interested, but often more so than anyone would have guessed or feared: the Gulf of Tonkin fantasy, the pedophile priest scandal, Enron, Worldcom, Tyco, Bear Stearns, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. Was cover-up and collusion involved in these cases? Yes. It's all proven, painfully proven in the public domain.

The mindset that I feel is much more worthy of examination is that of "coincidence theorists;" those people, like this show's host, who believe that anomalies that prickle the curiosity of onlookers are all just a series of coincidences. Certainly, coincidences occur, but the number of anomalies surrounding the JFK murder, for instance, cannot be credibly chalked-up to coincidence: the speed with which Lee Harvey Oswald was identified and captured, the vast suppression of witnesses, the staggering number of material witnesses who died unnatural deaths (murdered); the disappearance of evidence, i.e. President Kennedy's brain, for god's sake, from the national archives! To believe all of these circumstances are just coincidental is not a credible view of the event.

Yeah, I guess people who ask tough questions are scary to people like this show's host, who earns his living towing the line, maintaining the status quo. The evidence is there. Look at Jim Garrison's book On the Trail of Assassins. Look at the questions Mark Lane raises in Rush to Judgment. Listen to the testimony of first-hand witnesses. . . One of the guests on Conspiracy Anyone just mentioned that the Warren Commission Report on the Assassination of President John F. Kennedy was the same size as the Encyclopedia Britannica. Do you know what prodded Jim Garrison to investigate the assassination? He read the Warren Commission Report. He found so many inconsistencies and contradictions and gaping holes in the evidence that he had to look into it. And the more he looked into the matter -- because Lee Harvey Oswald lived in New Orleans mere months before the assassination -- the more strange characters, like David Ferrie, Guy Bannister and Clay Shaw, Garrison uncovered. Most interesting of all was that the deeper Garrison looked into the JFK killing, he soon found himself "dancing with the Central Intelligence Agency" (to quote Garrison), which blocked his way at every turn. Those are not the imaginings of a madman. Those are the experiences of a conservative, rational, sober officer of the court. Garrison was a former FBI agent; hardly given to the ludicrous thinking he's been accused of.

Unfortunately, Conspiracy Anyone? was very superficial, operating from a faulty premise offered up as legitimate. People have every reason in the world to want to believe in their institutions, but have every reason in the world not to. Enron, Watergate, the pedophile priest scandals are just three touchstones that takes the pins out of each. To pretend that these were anomalies is to present oneself as utterly uninformed, utterly blinded by an agenda, or simply seeking to keep one's job, like the host of this program or like Peter Jennings.

Ask Halliburton, Kellogg, Brown & Root, Dow Chemical, McDonnell Douglass, Boeing, Blackwater and the Carlyle Group how much 9/11 and the Vietnam war has hurt or helped them. And who are the major investors in these companies?

Genocide Games -- Beijing Time Machine

Air quality the enemy of the games.

Sports reporter, Miles Blank, has just returned from the future where he attended the 2008 Genocide Games in Beijing, China. He now presents his report for those sports fans who wish to avoid commercial interruption and nationalistic slant (no pun intended) that usually mar coverage of international games.

Here now is the Blank Report:

Time travel may have caused a growth in the base of my skull to severely metastasize, but it was well worth this slight wrinkle in my mortality to witness the Genocide Games first hand and bring it back to you. Due to high levels of smog, most of the outdoor events had to be viewed via infrared monitors that tracked athletes' body heat because they were not visible from more a few feet from the event areas. Infrared viewing is not an optimum way to experience athletic competition at this level, but it was all that was available.

I suppose I will begin by spoiling the suspense and reporting the winners of events. In a first in Olympic history, the host country swept every medal in every event. It was an unprecedented performance. There was grumbling by malcontents who felt that Chinese athletes had an unfair advantage because they were accustomed to the free-floating sewage their government calls "air." My response is to ask, "What about all the years Chinese athletes competed in countries with clean air? Didn't they deal with that disadvantage in a quiet and dignified manner?" The answer: yes, they did.

So, with the winners out of the way, I will share "next best" results in some of the more high-profile events.

* Rowing teams from Canada, Australia, Estonia were attacked and swallowed by a sea monster, which oceanographers are telling us was exponentially nourished by a strange influx of algae in the competition area in the months leading up to the Genocide Games. All other rowing teams simply disappeared in the smog.

* The fourth place time in the 100 meter sprint competition was 3 minutes 29 seconds, because the Bulgarian runner was unable to see the finish line due to the pollution. Three runners died during the sprint and one disappeared entirely.

* Next best performance in the marathon was a Mexican distance runner who died at the one-mile mark. All other runners died within 200 meters of the Start line, most of their corpses have not yet been found, but a thorough search by U.N. investigators of surrounding restaurants is underway.

* Next best performance in the swimming events was the German swimmer who completed two laps before his body completely dissolved in the free-floating sewage the Chinese call "water."

* In the diving competition, the fourth place finish was a Japanese diver who managed two dives before her skeleton was entirely unsheathed from her flesh by the hard water of the swimming pool.

By the end of the Genocide Games more than 678 athletes died, another 3,000 disappeared, though the Chinese government flatly refutes these figures. In fact, the Chinese government insists that a surplus of athletes is leaving the country: 12,532 athletes arrived in Beijing to compete and 13,144 are leaving -- none of whom are Chinese defectors. "How can you beat that?" asked Chairman Hu Jintao. "Countries are getting their athletes back -- with interest!" Unfortunately, the "with interest" aspect pertains more to the growths, tumors, ganglion and intestinal worms traveling home with athletes.

The Global Association of Respirologists (GAR) touts the Genocide Games as a roaring success -- for business, at least. "We'll be treating these athletes and visitors for asthma, emphysema and lung cancer for decades to come," says Dr. Arthur Mallory, association president. "The Genocide Games should be held in Beijing every year!"

Sam Kolan of Toronto, Canada, one of the few visitors to Beijing who safely returned from the Genocide Games, says, all in all, he enjoyed his visit. "I'm sad, certainly, that my family died during our time in China from smog inhalation and being mistaken in the haze for political dissenters -- and thus shot on the spot -- but the stadium the Chinese built was amazing!" Among other cultural aspects Kolan observed in China was the miracle of its economy: "What's happening in China is truly miraculous. I'm a business man and I think they're really on to something harnessing economic practicality of slave labor. I wish our government in Canada was as progressive!"

The Genocide Games of 2008 were a genuine breakthrough for international relations. Now that irrelevancies, such as human rights and pollution, are off the table when choosing future venues, the list of host country candidates has exploded. Leading candidate sites for the 2016 Games are Darfur, Chile and Libya.

That's the Genocide Games of 2008! I must return to my oxygen tent, but hope you will tune in again for more reports from the future.

Now we'll see if Bill Hicks was right about Jesse Helms: "I always wondered about Jesse's collection of little shoes."

From CNN: "WASHINGTON (CNN) -- Former U.S. Sen. Jesse Helms, a North Carolina Republican who became an icon to conservatives, died Friday at the age of 86, a senior congressional source said."

Comedian Bill Hicks is no longer with us, but he pays tribute to Jesse Helms from beyond the grave in the audio clip posted below. It's a tragedy that Bill lived only 32 years, but given his passion and fury against stupidity, inequality, corruption and greed. I can't see how he would have lasted any longer than he did. In George W. Bush's America, Hicks would have self-immolated on a nightclub stage.

No one lampooned the poor and less fortunate like Jesse Helms, and no one lampooned the likes of Jesse Helms like Bill Hicks.

Draft Evader Makes Good!

I'm honestly happy for Rush Limbaugh, who recently signed a $400 million deal to continue his radio show through the year 2016. From the always-accurate Drudge Report:

The American broadcast industry is rocked, realigned and blasted into a new orbit, yet again, by Rush Limbaugh, the DRUDGE REPORT has learned.

In what is being described as an unprecedented radio contract, Limbaugh will keep his syndicated show on-the-air and e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e through 2016 with CLEAR CHANNEL and PREMIERE RADIO.

Already host of the most lucrative hours since radio's inception, Limbaugh's total package is valued north of $400 million, according to media insiders.

The NEW YORK TIMES will claim this weekend that Limbaugh, marking 20 years this summer as a national host, has secured a 9-figure signing bonus for the new deal, newsroom sources tell DRUDGE.

MORE

In its controversial profile, the TIMES reports that Limbaugh is buying a new G550 jet and is making an estimated $38 million a year.

Look, that's a ton of money that Rush can share with his wife and his numerous children. It makes his evasion of service in the Vietnam war much less reprehensible -- particularly given his rabid support for the current wars in Iraq and Afghanistan -- because had he died in Vietnam (and there's no question the blubbery, awkward, myopic, unathletic Limbaugh would have been KIA within his first hours in-country) he would not be setting salary records in the dying industry of radio, nor creating the jobs he has created by staffing his popular show. But God saw fit to bestow on Rush a boil on his ass in the form of pilonidal cyst. Hence, no service in the military. Oh well, that just saved him to do what he was born to do: earn money.

OK, yes, he looks like an utter douchebag when he's fellating a cigar -- I'll give you that. And his radio show has all the journalistic integrity of two dozen clowns springing out of an Austin Cooper. He's virulent, ignorant, hateful and a purveyor of hatred and ignorance. But if you look at him another way, he's merely the McDonald's of political discourse; the R.J. Reynolds of radio. He appeals to the masses, he's poisonous, but he's poisonous in a way that society tolerates. That's why we fought the two World Wars.

Update

Uh, it seems that Rush Limbaugh has no children. This has to be a mistake, so I'll continue researching. Surely, someone as virile and passionate as Rush "Polyorbid" Limbaugh would have dozens of children out spreading the Word of God and GOP. Surely, someone who has been such a bastion of family values, such a purveyor of the Christian-way-of-life would have armies of children. And some character-assassin has posted on the Internet that there are no less than three ex-Mrs. Limbaughs. This absolutely can't be true. Because Rush isn't a quitter. He spent years in broadcasting with people telling him he'd never amount to anything, only to prove every one of them wrong. When it comes to the holy institution of marriage, there's no way you're going to make me believe that Rush would spit in the eye of God by getting a divorce.

So, I will continue to congratulate Rush and his gaggle of children and his loving, devoted wife in their latest flourish of good fortune.

HillBillary Clinton

HillBillary Clinton is about the wealthiest, most educated pair of hillbillies on the block. In the 1990s, I was a fan of the duo. There's no question President Clinton had his foibles and made some outrageously stupid missteps, giving his numerous detractors copious amounts of ammunition against him. And for all of her cold, Nancy-Reagan-ness, Hillary struck me as a brilliant and capable person. It was so interesting to hear her criticized back when she had fired the staff of the White House travel office. Clinton detractors screamed about her interference and overstepping her bounds. Meanwhile, nobody disputed that she had done the right thing in firing a pack of wasteful bureaucraps. Heaps of criticism has been shoveled upon her over her attempts to jigger (semi) universal health care in America in the early 90s. She may have made many mistakes along the way, but at least she made the attempt.

Two years ago, when the notion of Hillary Clinton running for the Democratic nomination for President of the United States was still in the rumor stages, it sounded to me like the best news imaginable. After the failed siege of George W. Bush and his klan of misanthropes and incompetents, Hillary Clinton would be like Moses coming down from the mount to clean up the mess. When the campaign began, Barak Obama also looked and sounded great, but I almost wished -- at that time -- that he wouldn't even waste his time because Hillary was all the country needed to get back on track. And then I watched the Democratic campaign for the nomination unfold, as every other newshound has in the past 18 months.

People have moaned about the campaign taking so long -- Christ, haven't we had enough of "drive-thru" democrazy with Herr Bush and his gang of rapist thugs? -- but I think this was a good thing. The most notable revelation to come out of this campaign is that Hillary Clinton is a shrill, bitter, ambition-tortured megalomaniac who would still be a vastly better president than George W. Fratboy, but who has displayed a shocking streak of putting her own ambitions ahead of everything, such as the truth, the country, and her party. And Bill Clinton on the campaign trail has embodied the adage "With friends like that who needs enemies." It's been a comical farce watching him torpedo his wife's campaign with his outlandish lies -- that Barak Obama saying he opposed the Iraq war was a "fairy tale," that Hillary's hilarious and bizarre oft-repeated recollection of being under sniper fire in Bosnia was something she said just once and while tired at the end of a long day. Bill's involvement in the campaign was the painful part of this fiasco because I finally came around to seeing him exactly as his detractors see him: as a base liar who will say, literally, anything, and who appears to have the personal honesty and integrity of a wharf rat.

Hillary's speech last Tuesday, when Obama essentially clinched the party's nomination as presidential candidate, reminded me of the year Julia Roberts won the Oscar for her role in Erin Brokovich. I don't rightly know if anyone was actually rooting for Julia Roberts that Oscar night, but there was the palpable feeling in the air that people were frightened of rooting against her. It was a foreordained occurrence. There was no way Julia Roberts wasn't going to win the Oscar that night. Not because her performance in Erin Brokovich was so stunning -- it wasn't; I liked her better in Mystic Pizza -- but that it was quietly understood that Julia Roberts would have clawed the eyes out of anyone who stood between her and that Oscar. And how Julia went on to thank her agent, her accountant, dog groomer, hair stylist ... everyone except the actual Erin Brokovich. That same sense of shrewish entitlement poured off Hillary at the beginning of the campaign, and resurged last Tuesday, like a pungent blast of jungle BO. And now there is talk that Obama must offer Hillary the position of his running mate, if only so that she can turn it down. Hillary supporters say she has "earned" the right to be Obama's running mate; that she deserves it. Bullshit. But this illustrates the ferocity of her rancid sense of entitlement, that the race was hers, the drama wasn't supposed to last much longer than Super Tuesday . . . Maybe in George W.'s 'Merica campaigns are scripted and elections mapped out long in advance. America -- and the world -- is trying to pull itself away from the malevolent vortex of W.'s 'Merica.

How I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall after Bill's latest misstep, ranting about a Vanity Fair journalist being "sleazy" and a "scumbag." The verbal slap-back he must have received from his wife could probably have been measured in kilotons.

It's been a long campaign and I'm glad Barak Obama has won his party's nomination. I went from believing Hillary would have made a great president to believing she really doesn't make a good human being. She and Bill should be immortalized as a salt and pepper shaker set of caricatures, each with a missing front tooth and both clad in overalls sitting on the tables of truck stops everywhere. At least in that context we could trust what comes out of them.

Weather as a power source?

So, the wind's blowing like hell around my neighborhood this evening, and as I was closing some windows around the house, I thought to myself, Man, am I ever glad that we don't have tornadoes around here. It's tragic how they rip through a town and tear apart peoples' homes. I can't even imagine how awful it would be to have everything I own -- and the lives of loved ones put in jeopardy -- by something lunging out of the sky with virtually no notice.

People wonder why tornadoes seem to prefer trailer parks, never realizing that land that's proven to be so dangerous tends to drop in value until it's the only thing people living in trailers can afford. I realize that tornadoes can't be predicted with any certainty -- and surely there much more about them that we don't know, than we do. But an area of the United States has long been nicknamed "Tornado Alley." I wonder, with our global energy crunch tightening by the day, squeezing us all, why we don't build some kind of massive generator, or whatever, that could harness the lethal energy of tornadoes. Or hurricanes. Could we not build a couple of power plants equipped to harness the insane power of one of these monsters?

We're surrounded by almost otherworldly power sources. I've heard that flashes of lightning are either hotter or brighter than the sun, I can't remember which of those. I have no idea how a scientist would determine that, but if it's even close to being true, what interesting potential that could have as a power source. Again, it's inconstant as hell, utterly unpredictable, but surely some large aluminum towers could be erected in areas of the country most prone to lightning strikes and the energy of these strikes converted into power (and the United States is the world capital of lightning strikes according to meteorologists). How interesting it would be that my computer could be powered by lightning, rather than shitcanned by a lightning induced power surge during a storm.

Or waves. My family has home movie footage of me as a one year old sitting on the sandy beach out front of a friend's house, trying to catch the small waves of Lake St. Clair as they rolled in. Every time I've been near a body of water of any size, I'm continually amazed by the unstopping metronome regularity of the waves. Is there no way to harness this very regular, predictable, unending source of water movement?

I'm sure all sorts of people have thought of these things, and maybe each idea is laughable. But I can't think of anything more inexcusably laughable than continuing down the road we're on -- burning oil and coal for most of our fuel, with nuclear power waiting in the wings like a plutonium-faced Oz monster, just waiting until we're all desperate enough to say, "Throw the switch! Who cares!" I think we're closer to that than we'd like to believe.

The Turner Diaries -- a review

A blurb on the back of The Turner Diaries by William Luther Pierce (under the pseudonym Andrew MacDonald), states that if books were banned in America, this novel would surely be banned. It's good that The Turner Diaries is not banned. The novel should actually be more widely circulated. Its underground reputation and its scarcity in bookstores have boosted its legend far beyond what the book delivers. Were this book stacked against other novels that profess ideologies, this infamous novel would finally be seen for what it is: a dull adventure novel that takes itself very seriously and as a consequence, is rife with much unintended comedy.

The story comes in the form of a diary written by an educated conservative gun-lover named Earl Turner in the futuristic world of America, circa 1991 (the novel was originally published in 1978). From the outset, the author shamelessly sets up this future world so that he and his gun-loving brethren appear as oppressed martyrs for freedom. The "Cohen Act" has outlawed firearms and anyone caught with one is subject to arrest and imprisonment. A police state not dissimilar to that which exists in America in 2008 lays siege to the America in this novel. The part of the police state that most troubles Earl Turner is having his beloved guns outlawed.

The unintended humor of this novel comes to light within the first 50 pages. The unabashed hypocrisy of the author and his movement is stunning. The "patriots" in The Turner Diaries live in small Communistic "units" -- think "terror cells" -- that resemble urban communes: Turner and his commune reside in an abandoned auto garage that has no hot water, but does have makeshift, pirated electricity and heat. Everything among the "patriots" is shared, they each contribute to the commune according to their talents: Katherine, the only female in Earl Turner's commune is an expert with make-up, so she specializes in creating disguises for the others; Earl Turner is an electrical engineer, so he wires the bombs and sets up the cold water shower for the group. Henry and George, the other two guys in the unit, are just a couple of hairy-forearmed, true-believing grunts.

What Turner and his commune -- and the other communes that comprise their gun-loving Woodstock Nation, known as "The Organization" -- are that these people, regardless of age, education, walk-of-life, or gender are all addicts. Instead of being addicted to narcotics, they are addicted to guns: a knee-jerk "I-want-this-and-you-can't-tell-me-I-can't" ideology. Like a dope fiend -- such as Rush Limbaugh, for instance -- they are addicted to the phony sense of empowerment, god-like-ness their weapons give them, and ultimately to the violence the guns make possible. In the same way a drug user will reason, "It's my body and I should have control over whatever I choose put into it," so too do Turner and his commune believe in their right to possess guns.

That is paramount to understanding The Turner Diaries -- the main character and his commune are addicts. To support their habit, these addicts plot to destroy everyone who stands between them and their satisfying their habit, robbing and murdering in order to feed their addiction. Although Earl Turner continually sneers about other, "lesser" races lacking moral fiber, being filled with uncouth blood and living as prisoners to their basic instincts, he and his commune are guilty of each of these sins; often to a greater extent than those he criticizes and despises. For instance, Turner and his people are among that minute fraction of the population who murder other human beings. Moreover, Turner and his commune are part of the fraction within that fraction who believe killing innocents -- even of their own precious race -- is justified because it suits The Organization's needs. What are these profound needs that are so important as to make Turner and his ilk feel justified in murdering literally hundreds and hundreds of people? The need to own a gun -- to feed his addiction. There may be numerous addicts in the world, but how many have devolved to these deranged depths?

The author of the novel rightly predicted that the news media of the future would be completely compromised and utterly subverted for propagandist purposes. How do the commune-living "patriots" of The Turner Diaries wish to deal with those reporters with whom they disagree? They wish to cut their throats and pile their bodies in city streets. In Earl Turner's "free" America, no one would have the freedom to disagree with him. Guns in this futuristic world were taken away from the populace because of the violence perpetrated with these weapons. How does Turner and his commune prove they are worthy of owning firearms? By killing people -- many, many people (nearly 1,000 by the end of the first 100 pages), most of them unarmed and no direct threat to Earl Turner.

This is not to say The Turner Diaries is a one-note white supremacist rant. It's not. Early on, Earl Turner turns on the musk-oil charm and seduces Katherine. One morning, while the other two men are out on a "mission", Earl Turner walks into the little shower closet just as she finishes showering. You can almost hear the wah-guitar come in as this fish-white Terry-Nichols-like main character stands naked before Katherine. His big move to get the carnal action rolling? He holds out his arms to her, like a guy in community theater porn. Earl Turner has all the suavity of John Madden. So, Turner begins the sort of godless, hedonistic sexual relationship with the woman behind the backs of his comrades -- just the sort of extravagance he would deride the hippies of the 1960s for carrying on, or worse, modern day liberals. Yeah, the society of the heroes in The Turner Diaries is bleak and reeking of hypocrisy. They commit all the same sins of the people they profess to hate. None of this is surprising, though it just gives an interesting insight into the frighteningly narrow, shallow world of white supremacists.

After blowing up an FBI building and bombing The Washington Post, destroying a printing press, Earl Turner and his merry band of sociopaths lament the negative media attention their "heroic" acts receive:

What's happening now is reminiscent of the media campaign against Hitler and the German's back in the 1940's: stories about Hitler flying into rages and chewing carpets, phony German plans for the invasion of America, babies being skinned alive to make lampshades and then boiled down into soap, girls kidnapped and sent to Nazi "stud farms." The Jews convinced the American people that those stories were true, and the result was World War II, with millions of the best of our race butchered -- by us -- and all of eastern and central Europe turned into a huge, communist prison camp.

If Earl Turner had even a rudimentary knowledge of American history, he would know that it was the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor that brought America into World War II. And the "stories" of Nazis atrocities are corroborated by tens of thousands of photographs and libraries of documentation created and kept by the Nazis, themselves, along with tens of thousands of eye witnesses. In short, this single passage illustrates that Earl Turner and his commune -- and the novel's author -- were utterly divorced from reality. I once saw an interview with Ted Bundy, which occurred shortly before he was executed. He claimed that hardcore pornography led him to commit his awful crimes. In fact, authorities never found any pornography among his possessions. What they did find were a number of "majorette" magazines that featured articles on and pictures of female high school majorettes in marching bands. The parallel I'm drawing here is the ability of a psychotic mind to absolutely fabricate stories that can be checked and verified.

As any band of lunatics would do, the Organization refers to its harsh methods of dealing with dissension as "discipline." At one point in the story, Harry Powell, leader of "Unit 5", is ordered by the Organization to assassinate "two of the most obnoxious and outspoken advocates of race mixing". Powell refuses. He wrote back to his superiors "that he was opposed to the further use of violence". He was arrested by members of other units, shot and buried for his trouble.

The Turner Diaries was Tim McVeigh's bible. I read the book in the spirit of Lenny Bruce's comment, "Knowledge of syphilis is not instruction to go out an get syphillis." I've always heard of The Turner Diaries in the context of right wing lunatics. So, I thought I'd see what it was all about. What I found was a trove of unintended satire. The characters' reasoning for their admitted terrorism sounds pretty much like what we'd imagine Osama bin Laden would think rationalizing his acts of terrorism: "Our cause is so righteous, it justifies the killing of innocents."

The world envisioned by white supremacists as conveyed in The Turner Diaries is stark and grim, devoid of the human qualities that make human life worth living: love, art, beauty, dialogue among people, the freedom of people to have their own beliefs. Earl Turner and the author of the novel grope toward a world where "civilization" is whittled down to a band of wary-eyed, sullen white people who punish every infraction among themselves -- no matter how small or insignificant -- with death. It's Communism with a rabid, racist brand label on it. I can just see a person in the group beautifying his home in some way that makes the rest of the stunted commune accuse him of having "Jew blood" somewhere back in his family. Who proceed to stone the guy to death just because he painted his front door a color deemed "unpatriotic" by the rest of the clan. The people in and who embrace The Turner Diaries think very highly of themselves as they strive to undo every advance that has made civilization as we know it. They refer to people of races they hate as "mud people," but it's The Turner Diaries crowd who seek the primordial mud of incest and cannibalism and arbitrary murder. Actually, I believe a world such as this does already exist. We know it as Hell.

Ugh - a photo essay

I recently found these photos of my nieces and nephew. That's Connor in the middle, his sister, Mekiah, on the left, and his cousin, Alexandria, on the right. The picture was taken in 2003, I believe. Connor is a professor of such wisdom as, "Bees got mouths!" and "For Christ's sake, Pappa!"

W. Puts on His Pardoning Hat

With nine months left in his reign (p)residency, George W. Bush is enjoying a tradition of office: rolling out presidential pardons to rogues, scoundrels, and in W.'s case Coke dealers, Heroin pushers, Crack sellers...

The W. pardons got off to a strange, if entertaining start when his initial list of pardon candidates included famed actor John Wayne, Senator Joseph McCarthy, clocktower shooter Charles Whitman and porn actor John Holmes. It seems that W. did not understand that his pardons were restricted to people with legal problems, and who are currently alive. After it was explained to W. that pardons could not bring people back from the dead, a new list was drawn up and has been captured by Mary Flood on her lawyering blog Legal Trade:

WASHINGTON - On March 24, 2008, President George W. Bush granted pardons to 15 individuals and a commutation of sentence to one individual. The individuals are listed below:

PARDONS:

William L. Baker Spokane, Washington
Offense: Distribution of a controlled substance, 21 U.S.C. §§ 841(a)(1), 841(b)(2); falsifying records, 21 U.S.C. §§ 827(a)(3), 843(a)(4).
Sentence: July 15, 1980; District of Wyoming; 24 months imprisonment, one year special parole.

George Francis Bauckham Oak Ridge, New Jersey
Offense: Unlawful detention, delay and secretion of mail by postal employee; 18 U.S.C. § 1703(a).
Sentence: May 16, 1958; District of New Jersey; five years probation and $100 fine.

Kenneth Charles Britt White City, Kansas
Offense: Conspiracy to violate federal and state fish and wildlife laws; 18 U.S.C. § 371.
Sentence: November 12, 1998; District of Kansas; three years probation and restitution of $8,250.

William Bruce Butt London, Kentucky
Offense: Bank embezzlement; 18 U.S.C. § 656.
Sentence: June 20, 1990; Eastern District of Kentucky; three years probation.

Mariano Garza Caballero Brownsville, Texas
Offense: Dealing in firearms without a federal firearms license; 18 U.S.C. §§ 922(a)(1) and (2).
Sentence: November 1, 1984; Southern District of Texas; 34 days imprisonment, four years probation, and a $1,000 fine.

Anthony C. Foglio, Santee, California aka Tony Foley
Offense: Distribution of marijuana; 21 U.S.C. § 841(a)(1).
Sentence: October 15, 1996; Northern District of West Virginia; three years probation.

Marvin Robert Foster Boca Raton, Florida
Offense: False statement in connection with a Federal Housing Administration loan; 18 U.S.C. § 1010.
Sentence: January 19, 1968; District of Rhode Island; one year probation and a $3,500 fine.

Carl Harry Hachmeister Denton, Texas
Offense: Conspiracy (to commit wire and mail fraud); 18 U.S.C. § 371.
Sentence: January 22, 1985; District of Utah; three years probation and $39,330 restitution.

William Marcus McDonald Wetumpka, Alabama
Offense: Distribution of cocaine, possession of cocaine with intent to distribute, use of cocaine, possession of cocaine, use of marijuana; Article 134, U.C.M.J.
Sentence: May 2, 1984; U.S. Air Force general court-martial convened at Moody Air Force Base, Georgia; four years confinement at hard labor, forfeiture of $300 pay per month for four years, reduction in rank to basic airman, and a bad conduct discharge.

Robert Michael Milroy Cinnaminson, New Jersey
Offense: Importation of heroin; 21 U.S.C. §§ 960(a)(1), 952(a), and 843(b).
Sentence: April 2, 1975; Eastern District of Virginia; seven and one-half years imprisonment, six years special parole, and three years probation.

Jerry Lynn Moldenhauer Colorado Springs, Colorado
Offense: Knowingly selling migratory bird parts in violation of Migratory Bird Treaty Act; 16 U.S.C. §§ 703 and 707(b).
Sentence: September 19, 1994; District of Colorado; three years probation and $1,000 fine.

Thomas Donald Moldenhauer Colorado Springs, Colorado
Offense: Knowingly selling migratory bird parts in violation of Migratory Bird Treaty Act; 16 U.S.C. §§ 703 and 707(b).
Sentence: September 19, 1994; District of Colorado; three years probation and $1,000 fine.

Richard James Putney, Woodbridge, Virginia
aka Richard James Putney Jr.
Offense: Aiding and abetting the escape of a prisoner; 18 U.S.C. §§ 752(a) and 2.
Sentence: September 16, 1996; Northern District of West Virginia; one year of probation and a $100 fine.

Timothy Alfred Thone Woodbury, Minnesota
Offense: Making a false statement to the Department of Housing and Urban Development to obtain a mortgage loan; 18 U.S.C. § 1010.
Sentence: September 18, 1987; District of Minnesota; two years probation, $1,500 fine.

Lonnie Edward Two Eagle Sr. Parmelee, South Dakota
Offense: Simple assault committed on an Indian reservation (misdemeanor); 18 U.S.C. §§ 1153 and 113(e), now 18 U.S.C. § 113(a)(5), as re-numbered and amended.
Sentence: October 6, 1976; District of South Dakota; two years probation.

COMMUTATION:
Patricia Beckford Portsmouth, Virginia
Offense: Conspiracy and attempt to distribute in excess of 50 grams of crack cocaine, 21 U.S.C. §§ 846 and 841(a)(1), 853, 855; unauthorized use of food coupons, 7 U.S.C. § 2024(b).
Sentence: April 27, 1992; Eastern District of Virginia; 276 months imprisonment; five years supervised release; $10,000 fine.
Terms of commutation: Sentence of imprisonment to expire on July 24, 2008; term of supervised release left intact and in effect with all its conditions.

The issue of the number of pardons handed out to people guilty of drug offenses was raised by one reporter who asked W., "Sir, are you pardoning these drug traffickers because they were former connections of yours?" To which W. replied, "Yeah." White House press secretary Dana Perino was quick to run over and explain that W. had thought the reporter asked, "Would you have pardoned Jesus?"

1st Two Faces of Mount Flushmore

Officialdom

I was born in Otherland, right on the border with Theland. As you can tell by the names of each country, they are very similar -- similar in culture, as well; language, customs. To be honest, if you run into a Thelander, you might just as well mistake the person for an Otherlander. After all, we are close national neighbors. Each is the others' largest trading partner and numerous treaties have been signed allowing -- with proper documentation -- citizens of one country to work in the other. Overall, a positive relationship exists between the two nations.

We all wear green hats. Hat-wearing is part of our shared culture. And you can only get our kind of green hats from our respective governments. Some people trying to get into Theland or Otherland sometimes wear phony green hats, but it's pretty obvious they're fakes. You turn them inside-out and you find they're red inside or paisley, or some other color. The real ones are green through-and-through. That's how it's always been.

This distinction became very important a few years ago when some paisley-hatted guys from another nation attacked a Theland city. Since then, the color of your hat's been immensely important. Sometimes, life-or-death important.

I live in Otherland, but work in Theland. My green hat was in perfect order, so I was issued a purple work hat. Every time I go over to Theland, I have to wear my purple hat. No problem. Often, when I travel to Theland to visit an art gallery, see a concert, visit friends or go to a restaurant, I wear my green hat and my wife wears her green hat. Like any other travelers, we're asked some questions by the Theland border guards. After the paisley-hatted attack years ago, it only makes sense.

The other night my wife and I went over to Theland to visit friends. We were meeting them at a restaurant in a sketchy part of town, so my wife and I took my car over -- it's an old warhorse and doesn't much matter if it's vandalized on top of its road-weariness. Since we were going to a bar afterward, I left my purple hat at home because I didn't want to take the chance of losing it or having it stolen. It would be a royal pain in the ass if I lost my green hat, but the green hat would be much easier to replace than a purple hat. I'd gone over with my green hat a hundred times before and didn't think twice about it.

That is, until I pulled up to the border guard booth. He typed my license plate into his computer. He asked our citizenship, the purpose of our trip and what we were bringing over. We answered all of his questions. Then he asked me where I worked. When I told him I worked in Theland , he asked to see my purple hat. I told him I had left it at home because I was going out to a restaurant and then to a bar and didn't want to take the chance of losing it. When not crossing for work, I always used my green hat and never had any problems.

Thelander border guards have a reputation for unpleasantness. Deserved or not, it's there and I've personally witnessed it on many occasions. Times I've gone into a Thelander border station to renew my purple hat, I've witnessed Theland border guards berating other applicants. It's one thing to ask questions and demand to see proper documentation, but some Thelander guards did this with overt hostility and naked belligerence. I once witnessed a guy in an orange hat being asked to prove where in Theland he had attended school. The orange-hatted guy showed the border guard a postcard from the campus. I was at the next wicket, and winced, knowing what was coming. The Theland guard went up one side of the orange-hatted guy and down the other. He then asked for a full accounting of the orange-hatted guy's life: every family members' name, had the orange-hatted guy ever been arrested anywhere in the world. All of this was carried out at full volume so that everyone in the office could hear what was said.

Another time, in the middle of the day while I was renewing my purple hat, a Thelander guard shut off the office lights and announced, "Sorry, we're closed." Then he turned the lights back on and barked laughter at his joke.

Most days, going to work, I encounter ordinary, pleasant Thelander guards. They have a job to do; they're not customer service reps, their job is security, and I not only understand that, I'm protected by their efforts.

The night I went over with my wife, I got one of the pricks.

When I told him that I had left my purple hat at home, and why I had done so, he bellowed, "You have a purple hat and you must wear it every time you come into Theland !" In the nine years I've had a purple hat, I'd never known about that. But if that's the rule, that's the rule. No sweat, I'll wear the purple hat. It's all the same to me.

"Did you know that?" the guard sneered. I told him no, I didn't. He repeated the statement. I had understood the first time he'd said it, but what was I to do? Teleport home and teleport back wearing the purple hat? "OK," I said. "Now I know."

That wasn't good enough, though, for the prick. Although my background had been thoroughly checked every year I renewed my purple hat -- having even been fingerprinted so that I could have a yellow band for the purple hat that allowed me through an express commuter lane -- the prick pulled me into the border guard office.

The border guard office is always a treat -- if you think of miserable experiences as treats. There are usually ten guards standing around behind a counter, chatting, while a line of people stand in the center of the cramped room, as still other people sit in plastic contour chairs awaiting further interrogation by one of the guards. My wife and I walked into the crowded office and were met by a shout from a guard behind the counter.

"Step over here," he said, indicating somewhere near the counter. I must have taken one too many steps toward him because he quickly growled, "Not that close." The pricks among Thelander border guards are known for speaking with such wonderful specificity. Once I had stepped back, the guard then told me to approach him -- I imagine the pricks were uniformly children who grew up tormenting animals and pulling the wings off of flies. He took from me the slip of paper the guard in the booth had filled out. Then I was directed to a wicket further down the counter. The guard there -- seated at a computer terminal -- looked at the slip of paper and asked me, "Don't you know you're supposed to wear your purple hat when crossing into Theland?" I said that I hadn't known that.

"How long have you worked in Theland?" he asked. I said about eight or nine years. And he said, "And you didn't know that you had to wear your purple hat any time you cross into the country?" It struck me as odd the number of times he asked the same question. I said, again, that I didn't know, but now I did. When he asked the question again I had the distinct feeling that he was fucking with me. He then took my green had and my wife's green hat and told us to sit down. As we sat down, I wondered not for the first time what the Theland Security screen looked like on their computers. Last year, not long after renewing the yellow band I wear around my purple hat, I was pulled in four times in the space of 10 work days. Each time they wanted to check the validity of my purple hat. They could check all they wanted, but while they were fussing around with me weren't there guys with paisley hats to be watching out for? Every time I sat waiting as they re-keyed my information into their system, I wondered, Why don't they have a Save button on their screen so they don't have to redo the work that was done the last time I was in here?

And I thought of years before, on my way to work, when a Theland border guard asked me if I had anything to declare. "All I have with me is my lunch," I'd said.

"What is it?" he'd sneered, as though he was about to catch me in a lie.

"Chili."

"What's in it?"

"Turkey."

"Turkey?!" he shouted, honestly outraged. "Turkey's a banned substance." He said it like I had plutonium in the car.

"A 'banned substance'?" I'd said.

"Yeah, a banned substance!" he'd shouted and then pulled me in for secondary inspection. There, the guards had just laughed off the slip he'd attached to my windshield and let me continue on my way.

While my wife and I waited, a young, pretty girl came into the office. The guard who dealt with her spoke so loudly I heard that the girl was trying to enter Theland without her green hat. She'd just forgotten it. The guard at the counter told her to sit down. A moment later, he called her to the counter again. He asked where she worked. "In Otherland," she said. The guard asked if she owned a house there. "Yes," she said. He asked if she paid taxes, hydro bills, if she had a mortgage. The girl answered "yes" to each question. He told her to sit down. A few minutes later, he summoned her back to the counter and told her, "The next time you enter Theland, you'll have to bring proof of your mortgage, your most recent tax return and copies of your hydro bills." Then he let the bewildered girl go.

A few minutes after the girl left, my wife and I were called back to the counter. The border guard holding our green hats asked me again if I had known that I was supposed to wear my purple hat whenever I crossed into Theland . A feeling of unreality passed over me and I suddenly wondered if the border guards looking through my car outside were planting drugs in it. I wondered if the border guard before me was going to void my purple hat, rendering me instantaneously unemployed. Or, if he was going to demand that the next time I entered Theland -- which would be two days hence -- that I would have to bring proof of my mortgage, my taxes, the parish priest and five box tops from Kellogg's Corn Flakes. Why not? The guards existed in a strange, seemingly ungoverned sphere where they could make up the rules as they went along.

On this night, however, the guard told me to wear my purple hat from then on and he released us. When I later told a friend about the experience, he said:

I can just see a bunch of punks who got their jobs thru army buddies or family contacts making life miserable for any captive audience. Pathetic. There is a terrible passion in this country for authority. Thelanders are frantic to exercise authority over anyone and everyone. This is true not just in cops, but in store clerks, courthouse secretaries, anyone who is supposed to be answerable to the public. It's sad and irritating.

It's the same anywhere, I guess. Although Otherland has a mellower reputation than Theland, Otherland is very much run by an oppressive bureaucracy. Sometimes it feels as though a silent coup took place years ago in Otherland where the bureaucrats took over. The lights in the country still work, water still flows from faucets and people continue showing up for work, so everything appears to be in order and functioning. But the moment one comes into contact with any semblance of officialdom, there's a feeling of brushing against an executioner's robes and that one's neck is being appraised for the next noose.

We live a good life in Otherland and Theland, but even green hats cast shadows in the sun.

Kwam-foolery: The Delusions of the Emperor of Detroit

Detroit News Thursday, January 20, 2005: Two cops sue mayor, police chief

Accusing Detroit Emperor Kwame Kilpatrick of arrogance only goes so far toward illuminating the roots of the Kwam-foolery that has engulfed Detroit since 2002. Kwame is arrogant, yes, but after losing his fight against the release of a secret deal he withheld from city council, it's now clear that Emperor Kilpatrick is delusional.

"I think on a certain level, the mayor just doesn't get it, or he's in denial," [Council President Ken Cockrel Jr.] said.

The documents show that once Mike Stefani, the attorney for the three cops who filed suits against Kilpatrick and former chief of staff Christine Beatty, confronted Kilpatrick's attorneys with text messages that showed the pair lied under oath last summer, the mayor moved to settle the suits in exchange for the text messages. The amount grew to more than $9 million with attorneys' fees.

The documents further show that Kilpatrick scrapped the original settlement in an apparent attempt to circumvent a Free Press Freedom of Information Act request for the settlement documents. The city then concocted a second agreement that had two parts -- one for public consumption and the second that contained the agreement to conceal the text messages.

The City Council never saw an agreement about the text messages when it approved the settlement.

Not only will Kwame not resign from his job, he believes "[t]his is what I was born to do." And the city of Detroit and the rule of law are mere obstacles in the way of his destiny.

Kwame also states "[t]here was no cover-up." Which is an incredible claim. The documentation he fought to suppress, Detroit city council and multitudinous lawyers and journalists beg to differ. No cover-up? Just because a cover-up is poorly perpetrated, doesn't mean it didn't happen. For Kwame to claim otherwise demonstrates a clear disconnect with reality. There's no question he has spent too long among his inner circle of yes-men.

Regarding the money spent to settle the whistle-blower court case (almost $9 million) that opened this entire can of worms, Emperor Kilpatrick says, "I pay it back every day. . . . When I go out and do an economic stimulus package for hundreds of millions of dollars. When I go find a way to do a deal on the (Detroit-Windsor) tunnel for $75 million dollars. . . . I work every day to make sure the city gets what it's owed."

Emperor Kilpatrick believes he's above the law. He doesn't realize that it's his job to do these for Detroit, and he's still obligated to follow the law.

"My wife trusts me, my kids trust me and I think a great deal of citizens here (trust me, too) . . . What you can trust is that I'll be out there shoveling your snow, that I'll be fixing the streets up after the (snow) is all melted away."

"I'll be out there shoveling your snow". Unbelievable. Kwame Kilpatrick literally believes he is the city of Detroit. There is no separation, when the reality is ordinary Detroiters showing up to their jobs day-in and day-out -- while Kwame lazes about amid one tryst in the Carolinas, in Colorado, at the city's expense -- are getting the job done, keeping the streets cleared, continuing to collect the garbage. The comic effect the mental image Kwame Kilpatrick conjures of himself decked out in his pimp winter-gear, shoveling snow, clearing the city sidewalks and streets himself proves that mental illness does have its entertaining moments.

And finally, the last refuge of every scumbag politician: their families. Obviously desperate for some handhold on credibility, Kwame shields himself with his family, telling us his wife and children trust him. Some man he is hiding behind these poor, wronged people. The taint and tarnish with which Kwame has painted his own reputation and that of the city of Detroit is quite bad. Pouring that bucket over the heads of his family is sickening and really demonstrates the man's moral squalor.

If there is any justice in this world -- and there is little evidence it exists at all -- Kwame will remain in office long enough to burn every bridge he had once planned to cross into post-mayoral prosperity. That even his whores turn their backs on him -- but not in the fashion he's accustomed to -- and that in five or ten years time we do find him outside in the winter, a hulk in rags, shorn of his pomposity, shoveling snow from a smashed Detroit sidewalk.

Snow is the New Asbestos

The local news has lost its mind. Channel 4 in Detroit actually now calls itself "Rescue 4", as though they'll get your cat out of a tree, resuscitate someone's dying grandmother, or do Blackwater duty guarding dignitaries. At least once per broadcast an urgent-eyed anchor leads into a commercial break promising to later divulge information "that will help keep your family safe!" Which usually amounts to advice on par with, "Don't drink toilet cleaner, it's not healthy!" or "Double A batteries -- they're not a snack!"

Since when is it the duty of local news to look after the safety of a community? Don't police, fire and ambulance services take care of that?

This false netting of "safety" is nowhere as intrusive, overblown, ridiculous or boobery-born than the local weather report. Not only does the weather report take up entirely too much of any broadcast, but it has the most atrocious, misplaced tone of drama and even suspense injected into it. Particularly during winter. The approach of snow storms in Michigan are treated like plagues, like great mishaps, as though volcanic ash was going to fall upon naked citizen who have no skin.

Snow is the new asbestos. Snowfall is reported like meteor showers about to thit the earth; like nuclear fall-out approaching.

For most of my life, it's just been snow. Children play in it. Snow is like dust, except it melts.

In the hands of "Rescue 4," snow is airborn maggots carrying bird flu; each flake is a tiny albino terrorist powered in anthrax. But not to fear! "Rescue 4" will throw its cloak around every viewer and escort us through the nightmare. "Just close your eyes and think of Christmas," says the paternalistic stentorian voice.

Maybe some of these weather guys were pummelled with snowballs or subjected to snowbaths as youths -- the schoolyard version of waterboarding -- and for this reason report snowfall like the coming of an area-wide yeast infection. Possibly, I'm being too Jungian in my analysis. Whatever the reason, our perpetually amped-up media cannot be trusted anymore to even provide a basic weather report. There are numerous cases where a crippling storm was predicted and unremarkable amount of snow actually fell. I can just see the advertisers leaning on station managers to "sex" things up. "Whaddya mean it's going to rain?" an advertiser rails over the phone to a station minion. "I'm paying you people enough money to throw in an 'alert' or 'warning' or 'watch'. Get your heads out of your asses and scare people! I'm not selling enough vinyl-sided windows!"

Hence, "Rescue 4", the winged firetruck with its air-raid siren blaring, red-blue-yellow lights flashing like a nervous breakdown, driving in circles with its ladders and hoses and mounted guns casting lunatic shadows across the storybook covering of winter snow in Detroit.

Enjoy New Grenada's "Emergency Brigade

Will Ferrell: A Career of Wigs

The man's entire approach to comedy is to wear funny wigs.

What if you're a comedy fan who doesn't find tacky wigs, alone, to be funny and satisfying? Then maybe Will Ferrell isn't for you.

He sure ain't for me.

He has a new wig movie coming out that is being hocked on TV as though Milo Minderbinder is Ferrell's agent. Who knows, maybe Milo is.

Careless Stupidity Has No Expiration Date

Report: Security relaxed at Obama speech

Feb 21 05:27 PM US/Eastern

DALLAS, Feb. 21 (UPI) -- The Secret Service told Dallas police to stop screening for weapons while people were still arriving at a campaign rally for Barack Obama, a report said.

Police stopped checking people for weapons at the front gates of Reunion Arena more than an hour before the Democratic presidential hopeful appeared on stage Wednesday, the Fort Worth (Texas) Star-Telegram reported.

Police said the order to stop using metal detectors and checking purses and laptop bags constituted a security lapse, the newspaper reported.

Dallas Deputy Police Chief T.W. Lawrence -- who heads the department's homeland security and special operations divisions -- told the Star-Telegram the order had been intended to speed up seating of the more than 17,000 people who came to hear the candidate speak.

Lawrence said he was concerned about the large number of people being let in without being screened, but that the crowd seemed "friendly," the newspaper said.

Several Dallas police officers -- speaking on condition of anonymity because the order came from federal officers -- told the newspaper it was worrying to see so many people get it without even a cursory inspection.

The Star-Telegram said the Secret Service did not return a call seeking comment.

April and June of this year, respectively, will mark the 40th anniversaries of the assassinations of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and Robert F. Kennedy. No Thanksgiving since 1962 has passed without the morbid remembrance of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. Although the "official" descriptions and details of how these three killings occurred have never matched up to physical evidence and eye-witness testimony, no matter which side of the story you're on -- believing these men were killed as the result of conspiracies or by an epidemic of "lone nuts" -- no one can dispute that there is a commonality joining all three tragedies: a woeful, intentional lapse in security.

Dallas police in November of 1963 were ordered to stand down -- the late officer Roger Craig verified this in interviews -- and even some of John F. Kennedy's Secret Service detail were ordered away by Lyndon Johnson's Secret Service detail (there's footage readily available on YouTube of a Secret Service agent at Love Field in Dallas, running along side the president's limousine and being waved away by agents in the car behind). The Memphis police kept conspicuous distance from Dr. King in Memphis at the time of his assassination. And the ever-infamous Los Angeles Police Department were told to stay away from the Ambassador Hotel where Robert Kennedy made the final speech of his life, with the explanation that his private security would handle the occasion.

Since the times of these assassinations, new and updated rules for protection have been instituted, but in every case, had normal protocols of the time simply been followed, there's a good chance these killings might not have happened.

And so we have, here, again, Dallas, Texas taking lightly the security of an important figure in American life. The Secret Service ordered the Dallas Police to stop screening attendees of Barak Obama's rally for weapons. The crowed of 17,000 "seemed friendly." Since when does anything in our post-9/11 world "seem friendly" to paranoiac authorities? And since when is the Secret Service engaged in customer service? They claim their order to stop screening people going into the rally was done in an effort to speed up everyone's entry. Well holy shit, I enter the United States to work and the officials at the border have a distinct interest in moving at their own pace, the line of vehicles before them be damned.

Four decades hasn't been near long enough to heal the damage done to America by the assassinations of President John F. Kennedy, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and Robert F. Kennedy. I wasn't alive at that time, and I can't imagine the sense of chaos and hopelessness that must have taken hold of the nation after these tragedies occurred. This intentional relaxation of security at Barak Obama's Dallas rally was inexcusable and the people who made the ridiculous decision to stop screening for weapons should be fired and possibly charged with negligence.

Next time you're held up at airport security while some half-wit minimum-wage security guard examines your ballpoint pen to determine that it's not a neutron bomb, say: "Don't I look friendly?" This may lead to a rubber glove inspection of your person. And it should snap home the reality that we don't need FISA renewed, we don't need domestic spying, we don't need neighbors sniffing each others' underwear. We simply need our security officials to do their jobs. Because, when they don't, the course of the nation's future is at stake. And that's no exaggeration.

And the Cocksucker Shrieked "Me First!"

I read this by John Steinbeck years ago in an old anthology, and I'll be damned if I could ever find it again. Finally did today, on the Web. It's the best thing of Steinbeck's I've ever read:

The Danger of Small Things by John Steinback

I guess it is true that big and strong things are much less dangerous than small soft weak things. Nature (whatever that is) makes the small and weak reproduce faster. And that is not true of course. The ones that did not reproduce faster than they died, disappeared. But how about little faults, little pains, little worries. The cosmic ulcer comes not from great concerns, but from little irritations. And great things can kill a man, but if they do not he is stronger and better for them. A man is destroyed by the nagging, small bills, telephones (wrong number), athlete's foot, ragweed, the common cold, boredom. All of these are the negatives, the tiny frustrations, and no one is stronger for them.

There are few times in life when we get to see what other people are genuinely made of. In my experience, these moments come in traffic or when I have occasion to wait in line for something. And nothing brings out the stark differences between personalities than waiting in line while in a vehicle.

I recently had occasion to leave my compound in the Turks & Caicos Islands to do some work in Detroit, Michigan. As my consortium owns property in Windsor, Ontario, I stayed in Windsor and crossed the Ambassador Bridge into Detroit for my week of meetings. Most days on the bridge were fine. Traffic was slow, it was congested, but it moved. Today, however, it was completely log-jammed.

Now, I am a man of the world. I'm a humanist. I'm willing to wait my turn and suffer right along with everyone around me. For a few moments there was a sense of unity among us, the Community of the Wronged, or at least The Slowed; The Stopped. Until the first miscreant shot past in the commercials vehicle lane and attempted to cut into the car lane up ahead. Lines, queues, moments when a chunk of humanity is stopped somewhere, bring out the worst in people. There's this "Me First!" nodule in the genome of our less evolved brethren that starts throbbing and suddenly the elbows come out, and the nasally voice of the bastard's soul all but shrieks to all around, "Me first! Not you! Me!" Which lights up the jungle "Fuck You!" aggressor in me. Every time I'm stuck in line somewhere, I immediately think of disaster films in which the Honor System and the Social Compact break down and frazzled yuppies and disreputable businessmen blunder around with the sole purpose of saving themselves.

People who are willing to wait their turn in line -- and we all know who we are -- should be armed with game warden tranquilizer guns and tags. The next time we're in line and some line-crashing asshole makes his presence known, we should fire a dart into his neck and then affix a tag to his ear. Better yet, we should combine the tranquilizing and tagging, shooting a miniature bar-coded dart in their person that can be later read by a monitoring device so we can then round up these people, corral them somewhere they can cut each other in line until their wretched, rotted hearts are content.

The motto on the American greenback should be changed from "In God We Trust" to "Me first!"