Day Six. Quoting God: “The Limits of My Power…You Gotta Understand…

godI was reading one of the many, many stories about the Pope’s comments as he travels about the world. Wow. I was fascinated by Benedict’s insights regarding God’s reaction to victims of abuse. Benedict believes–and since Benedict is the Pope and the Catholic Church decided back in the 1870 that the Pope is infallible in matters regarding what God believes, he (Benedict, not God) must per force be correct–that God weeps when He reads about victim abuse.

How does God know about these victims?

Well, maybe He listens to the stories on Fox News while he watches the Fox cuties as they cross and uncross their legs and wiggle their hoots. Or He surfs the net, you know, dude, the Pope reads Internet stories, always a good source of factual information.

Then, I remembered the teachings of my youth.

God knows everything. EVERY-Fucking-THING. He knows what happens, what’s happening, what will happen. He knows what we’re gonna do before we do it. That, of course, brings up the topic of predestination, which I broached with the Base Chaplain when I was 13 or so. A mistake, believe me. Anyway, I also recalled that God is…not only omniscient (He knows every-fucking-thing), He’s also omnipotent (He’s All-fucking-powerful). He can do anything He wants.

Which brings us to: if He knows everything and can do anything: why doesn’t He stop the abuse before it happens? You know, He could stop war, murder, all that shit? Not a new question, either, is it?

Well, what about an interview with God, kinda like the Republican debates, you know, with zingers. Gotchas, as the Donald calls ’em. Or is it The Donald, more or less like God? Or…The God, since there’s only one of Him.

Maybe I should spend my time contemplating my navel. That’s likely more enlightening than this drivel.

Howard Beale Commemorative

Remember the film Network? Faye Dunaway, Robert Duval…and Peter Finch, who received his Academy Award posthumously…for portraying the news anchor Howard Beale. Well, people, it’s time to throw open your windows and scream (at the top of your lungs) I’m mad as hell and I’m fucking not gonna put up with Donald Trump’s shit anymore.

But, as we know, that isn’t going to happen. Is it? Yeah, I thought not.

Instead of raging, foaming at the mouth crowds leaning out the windows of homes, apartments and towering tenements across the nation, we’re mousey dipshits who tap timorously at the door of the McMansion across the way. The big, solid steel door swings open and a towering manqué athlete glares down at us, his immense belly shaking like a giant blob of Jello before he growls What the fuck do you want, weasel? At this point in the scenario we shiver and whisper through trembling lips, “Please, sir, you’ve raped my wife and my daughter, you’ve shotgunned my poor cat, you’ve poisoned the wild birds I enjoyed feeding…and I’m moderately disturbed at what you’ve done to all that I care about in this world.”

Reddened eyes blazing, the monster snarls What the fuck do you think you’re gonna about it before I shit on your forehead…bigly…

“Well, sir, my young sister is visiting and I wondered if you might like to meet her? She’s still a virgin.”

That’s where we are, isn’t it? “Red line to cross” my ass. It’s a brown line between his butt cheeks and we’re inundated in what crosses that line at frequent intervals.

Insults, shaming and anonymity…nothing new…

I keep encountering an increasing quantity of stories concerning the omnipresence of insults, shaming (which I sense is another term for being insulted) and the incidence of vile comments on the Internet. Well, it ain’t new, folks; it’s just an adjunct of anonymity.

Anonymity has always lent itself as a protective cover for what are usually cowardly comments. Cowardly? Well, how many of the boys hurling invective would do so by themselves–no crowd of thugs surrounding them for protection–or if their real, personal identity were to be attached to every post, every insult, every profanity that passes their lips?

Still, it ain’t new.

In Greek times political commentary was often written using false names, nom de plumes employed in an attempt to divert the anger of the masses. Two thousand or so years later, the telephone became a wonderful way to hide one’s identiy when making irritating, obscene or threatening statements. An army cliche brought up the colonel who called a unit orderly room on the phone. The call was answered by a male voice saying, “hello…” instead of the obligatory “Bravo Two One (or whatever unit…), Corporal whomever speaking. May I help you, sir?” The colonel vented his spleen before asking who he was talking to. “You don’t know?” the voice asked. “No…” the colonel answered.

“Well, fuck you, asshole…”

Internet forums are filled with such comments. I abstain from Twitter and such but I’m sure it’s much worse than a simple forum. After all, the President lurks there, he and his legions of mindless mouthbreathers, knuckledraggers, boys who enjoy sex with their mothers, people who gobble human feces with a fork and other similar creatures.

But it isn’t new. Not at all.

Morons and Drones, Morons and…Stuff

Media seems mystified–at least media writers in Arizona and England–that morons with drones are endangering people by their moronic activities.

First: a moron in Arizona launched a drone (link to article here) so he could record firefighting aircraft involved in the Goodwin fire near Prescott, Arizona. Aircraft were diverted from their duties and forced to land. In an unusual conclusion to this type of incident, the moron who was operating the drone was apprehended and will stand charges. Next case: a moron controlling a drone near London’s Gatwick Airport caused a snarl in commercial flights (link here). No one has been arrested at the time the butthead (a pleasing euphemism for a moron) writing this drivel is so writing.

Morons with drones, morons with guns, morons with control of the US government, morons in control of governments around the world, moron executives at Volkswagen ordering engineers to create test-defying software for VW cars, moron engineers obeying orders (recall the trials after WWII? I wuz ordered to do it…). Oh, yeah. Include morons with computers and internet access.

Folks, the world is full of morons. (Wanna see my Donald Trump bobble-head doll? Wanna see me drive around hard-core right-wing Phoenix with the doll in the back window of my car? Wanna see some moron with a gun shoot the moron with the doll in his rear window?)

Stay tuned for the adventures of moronperson. He or she is everywhere, faster than a speeding bullet, able to create fantastic fuckups at a moment’s notice. Yeah.

A “Good” Government Shutdown!

The current soi disant President of the US is quoted as saying, “We need a good shutdown,” referring, of course, to a closure of most US government offices and downtime for most US government employees.

Isn’t this an oxymoron? Is there such a beast as a good government shutdown? Yes, I understand that the fatman in DC will soon pucker his lips in his inimitable simulation of fellatio and chide the press for not understanding sly sarcasm. Is what he writes at 4AM on Twitter really a form of sarcasm?

I don’t think so. Neither does my cat. (I refer to said feline because our opinions are of roughly equal importance.)  However, going along with the concept of a good government shutdown, let’s examine other occurances we might need.

What about a Good Nuclear War? Certainly our relationship with the other crazy fat man…the one in North Korea…makes this a possibility at same point in the reasonably near future.

Consider postulating, “my wife needs a…good beating?” Hmmm? Or even, “I need a good beating?” Likely there are people who would agree with the latter suggestion, including some readers of this drivel.

What we need is a good earthquake. Surely the PotoS in DC (Yeah, it’s correct. Pot of Shit.) believes folks on the left coast deserve a massive quiver in the faultline culminating in a slide into the Pacific.

What our nation needs is a good impeachment and conviction. Hopefully that event will occur before the nuclear war or even the government shutdown.

Self-Driving Cars: Absolutely, Positively Gotta Have One!

Woke up this morning–always a good sign–and realized that it’s Christmas Day 2016, which means I survived through another annual Christian holiday. This is three in a row since I played basketball with my head on the wooden floor of my office. Now that I seem to be back on track somewhat, I decided what I’d like for Christmas. Daddy. Please. Fucking Please, if that increases my possibility of getting what I want. Otherwise I’ll hold my breath until I turn purple. No. I take that back. I tried it a few years ago; didn’t like the way I felt.

So, back to what I want for Christmas.

I want a self-driving car, one like the Google God drives around cities clipping bicycles and flattening neighborhood pets who inopportunely wander onto the street. I’m not sure about the Tesla self-driver. It doesn’t see semi-trailers if they’re painted white. Cut the guy in the front seat’s head off but didn’t harm the computer. Gotta see the bright side, don’t we, Mr. Musk? Maybe Trump will require that all trailers and other large objects be painted a color the computer can see.

Self-driving cars seem like such a wonderful idea for people who don’t like to drive, people who know where they want to go before getting in the car, people who find such mundane tasks as turning the steering wheel while simultaneously operating fuel feed, clutch, gear shift and a multude of other controls just too, too boring. I mean, how many people do YOU know who pile into the family jalopy and go for a cruise around town with no idea of where they’re going to end up or even how they’re gonna get there? Surely no one…right?

These cars that drive themselves certainly are much more safe than the ones everyone else drives. Well, aren’t they? The only impediment in the path of self-driving cars is a bunch of cars driven by fucking human beings who don’t know where they’re going, don’t know how to get there and just want to poke around senselessly through town while cars that drive themselves need the road to themselves in order to be safe.

OK, so we remove people from the cars entirely. That’s a wonderful idea. Much more room inside for packages, items being delivered by Amazon, bags of drugs shipping from dealer distribution point to user end point, you get the idea. Car design changes are in line, too. No glass for windows; computer doesn’t need windows. No seats; computer doesn’t sit while it’s driving. No money wasted on colorful paint. Computer doesn’t care what color the car is.

Road requirements change simultaneously with the take-over of these new cars. No shitty scenic routes to be built or maintained. Computer don’t need no fuckin’ scenic route. More lanes available on extant roads. Computer don’t need space on each side to miss the other computer-driven cars. Lots more profit…LOTS MORE PROFIT…for Google, Amazon, Tesla, Uber, Unter, InsideYout, and all the poor, starving tech companies…when human-driven cars are removed from the roads.

What I really look forward to is self-driving motorcycles. Not enough space for packages, no practical application for the device, so it’s fun only for the computer itself. I’ll make sure my computer gets a Ducati.

Yep. I’m sold on the idea. Can’t you tell?

Donald Trump Sings: “I Am the Way!”


Remember Jonathan Loudon Wainwright III singing “I am the Way…” as he licked his lips lasciviously and leered at the audience? (I do, heard him play in Atlanta back in the ’70s). Not quite the same image as Donald Trump projected while quoting from his recently created stone tablets at the 2016 GOP Burning Bush Convention but certainly the lasciviousness was there and Wainwright’s lyrics would have been perfect with just a nip and a tuck. (Credit the Japan Times for the above image…)

With apologies to Mr. Wainwright for my gratuitous changes to his delightful song, without further ado, Here’s Donny! warbling his heart and soul out (as if he had a heart or a soul):

I was standing down in Cleveland Town one day
I was standing down in Cleveland Town one day
I was standing down in Cleveland Town one day

singing… I am the way

I can walk on the water and I can raise the dead
I can walk on the water and I can raise the dead
I can walk on the water and I can raise the dead
it’s easy…. I’m the way

(spoken: this song has a romantic part to it)

Don’t tell nobody but I kissed Magdalene
don’t tell nobody but I kissed Magdalene
don’t tell nobody but I kissed Magdalene
right on the mouth
I said Mary it’s okay I’m the way

(spoken: this is the pitiful part, especially come election day)

Every self-professed god gets a little hard luck sometimes
Every self-professed god gets a little hard luck sometimes
Every self-professed god gets a little hard luck sometimes
specially when he goes around saying he’s the way

I am the way
I am the way
I’m the way

Whitehouse Is On Lockdown According to DC Police

Washington, D.C.: 20 May 2016, Washington, D.C., police announced that the Whitehouse–yes, the home of the US President–was on temporary lockdown following an armed robbery in downtown DC. According to detectives on the scene at the Whitehouse, surveillance video taken from the convenience store that was robbed showed a tall, slender, graying African-American male who was in possession of two purloined six-packs of America’s Beer (the new name for a yellowish, piss-tasting beverage once known as Budweiser) as he sprinted from the parking lot. A clerk at the store identified mugshots of one Barrack Obama as the likely perpetrator of the heinous crime.

Police say Obama will be released to attend to his normal duties as soon as his whereabouts at the time of the robbery can be satisfactorily ascertained. None of his family members have been detained as of the latest police news release.

Putative GOP Presidential Nominee The Donald Trump says likely Obama will be deported to Africa once his guilt is proven as the subject has been unable to satisfactorily prove his US citizenship.

Reviews: Your Product Is the Equivalent of Human Excrement

Years ago when I first stumbled onto the internet (CHMOD Unix version), there were no reviews that I was aware of and certainly I wasn’t expected to write about a product I purchased through an internet connection. That wasn’t surprising, considering there weren’t any internet sales yet. That all came later.

First time I noticed a need to review a product I purchased was on eBay when I received a whiny email from the person from whom I’d bought some inconsequential item. Dude wanted feedback. I’d never heard of feedback, not in this particular context. Nonetheless, I provided the requisite positive note, no more than five or six words, seeing that what the seller sold to me was what he said it was and it arrived without being smashed.

Ah, for the old days. Well, feedback on eBay still isn’t too onerous (other than the gold stars for description, shipping, wet kisses (or the promise of such) that eBay wants us to give for each thing we buy or sell. However, now I receive pleading notes from vendors, stores, corporations, politicians, distant relatives and ex-wives wanting me to rate their services in each of fourteen categories all of which require at least fifty words.

Is Amazon the worst? Probably, I seldom rate anything for Amazon nor do I put much weight on the reviews of other possible purchasers of a product (other than the Rogaine (TM) that Jeff Bezos recommends which must be horrible stuff, something that couldn’t raise a shout with a large hammer). Recently I discovered that Amazon punishes vendors who don’t get enough ratings on their products.

OK, why the fuck should I spend my time writing about, for example, a fucking two dollar pen refill? If said refill isn’t the most miserable piece of shit I ever wasted two bucks on, surely I don’t want to write about it when I could be writing about something useful, say Burnie Sander’s nifty hairdo or Hillary Clinton’s invisible ethic cream.

So, to truncate this blather, here’s your review. We’ll divide it into bad news and good news. First, your product is synonymous with human excrement, particularly if you send every poor sucker who buys your shit a begging email wanting feedback. That’s the bad news. The good news is that Jeff Bezos rolls the reviews into little balls then eats them, one by one.

Maybe I’ll start writing more reviews.

Clinton vs. Sanders vs. McCarthy

16-02-28-cleangeneHilary Clinton just whupped Bernie Sanders in South Carolina, bringing back memories of Gene McCarthy in 1968, a man who roused support of the young and hopeful who saw their hopes dashed against the rocky coastline of money and entrenched power. Reaction of the disappointed: many of them didn’t vote at all, many stayed stoned for years to come, disavowing all interest in the flawed political process.

My memories may be cobwebbed and dusty but I think Clean Gene was a better man than either of the current aspirants to the Democratic presidential nomination. Admission: I didn’t feel that way back in ’68. In fact, all I wanted those many years in the past was to hang my army uniform on a hook and become a civilian again. I stayed stoned for years to come because I liked staying stoned.

My own political hopes of 1968? That the US would rinse away memories of Lyndon Johnson with a stiff shot of scotch and get on with being America, a land where the rich became richer, the poor became ever more poor and the guys in the middle received the mushroom treatment. (You know, kept in the dark and covered with shit…) Little did I realize the changes to come would be even worse that what I expected at the time and my expectations weren’t high.


So, now we have the Berner realizing that a man in his mid-70s who made his mark as a self-described Democratic Socialist would have about as much possibility of unseating the Queen of Mean as I do of getting in Britney Spear’s pants. (Note: I’m old and hefty–not as old as Bernie nor as hefty as Hilary–but Britney’s pants still wouldn’t fit me.) Money speaks in a deep, mellifluous voice; bullshit yells through an amplified bullhorn and flies in an airplane labeled Trump; and hope walks barefoot over the burning coals.


Yep, that’s the guy who will make us all shuck our shoes and tiptoe across the white-hot embers.

So, Hilary will assume the Democratic mantle, her smiling countenance peering from every available screen and surface while The Donald assumes the robe of assholiness that fits him so well and the rest of us are bent over the sawhorse of life where we shall be buggered until we learn to enjoy the sensation.

Below is an image of the putative First Lady (yeah, the old white-haired guy following two steps behind the putative President). Don’t that arouse pride in yer miserable chest, you puling, pukin’ piece of shit? (Note: image of Bill and Hill is by Matt Agudo. I hope he doesn’t mind if I borrow it. Image of Sanders and the McCarthy pin are both from Bing images. Trump and his bullhorn mouth is my modification of an Internet photo.)