Reaffiliations with my calendar, The Beatles, and my own private political junkie
Tomorrow is absolutely positively my last day to get a number of things done. I have no margin for fucking about.
So, I’m downloading Beatles songs that I don’t have. I can thank _phoebe for this. She knows why. Surprising to many I’m sure, but I don’t own every Beatles album. I never up and bought all of them at once when I became an “official” fan of the Fab Four. When you know most of their 200 regular releases off the top of your head anyway, it’s not something you go screaming down the street for in a naked rampage. Also, I have a hard time rationalizing $18 for an album that’s been out for 40 years. Hence, I scour the B’s in any given used section like a motherfucker. Besides, it always gave me something to look forward to – hey, I think it’s fair time to buy another Beatles album! Well, now it’s time, but Vinyl Fever ain’t open, so I’m downloading “Beatles for Sale”. Well, I’m piecemeal assembling it. Kazaa ain’t what it used to be.
Anyway, I have loads of crap to get done tomorrow. The day after that, Mom and the stepdad are in my apartment, and the next morning they’re taking me to the airport so I can fly to Austin. Once in Austin, I won’t be accountable for a goddamn thing. Nada. I keep feeling bad that I’m sure I’ll be missing something, but then I remember that there will never be a time when something isn’t trying to make me accountable for it, so… it’s just going to have to live without me for a week. That is the nature of a vacation.
On the non-personal front, today marked my reaffiliation with my own little political junkie. My calendar says today is supposed to be Day 1 of Ground Zero, the Sequel. First headline I see is celebrating the legions of peaceful demonstrations. Peaceful. PEACEFUL?! What the fuck? If this Jackoff-in-Chief isn’t a good cause to get pissed off and storm an arena full of elitist crooked sheep, then when the hell is? What this country needs is a good old fashioned American riot. I mean a full on battle royale with cheese. I want to see batons, horses, tear gas, protesters, shards of glass, bombs, people screaming and fucking full on fucking chaos. I want to see every Republican, Democrat, Jesus-freak, hippie, protester, social activist, cop, politician, and journalistic junkie beat the living shit out of each other on the Avenue of the Americas. That is the only thing that is going to make people realize that if we were going to be at war, it should be here, and it should have started well before 2001. Thomas Jefferson said this country should have a revolution every 20 years. Whether you want to interpret revolution as a bloody fight or a litigious flushing of the system, it’s moot because we need any of the above.
Peaceful. What the fuck is wrong with people, I swear to Christ. These people think a peaceful demonstration is going to prove anything? While hundreds of thousands of protestors walked by his house during the Vietnam Moratorium, Nixon watched a ball game. That shut the war down… about seven years later. Given the intelligence network feeding information to W., I’ll bet $20 the sonofabitch doesn’t even know there’s so much as a picket sign outside Madison Square Garden right now. I’ll bet right now there’s a do-boy in a suit talking to W., tucked into his bed, jammies on, drinking a glass of milk and eating an oatmeal cookie.
“Okay, Mr. President. Let’s go over this part of the speech one more time. ‘Fool us once, shame on you.’”
“Shame on me.”
“No, sir. ‘Shame on you.’”
“I just said that.”
“Yes, er – no sir. ‘Shame on you.’”
“Shame on me? But I’m not ashamed of anything.”
“Yes sir. But you need to say the words, ‘shame on you’. Can you just say the words?”
“What were they again?”
“Shame on you.”
“Shame on you.”
”Good. Fool us twice, shame on me.”
“Shame on you? What did you do, Jimmy?”
“I didn’t do anything, sir. That’s the speech.”
“But I don’t see any shame. Jesus told me to do it.”
“He loves me, you know.”
“He loves you, too.”
“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”
“It’s them sand niggers he’s got a problem with.”
“Sir, please don’t call them sand niggers. If the press–“
“But all the boys with cigars in the dark room call them sand niggers. And Jesus asked them to make me president.”
Jimmy sighs heavily and rubs eyes. In the meantime, hundreds of thousands march outside, unheard through sound-proof walls with the blinds drawn.
This country’s gotten soft, I swear. The poorest man in the country right now is the one with a patent on the Molotov cocktail. See, a million peaceful protesters ain’t got shit on one psycho motherfucker with a cause and a little imagination. For instance, let’s pick up at the end of our imagined scenario above…
“You see, Jimmy, Jesus talked to me one day while I was doing booger sugar and–“
A cinder block smashes through the window. Aides cover the president, while Secret Service men scurry like a freshly kicked ant pile. Jimmy, the aide, notices a note tied to the cinder block and reads it.
“Announce that you’re an incompetent dickweasel, everything you’ve ever said as a President has been a sordid lie, you’re in cahoots with the ‘terrorists’, and you only do what you’re told by the people who funded this charade.
P.S. I personally think you’re a jerk and a fuckhead, and I’ll only let you in heaven if you unload a .357 into Dick Cheney’s noggin after you decline the nomination. Don’t do this, and the next time this will be a block of plastique.”
Now that would be clever terrorism, or as I like to say, terrorific.
I should probably apologize for that little Vietnam Moratorium crack I made before. Let’s face it though: half the reason it was peaceful is probably because all the psycho motherfuckers with causes got their brains bashed in the year before at the DNC in Chicago. Though it is a strange coincidence that it was Nixon – y’know the Republican and spawn of Satan – in the White House after those infamous DNC riots. Am I saying that a riot at a convention means the other party is going to win? Yes, that is what I’m saying, and I’ll give you good money if you can prove me wrong. Now don’t come back until you’ve done interesting things with cinder blocks.
It’s kind of sad, retrospectively, when you realize that those do-nothing hippies at the DNC had more balls than the Democrats of today. And liberals wonder why they get a bad rap. I think it’s high time Bill Clinton and James Carville took Kerry and his slack-jawed punk of a campaign manager into the back kitchen of a barbeque pit in Arkansas and explained some things about how to not fucking lose an election.
Jesus. I’m calling on Bill Clinton to show someone how to have balls. That is a bad sign.
Okay, it’s about time I recap on the day’s atrocities in New York and cry in my beer.