Archive for the ‘Agitprop’ Category

Buzz(ard) off

January 20, 2021

Carrion, my wayward son. There’ll be peace when you are done.

A fat orange vulture lifts off the carcass of the Republic and flaps slowly off to the south.

He hadn’t finished his meal, but there will be others. Right now, the idea is to perch in Florida for a spell, let the stomach settle. But the neighbors there are restless. Something about a contract.

Yeah, and good luck with that. This zopilote treats paper the same way a broke-ass budgie would. You lay it down, he’ll shit on it. Then what you got is a bloated, grunting buzzard and a piece of paper, and both are full of shit.

There are ways to deal with invasive varmints, but paper — unless it’s some old-school wadding in a 12-gauge shotgun shell — generally isn’t much help.

Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.

Now, all evidence to the contrary, I am not entirely insane. I know in my heart of hearts that this bird is not really going anywhere today, regardless of where he roosts. He will be very much with us for many a dark moon, hissing and flapping and shitting on everything, because these are the only things he’s good at, other than lying and grifting and pissing away other peoples’ money.

He’ll still be doing that, too. The pension for the job he couldn’t be bothered to do between tweets is a cool $219,000 per annum at the moment, and he also gets office space, staff, access to health insurance, plus Secret Service backup to ensure that his beak will never write a check that his fat ass can’t cash. And the dummies will send him whatever pennies they’re not spending on guns, ammo, and camo’.

I remain hopeful that a good deal of this money and manpower will be pissed away on a fruitless battle to keep him out of prison before he dies of syphilitic insanity, simple apoplexy, or a bad Big Mac (is there such a thing as a good Big Mac?).

But there will be hissing and flapping and shitting aplenty before — if — this bird is finally and properly caged.

In the meantime, as Joe and Kamala roll up their sleeves, arm themselves with mops, shovels, and buckets, and get to work, we will be treated to the peacocking of various buzzards-in-waiting, each claiming to be the rightful heir to the Throne of Bones.

The Chosen One will proclaim himself a mighty eagle. But don’t you believe it. He’ll be just another goddamn vulture, hunting a meal. There are still a few toothsome tidbits on the carcass.

• And now, some video of the swearing-at ceremony.

Shell game

January 14, 2021

The Turtle won’t stick his neck out. Original photo by Susan Walsh | AP

With ’Is Lardship’s second impeachment in hand, The World’s Greatest Deliberative Body™ does … fuck-all.

According to The New York Times, the Turtle has rejected a plea by Democrats to recall the Senate and go to trial. After the House vote to impeach, he said there was “simply no chance that a fair or serious trial could conclude” before Sleepy Joe’s inauguration next week.

In low tones that for some reason emitted from the rear of his shell, The Turtle spake thusly:

“I believe it will best serve our nation if Congress and the executive branch spend the next seven days completely focused on facilitating a safe inauguration and an orderly transfer of power to the incoming Biden administration.”

O, to be sure. The People’s Business been uppermost on his devious little mind ever since he discovered he could run it at a profit for himself.

The good news? The Turtle is said to have sworn that he will never again speak to ’Is Lardship. Boy, that’ll show ’em.

Going down with the shit?

January 13, 2021

His Lardship in the Porcelain Throne.

After Adolf Twitler rode to victory on the shoulders of his Brown Noses I argued that he would survive in office exactly as long as the Elefinks and their mahouts felt he still had some value to them, and no longer.

Have they finally squeezed him dry, with a week remaining in his term, which has become our sentence? Is there no more golden juice in the Orange?

Representatives and senators take an oath to “support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic,” and Adolf is demonstrably the latter. Whether they honor their oaths remains to be seen. That oath, in and of itself, should be enough for honorable people.

Impeach. Convict. Remove. Period.

 

Shall we dance?

January 11, 2021

I love a good musical. This ain’t one of ’em.

On a bright cloud of bullshit shall we fly?

Flail away (the flip side)*

January 4, 2021

What is this, a remake of “McHale’s Navy?”
At least Ernest Borgnine and Tim Conway were funny.

“Hard about, Mister Miller! New orders from Cape Treason.”

* More apologies to Randy Newman, and also to the crew of the Nimitz, who must be getting dizzy.

Happy New Year

January 1, 2021

The sun prepares its New Year’s debut over the Sandias.

The starter’s pistol cracks, the flag drops … and they’re off! Another lap around the calendar has begun.

Herself and I called it quits long before midnight after a New Year’s Eve feast of Alaskan salmon (h/t Matt Wiebe), roasted potatoes, steamed broccoli, and salad. French rosé for her; fake St. Pauli Girl for me, my Clausthaler Dry Hopped being unavailable anywhere at any price.

The celebratory pyrotechnics likewise beat the clock. I was hearing fireworks and gunfire 8-ish as I unplugged the holiday lights. Burqueños do love their pistolas, and will discharge them at the sky if no other, better target presents itself.

This continued into the night until a final, furious fusillade awakened me and 2021 more or less simultaneously.

This morning I checked the property for bodies, but found nothing, no shell casings, no blood trails. Herself inspected the Vault and found a deposit of $1,200 from Uncle Sammy, that senile, profligate, racist old fool. We are not wealthy, but neither are we desperate, and so we will be redirecting these funds to someone who is. What a colossal waste of time and energy. Somebody could have been spending this cash months ago on food, rent, cartuchos, whatever.

Meanwhile, the Sedition Party is gearing up for more mischief at King’s Landing. This is the thing that never changes with the calendar. In power, they can’t govern, won’t even try. Out of power, they see to it that nobody else can govern, either. This is why small businesses close and public works crumble and people like us get free money.

And yet every New Year’s Eve the People spill out into the streets, shooting into the heavens. One wonders when they might choose some other targets of opportunity down here on earth.

While we wait, anybody making New Year’s resolutions that don’t involve overthrowing the government? Sound off in comments.

Goin’ down

December 31, 2020

In the loo and adieu for you.

Hoo-boy. Pee-yew. That’n looks like a double-flusher to me. Might have to break out the plunger. Or a stick of DuPont Extra.

But it’s gotta go, come hell or high water, and I won’t miss it once it’s gone.

Twenty-fuckin’-20.

We put an old woman in a home. My foot in a splint. My cat in an urn. And our lives on hold.

We’re alive to bitch about it, which has to count for something. [Insert thunderous sound of knocking on wood here.] Plenty of other people aren’t.

Also, I finally made it to Social Security, so, yay for me. Plus Herself remains on the clock in a real big way, so, bonus. We want for nothing. Call it a lamp so that we need not curse the darkness from beneath our designer masks.

It feels greedy of me to miss my cat. Running. Road trips. Hot springs. Random acts of shopping. Long bicycle rides. Stand-up comedy. My favorite non-alcoholic beer. Bookstores. Mexican restaurants. Living in a country that helped defeat fascism, not resurrect it.

You know. The little things.

Still, I miss them. I do. And I don’t expect to get a lot of them back just like that, with a simple change of calendars, or administrations.

Especially my cat. Not unless Stephen King gets involved, and that’s a bridge too far for me. Turkish v1.0 could be scary enough.

We already have plenty to be scared of, thanks all the same.

Nevertheless, here we are, on the threshold of a new year. That I am not optimistic is not helpful. Time to show the affirming flame. We must love one another or die.

Let them eat shit

December 10, 2020

“Be Best?” How about, “Begone?”

So I’m standing in the kitchen after a morning of bad dreams, idly thumbing through the news on my phone as the toaster mutters to itself, when I stumble across these two items back to back on The Washington Post app:

• Stealing to survive: More Americans are shoplifting food as aid runs out during the pandemic. One manager interviewed said he usually doesn’t call the John Laws, but instead tells the offenders not to come back.

“It’s become much harder during the pandemic,” he said. “People will say, ‘I was just hungry.’ And then what do you do?”

• Dismissing health concerns, State Department treats 200 guests to holiday drinks, tours and leftover “Be Best” swag. The hoopla included a tour of the White House holiday decorations, beverages at Blair House, and “Be Best” merch’ from the phenomenally unremarkable anti-bullying initiative by the First Plagiarist, Countess Malaria Dracula.

“It’s time to get rid of the leftovers,” said one official.

Indeed it is. There’s never a guillotine around when you need one. Jan. 20 can’t come soon enough.

The Reich stuff

November 12, 2020

“We’ll be right back after this message from Trump 2024.”

In our second installment of “Hey, He Can’t Do That, Can He?” we have Ed Kilgore making a case for … maybe. Not without help, anyway.

Writing for New York magazine’s Intelligencer, Kilgore concedes that “nobody knows for sure” how long Adolf Twitler will keep contesting the 2020 election results.

But Kilgore breaks down the process by which this GOP-enabled defiance may devolve “from sour grapes to dangerous delusion.”

The good news, writes Kilgore, is that “the odds of Trump being able to pursue a 2020 election challenge into 2021, with his party at the federal and state levels unanimously behind him, are very limited.”

“There’s almost certainly not enough evidence of electoral irregularities to overturn Biden’s victories within individual states, and not enough raw political and judicial power for Republicans to defy federal and state laws and pull off an electoral coup early next year,” he adds.

Plus, if Il Douche wants to have another grab at the brass swastika in 2024, as has been widely discussed, well … how can we miss him if he won’t go away?

Kilgore concludes: “In other words, he can’t play Napoleon returning from Elba in triumph until he accepts his prior exile. The real deadline for Trump’s surrender to reality is the moment leaders of his party throw up their hands and cry: Enough!”

“Ich bin ein Loser!” Achtung, baby.

Boo-zo the Clown

October 31, 2020

The Thing on the Doorstep.
On the way out, we may hope.

This is the scariest Halloween I can remember.

Thank Cthulhu so many people voted early. Only the Great Old Ones know what the sluggards are likely to do come Tuesday, as they crash hard from Saturday’s sugar frenzy followed by Sunday’s end to daylight saving time. Probably cast write-in votes for Mars-Wrigley, the Dread Lord of Type-2 Diabetes, or worse, Darth Cheney.

One thing seems pretty certain, though. If we don’t punt the Not-So-Great Pumpkin off the national porch next week, Halloween 2021 will be even scarier. Boogity-boogity-boogity.

He’s not just a Good Old One. He’s a Great Old One.