Entries Tagged 'War' ↓

Snowball is out there, somewhere. Melting.
On the darkly steamed and swirling streets of the Old Orleans, he’s out there and whining, searching for a new master and a bite to eat. It’s not easy being a dog in a wet city. At least at the Superdome, Snowball had a chance because he was able to get handouts. Out on the street, there’s not much left save the thousands of bloated, poisoned bodies floating to Lake Pontchartrain.

It’s an amazing invention, really. Pork-chop-on-a-stick is about as American as burnt witches, tar pots, feather piles and hangman’s tree. It’s as American as Garrison Keillor is UNAmerican. Ugh. What a left-wing loon. Surely, the fabric of our society has been ripped to shreds when a radio personality – a radio “personality” can say “breast” on the air – and STILL keep his job. Roveites, Crawford Ranch Boys, please marshal up some righteous right-wing anger and cast this contemptuous comedian into the Caspian.

Maybe Keillor was confused. Perhaps he simply wanted to try chicken breast-on-a-stick, another American delicacy. But don’t get me started on chicken breast, perhaps the most patriotic of all stick foods. Moms and Dads, listen up: if you want your little girl to grow up right, feed her breast-on-a-stick. Apparently, the hormones we pump into our chickens are good for building big breasts – not just the chicken’s – that will undoubtedly make America strong again. Stick food, endowed chickens and a few dead witches. It’s what we need to beat back the horror of terror.

Loyalty is a dying bird.
Cast to the earth by the flung rocks of instant gratification and our incessant flavor of the moment obsession, to be loyal is to be past tense, out of it and just plain inferior.

Get what you want now. Do it now. Be it now. Waiting is for whiners and crybabies, and loyalty is the song losers sing when the moment has passed them by and they are left alone, clutching faded memories and wishing for better days.

You know who you are. You there, in the corner. Wishing for a better day to shine on your simple head; wishing for a person to come and rescue you from the long terminable illness that has you dying a little bit everyday; a little more rot coming off you at the edges with each waking moment. So what, you think to yourself. I can give it all up if I need to; I can leave it all behind.

So you think. But then you think again about how it all goes so fast. Poof – that’s it, nothing more, nothing less, nothing but a long day and a quick night – like a snap of your fingers, it’s gone. You build and build and climb and climb, and then at the perfectly right moment, a perfectly thrown rock knocks you and your little castle down to the ground.

‘Tis fitting. You really never were nothing more than a dead and rotten bird anyway.

Karl Rove has the stink on him. And no matter how many elections he’s won for Bubba and the Crawford Ranch Boys, getting stuck with pants around the ankles over the blown identity of a CIA agent wipes the slate clean.

Thanks, Tubby. See ya.

Rove, of course, may have other ideas. The Grand Lizard of the Republican Party, Rove knows about all the bodies and secret hallways; a phone call and, surely, the ghost of the Gipper will rise and smite Bubba’s precocious dreams of a legacy. You can see the undertow as the drama plays out on Scotty McClellan’s limp body: the Boys are tired of hiding their dirty little friend. He got them their House back, aye, but he is just not the kind of guy you like hanging around, he says mean and stupid things out loud and embarrasses the wives.

You can’t have a nice dinner with the Tubby Lizard. And now his own creation, his own pet, will turn around and eat him – the cycle of political life, the cycle of life at the Ranch, and, indeed, the appropriate payback for the Tubby Lizard.

Terri Schiavo is dead, and the Crawford Ranch Boys are not taking this one lightly. You can count on more government intervention, more oppression, more angry Republican rhetoric and, of course, more Witch Hunting.

This is, after all, the time of Witch Hunts and vengeance in America. First on the list will be that poor, befuddled judge in Atlanta, Stanley F. Birch, Jr., who thought someone cared in this cold, crazy place. He actually raised his eyes from the ground and looked the Devil in the face.

Mr. DeLay has a special place for him. But first, Tom will mourn for a woman he never knew. Then he will eat well and sleep like a King, and awake tomorrow, to the joy of seeking venegeance. The world he creates in Terri Schiavo’s name, in the gentle memory of Terri that Tom DeLay holds so dear, will be a shop of horrors for those of us who believe in freedom. Have a great day!

Laura Bush should attend a dogfight during her visit to Afghanistan. It would be good for her to see, and would perhaps provide some ideas on how to sharpen the point of Conservative blood lust. Tom DeLay, Dick Cheney and Don Rumsfeld may be mean and cold, but even they lack the sheer violent nature of an Afghan dog trained to kill. She may even want to referee, as officials at the older-than-old competition between canines are there to make sure all dogs fight, all the time. She should be able to apply lessons of persistence learned to the Terri Schiavo case, and make poor Terri � emancipated by years of tug-of-war between parents and husband � get back on that tube and fight for the right.

No good dog is out of it until the main artery spurts.

Of course, Laura knows this � and as she wings toward the veil-shrouded women so to show them what a real Christian Woman should look and act like, there�s no reason why she can�t weigh in on the Terri Schiavo tragedy.

Yes � it is a tragedy, because no one should be starved to death, least of all because the money designated for her treatment has gone to our very own fighting-lust dogs. The politicians and lawyers have the blood scent now, and they have gathered around, tugging and tearing at the carcass of a family�s misery, eating political capital and airtime and all the things so much more important to us, in our world. Terri Schiavo is dying a horrid death because of a family fight, kids are shooting up Minnesota schools, there�s a porn freak in the Boy Scouts, and Queen Laura is off to the land of poppies and dead dogs.

God Bless her.