Archive for the ‘Deep political thought’ Category

Hustling the East

April 14, 2021

One disabled vet’s recollection of his tour in Afghanistan.

In his piece on the latest proposed withdrawal from Afghanistan, Charlie Pierce recalls a wounded veteran’s bitter assessment of his time in-country.

The disabled vet was Dr. John H. Watson, soon to be introduced to Sherlock Holmes, speaking in “A Study in Scarlet.” The tale was published in 1887.

The Holmes stories, which I first read in the 1960s, may have served as my introduction to warfare in Afghanistan. Later, there was Rudyard Kipling and his “epitaph drear.” The Soviet debacle I observed from a series of newspaper copy desks. Our own I read about courtesy of journalists like C.J. Chivers. A time or two I spoke with American vets about their own experiences.

Very little of what I read or heard inspired confidence in the ability of the American military-industrial complex to effect change — “Peace through superior firepower,” as the old joke goes — in a place where so many armies had had their asses handed to them. Nobody seemed to really want Afghanistan except the Afghans, and only a few of them wanted it badly enough to fight for it.

So here we are, nearly 20 years later, with 2,400 U.S. service members in their graves and $2 trillion pounded down various ratholes. And for what? Another epitaph drear.

Will we ever get the message that no matter how hard we sell it, “democracy” will never be America’s biggest export? When it hits the doorstep it often looks a lot more like vengeance.

God is said to have made us in His image. If so, He likewise has been compelled by circumstances to live with disappointment in His creations.

Profiles in … something

March 4, 2021

House party. BYOB (Bring Your Own Bullets).

Well. I see the U.S. House has adjourned to Captain Horatio Huffenpuff’s Hiding Box because some Q pootbutt sent them a mash note.

Apparently the Pancake House Patriots could only afford one night at the Motel 6 in Dumfries, Va. Either that or their ace sapper really has to drop a deuce after two months in a broom closet washing down expired MREs with his own pee and waiting on the “go” code.

Meanwhile, the rest of yis are commanded to show up for duty as per usual. That is all. Dis-miss.

Piles of blues against the door

February 18, 2021

There’s a strong whiff of the dumbass coming out of Texas lately. The directions are printed right there on the soles of the damn’ boots, yet nobody in authority can pour the piss out of them.

Maybe it’s frozen.

But not everyone in the Lone Star State is all hat and no cattle. For instance, there’s Steve Earle, and there’s also Steve Earle talking about the literary qualities of Willie Nelson, which is even better.

And finally, there’s Texas Monthly, with “13 Curses to Mutter Against Ted Cruz While You Boil Snow to Drink.”

Java jive

February 15, 2021

I love the java jive and it loves me.

Presidents Day, hey? Well, given the events of the weekend, the less said about that, the better, perhaps.

At least he’s an ex. Now all the until-death-do-you-part types know what the other folks are going on about when they talk about “the ex.” Lots of hollering, property damage, relationships shattered, neighbors appalled, cops called, lawyers engaged, and tons of money pounded down the rathole.

Then, if you wind up on the wrong side of the judgment, you try to assemble some sort of new life out of the wreckage as the asshole struts around talking shit.

The sun peeks over the Sandias.

But hey, at least we’re all freezing our asses off, right? It’s still February. Ten degrees when I arose and tottered to the kitchen to make the first of three authoritative Americanos with my old friend Mr. Krups.

I have been blessed over the decades to have an early riser for a wife. She made the coffee, and all I had to do was show up and drink it. Until Mr. Coffee went Maoist on me.

“From each according to his ability to each according to his needs?” sneered this two-bit Chicom barista-bot. “What you need is a cup of lukewarm bilge, comrade.”

I beg your pardon?

Mr. Coffee was informed in no uncertain terms that his services were no longer required, and now Mr. Krups and I spend a few brief, enchanting moments together each day, in the bleak frosty darkness of a Duke City morning.

At some point I’m going to have to go outside and shift a little snow around. But not just yet. Mr. Krups has just had a marvelous idea — another cuppa.

Point of ordure

February 13, 2021

Senators at work. For a change.

One thing you do not want to do on a brisk February morning is consider the rampant jackoffery taking place in the U.S. Senate while your spouse tells you how Uncle Sammy plans to hoist you by your ankles for a vigorous shakedown come April 15.

Jesus H., etc. Every one of these posturing poltroons who came into this process focused on rubbing one out while waiting to acquit Impeachy the Clown has betrayed his or her oath to the Constitution and should be run out of town via rail (not the Amtrak variety, but rather the splintery numbers without sleepers or a dining car).

Once delivered to Flyover Country the chickenshits should be issued orange jumpsuits, either too large or too small, equipped with masks crafted from the unlaundered undergarments of Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, and Tucker Carlson, and compelled to pick up roadside refuse, distribute vaccine, and build houses for the homeless.

You got time to doodle, read the paper, and put your feet up while doing the people’s business, you got time to pick up discarded diapers, broken bottles, and used rubbers.

How’s that for justice? The trash picking up the garbage.

An Unhappy Meal for Impeachy the Clown

February 10, 2021

We’re all bozos on this bus. Some of us more than others.

Well, I see the SS boys couldn’t keep Impeachy the Clown away from the TV all day yesterday, not even with hourly delivery of Happy Meals soaked in Thorazine.

No, he got word that his Name was being taken in vain, and he clenched his tiny fists and screeched like a gassy toddler, ordering aides to paint iguanas with the names “Raskin,” “Neguse,” and “Castor,” then biting off their heads. The iguanas, not the aides.

The House managers made Impeachy’s second-string legal team look like a couple of drunks pulled randomly from stools at Mar-a-Lago’s 19th hole. Their arguments for not going to trial were basically:

He didn’t do it.

Free speech! He was just sayin’, y’know?

Missed him, missed him, now you gotta kiss him!

Partisan Democrats!

Etc.

The Democrats said: “Let’s go to the tape!” Of which there was plenty.

Jesus H., etc. The writers at “SNL” can take this week off. They can just run with the transcript on this one. Maybe get Horny the Organic Shaman to do the cold open.

I know, I know; Impeachy’s tools could go full-on Clarence Darrow or just sit there and mumble “Fuck you” to everything the House managers say. The outcome is preordained.

But if they ever want to get honest work Castor and Schoen are going to need some more time at the practice tee. And they’ll get it, too. Impeachy is going to stiff them for this shit, and they’re gonna have to sue his fat ass for nonpayment, like everybody else.

Shelter from the Sturm und Drang

February 8, 2021

Sen. DeMille (R-Rome) makes a point of order.

Herself was giddy with anticipation this morning, chirping merrily about impeachment.

“It’s trial, not impeachment,” I mumbled as I lurched creakily out of bed. “He’s already been impeached. Twice.”

“Don’t give me any of your semantics,” she retorted, then sang, “Impeachment, impeachment, impeachment,” as she flounced out of the bedroom and back to her office, where she had already begun flogging herself with NPR’s “Morning Edition.”

Frankly, I have been enjoying hearing and reading next to nothing about you-know-who, which of course is exactly what they want. Who are “they,” you ask? You know. Them. Those guys.

I know, I know. He’s got it coming. And I’d like to see him get it, too. I mean, you don’t not prosecute the guy who robs the bank just because he had already fled the scene with the dinero. And chapeau to the House for taking another swing at this fat orange piñata.

But it all feels like one of those cast-of-thousands movies where all the wrong Romans wind up on the pointy end of the sword or quietly bleeding out in a bath somewhere. There are too many senators who think they can be the next Orange Julius Caesar, if only they can ensure that the rabble doesn’t get its togas in a twist.

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.