Quick hypothetical; Lets say you've been living in the same house in the same neighborhood for your whole life, generations in fact. There have been some minor squabbles but for the most part you've managed to get along with the neighbors. Then one day, some outside landlord buys the house next door. After several tenants come and go, a real loudmouth thug moves in, making threats, beating his wife and kids. Finally, the bastard truly breaks bad, tares down your fence and declares your backyard to be part of his property. After an epic battle in the courts, he finally returns to his property and eventually gets evicted. 'Great!', you think, naturally, and you even help the landlord clean up the place. Everything seems peachy fucking keen for suburbia. And then the landlord moves in.
Suddenly, this brash wealthy landlord is building shit up, putting up new outbuildings and sheds near the property line, erecting tall steel fences with razor wire. Suddenly, it dawns on you that the last tenant wasn't the problem, you were, and the last tenant was only removed because he wasn't trouble enough for you. And the threats start up again. Local street kids who you've helped out in the past are declared gangs and you get blamed for running them. The landlord accuses you of possessing certain weapons that your neighbors have and freely flaunt but you've never showed any interest in. Finally, after dealing with years of threats, you sign a deal with the landlord promising to stop procuring these fictional weapons if the landlord backs off. Things calm down for a tip. Then the landlord pulls out of the deal and shit gets nuts again.
The landlord starts telling you that you better not attack any of his installations on your property line, as if you've been the aggressor. He starts warning all of your neighbors how dangerous you are until even they start to believe it. Heavily armed men start stalking the neighborhood menacingly. A large armored vehicle parks outside your house at all hours. Whenever it shows up, you get a phone call from the landlord, telling you in a steely draw that you better not attack his truck. You call the cops. They agree with you that the landlord is way out of line but even they are afraid to get on his bad side. They tell you 'tough luck motherfucker' and hang up abruptly. The shit gets worse. Several vehicles in the neighborhood are allegedly vandalized and naturally you're the one to blame. Scared and isolated, you start stalking up on weapons which only makes the threats increase. Soon the armored vehicle is parking on your lawn, grinding it's tires into the sod and flicking lit cigarettes into your flower beds. And it dawns on you, as the phone rings with the landlord undoubtedly on the other end, 'these crazy fuckers want me to attack them..." What do you do? I'm not telling you, I'm asking you. What do you do?
In case you haven't guessed, this is a Straw Dogs-style analogy for America's insane harassment campaign against the Islamic Republic of Iran. After a decade of fighting off the brutal attacks of America's Sumerian pit-bull, Saddam Hussein, Iran manages to put the little psycho in his place. The US finally turns on the maniac and overthrows him with Iran's help, only for it to become increasingly clear to helpful Iran that they were always the real target. You see, those damn Persians offended the landlord when they evicted his friend the Shah and got too close with their neighbors in the Kremlin. We strong armed them into signing a peace deal that kept them from developing weapons they likely never even attempted to acquire (though the Shah and Israel did), only to have us violate it and threaten them for not sticking to it even though they have. Over the last few weeks, Trump and his lunatic neocon death squad have stepped up the madness, repeatedly and menacingly warning Iran not to attack our imperial phalanx of illegal military installations surrounding them on all sides, blaming them for mysterious acts of vandalism that may or may not have even taken place and flooding the Gulf with cigarette flicking battleships and B-52 bombers.
So what did Iran do? So far nothing, which is the smartest move to make. Trump is literally begging Iran to strike and give him the Gulf of Tonkin he needs to justify the invasion he's been angling for since Sheldon Adleson paid him to do so. The only thing Iran can do is practice patience and allow the over eager warmongers of the administration-who-couldn't-shoot-straight to expose themselves for the fumbling aggressors that they are while China slowly bleeds their prolapsed empire dry. The so-called free world is still too petrified to stand up to that Helter Skelter ax murderer, Uncle Sam. But as his geostrategic failures begin to pile up higher than the corpses, from Korea to Iraq to Venezuela and beyond, it will become increasingly clear to these nations who have long been held hostage by this country, that it's days of primacy are numbered. We can only hope that Iran can wait out the landlord's clock and that Bolton isn't quite crazy enough to pull a false flag.
Keep the peace and keep hope alive, dearest motherfuckers. For where an empire is bleeding, there is still hope for peace and sometimes hope is all we've got.
Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post
* Let's Lynch the Landlord by Dead Kennedys
* Gimme Shelter by the Rolling Stones
* The Crying Game by Boy George
* I'm Waiting for the Man by the Velvet Underground
* Under Pressure by Queen & David Bowie
* Grow Into a Ghost by Swearin
* Ring of Fire by Johnny Cash
* Shitty Ballet by Bleached
* Rock the Casbah by the Clash
* Time is On My Side by the Rolling Stones
Sunday, May 26, 2019
Sunday, May 19, 2019
Pledging Allegiance to the Divided States of America
I'm a pessimist because of intelligence, but an optimist because of will
-Antonio Gramsci
When the individual's behavior and consciousness get hooked to a routine sequence of external actions, he is a dead robot, and it is time for him to die and be reborn. Time to "drop out", "turn on", and "tune in."
-Timothy Leary
America, the indispensable nation. That old jingoistic canard gets tossed around like confetti in this country, while the rest of the world rolls their collective eyes and crack their collective knuckles. According to patriotic lore, America is some beige, color-blind, miracle designed by the greatest white philosophers since Socrates to free the world from its backwards indigenous ways with the magic of global capitalism. Naturally, this is all bullshit. The kind of sad pep-talk a date-rapist gives himself in the mirror before showering his glamour muscles in Axe body spray. There is absolutely nothing miraculous about America but that doesn't mean that it isn't exceptional.
America is an exceptionally cruel experiment in the outer reaches of colonial social engineering. We are a nation defined by the two greatest holocausts in recorded history, spanning three continents and an entire hemisphere. America as we know it was founded by an ambitious collection of European super-colonialists who found themselves and their nations increasingly depleted of the wealth they accumulated from the Crusades. So they traveled the seas in search of greener pastures to irrigate with more dark-skinned blood. They found their sainted killing fields of Shangri-La in the New World and with the superiority of their steel, they decided to take the Americas by force and slaughter anyone who stood in their way. But with an entire hemisphere half empty of its indigenous inhabitants, these European overlords found themselves with too much work for their feeble bourgeois fingers to handle, so they filled their new colonies with shiploads of slaves pilfered from the jungles of Africa to build a nation on their scarred shoulders, murdering millions more in the process and permanently hobbling another entire continent.
But even slave-driving proved too onerous for our glorious founding fathers, so they brought in floods of refugees from their more battered European neighbors to serve as a pauper class between the WASPs and their shackled human property. The result of this massive game of Red Rover was a badly cobbled together empire that lacked the royal blood and soil that usually held the illusion of the European-style nation state together. New races had to be constructed to justify their class division. Scores of seemingly incongruous tribes were lumped together into massive racial conglomerations known as White and Colored (later to be broken down into Black and Brown). Whenever the numbers of the people of color swelled to numbers that threatened the White master race, whole chunks were chiseled off and arbitrarily declared White. Irish, Italians, Jews; we were all niggers once until we became more useful as White insulation than dark fodder.
Eventually, however, these badly manufactured moving lines collapsed beneath the weight of their own absurdity and racism was traded in, at least officially, for a new imperial creed of neoliberal globalism and market order. And so yesterday's White supremacists became today's racial harmony loving progressive internationalists, using the racism which they once thrived upon to justify their existence in order to prevent others from engaging in the kind of genocides that made them pillars of international order. Appeals to good old fashioned White supremacy are still trotted out from time to time by the likes of Donald Trump to rally those still suspicious of the new order around it with the vestiges of the old, and the racist power structure remains largely untouched where it remains useful in the courts and prisons, regardless of the politically correct language they have adopted like menthol to numb their pollution. Never the less, by and large, globalization is the new White.
What we're left with as this strange bastard empire slouches towards Bethlehem to die in a hail of bullets is a colossal landmass of lost souls without purpose. As we cling to the wreckage of our manufactured mass tribes we descend deeper and deeper into nihilistic violence and self destruction. We are ravaged by plagues of mass shootings and narcotics addiction. While our mandarins continue to start unwinnable crusades in a sad attempt to revive their past glories, we stand as a nation on the brink of a societal collapse unlike any seen since the Roman Empire. But in this crisis I can't help but to see great opportunities. Every apocalypse presents an opportunity, however fleeting, for utopia.
In the case of a post-racial/post-colonial America, I see the opportunity for a thousand utopias. Cleaved from the chains of more traditional national identities, American's and the citizenry of other vast neocolonial experiments like Canada and Australia have been granted the ability to redefine themselves however they goddamn please. What race do you want to be? What gender feels like freedom? What do you want to call your new species? We can choose to cling to our past as prisoners of a horrific imperial experiment, we can wallow in aggrievement and victimhood and go down with this rusted hulk of a slave ship, or we can rise above it, wipe the slate clean and create new tribes around the more abstract and less constraining concepts of love and community, family and kinship, anarchy and liberty.
There is no reason why hillbillies can't live on trout and moonshine in Appalachia while hippie dykes macro-may rainbow flags in New England and Mormon Fundamentalists build a new Zion in the deserts of Utah. There is no reason why we cant have Mutualism in Kansas, Syndicalism in Pennsylvania, Communism in Vermont, Paleolibertarianism in Oklahoma and Agorism in Florida. Hell, there's no reason we can't have them all in one city block. Ultimately, the only way to save this thing called America is to break this thing called America. This nation was a hideous mistake but it doesn't have to be our prison. All we have to do is embrace the endless possibilities of a voluntary society by dropping out of this broken involuntary one.
United we fall, divided we stand, dearest motherfuckers. Now lets Balkanize this bitch before the Chinese get a chance to pick at the bones. Viva la secession!
Peace, Love & Empathy- CH
Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post
* Rush by Big Audio Dynamite 2
* Severed by the Decemberists
* Read My Mind by Boygenius
* Sit Down by James
* You Can't Put Your Arms Around a Memory by Johnny Thunders
* I'm Free by the Soup Dragons
* Private World by New York Dolls
* Come Together by Primal Scream
* This Must Be the Place by Talking Heads
Sunday, May 12, 2019
Trump's War In Venezuela Could Be Che's Revenge
Che Guevara had a dream. After decades of chasing the American Empire into guerrilla street fights from Guatemala to the Congo, Che dreamed of drawing that dreadful beast into an unwinnable quagmire on the graves of its first victims in the heart of Latin America, the treacherous mountain forests of Bolivia where the Conquistadors first struck it rich with Indio silver. Che dreamed of revenge for centuries of violence, of rape, genocide and colonialism. He dreamed of creating another Vietnam in the Western Hemisphere that would spread across Uncle Sam's indentured colonies and liberate his people, all of his people, from Tierra del Fuego to Tijuana and beyond. Che chased this Quixotic dream into the rugged highlands of Bolivia in 1966 where he got more than he bargained for. Less than a year later he would be dead at the hands of a CIA death squad. But his dream remained, festering just beneath the flesh of a thousand banana republics.
Flash forward to a half century later. Just a few jungles north-west of Che's grave, in the embattled nation of Venezuela. May 1st, May Day in this year of our lord Satan, twenty-hundred-and-nineteen. Everything should have gone perfectly. Everything was in place for Washington's latest Latino coup de tat. After softening up the oil rich left-wing pariah state with decades of crippling sanctions and economic sabotage, the stage was finally set. Uncle Sam's latest camera-ready caudillos, Juan Guaido and Leopoldo Lopez, a couple of scrumptiously fuckable brown choir boys who appear to have been hand plucked from Manudo by the School of the Americas had secured the loyalty of a score of Venezuelan power brokers from the Supreme Court to the Presidential Guard. The night before, Guaido announced his final triumphant putsch in the form of a march to his master's house at the American embassy in Caracas. A profound publicity stunt in which the entirety of Nicholas Maduro's fiercely loyal army would join him in overthrowing their own democratically elected government. His Employer in Chief seconded the motion vis a vis Twitter. It all should have gone perfectly, like a thousand times before.
To say it didn't would be an understatement to say the least. To say the most, Guaido's latest recital of counter-revolutionary puppet theatre became the geostrategic equivalent of Donald Trump shitting his tux on prom night. Guaido's little victory march turned into a laughable pity parade, with Kid Pinochet joined only by a handful of rent-a-thugs in military cosplay. His calls for open revolt fell on deaf ears in all but the toniest barrios of the capital where the entire spectacle was epitomized by the sight of bougie rioteers in Dolce Gabbana, chucking Molotov cocktails. The Supreme Court and the Presidential Guard may have played hooky but the peasants didn't. Upon word of Uncle Sam's latest plan to pervert their nation, even Maduro's enemies flooded the streets in rallies for his defense and, more importantly, the defense of the Bolivarian Revolution. If it wasn't for the cowardly actions of one role-crazy tank driver in Tienanmen mode, the whole flopped coup may have been a virtually bloodless affair.
Naturally, the Administration Who Couldn't Shoot Straight excepted defeat with all the honor and modesty of the Bad News Bears. Trump's troika of tyrannic twats, Mike Pompeo, Elliot Abrams and Lucifer's favorite mental midget, John Bolton, went berzerk scrambling for excuses to explain their complete and total humiliation at the hands of a porno-stashed ex bus driver nearly universally despised by his own people. It was Russia! It was, it was China! No! Hezbollah! No Cobra Kai! John Kreese himself coaxed Maduro off the tarmac with a hardy pep talk and told him to sweep the leg. Yeah, that's it. No! It was those wily Cubans again, just like in Grenada. According to Satan's push-broom, half their goddamn army blocked a sure thing without firing a bullet. Stealthy motherfuckers, those Cubans. Like goddamn ninjas, not one naked eye saw them coming or going. Anything, any excuse, any explanation other than the simple fact that Trump got punked and shit the bed. How did this happen? Latin American coups are supposed to be America's last growth industry. We use to overthrow another democracy every other week back in the Dulles days. What have we become? What went wrong?
The most painfully obvious reason, at least to anybody outside the swamplands of the Beltway, is that the American Empire has become a joke and Trump is the punchline. Lets face it, somebody should, after Ahmed Chalabi and the boys from Tel Aviv convinced the indispensable nation to hand half the Middle East over to Al Qaeda in a doggy-bag we became a little less indispensable. But aside from the inevitable decline of the west, the best answer for why the Bolivarian Republic couldn't be flipped like Honduras or Ukraine is the simple fact that it is indeed a republic, a democracy who's foundation predates even Maduro's far more honorable predecessor, Hugo Chavez, with the creation of the grassroots council communist experiment of the Barrio Assembly of Caracas in 1991.
Over a decade later, this movement was consecrated with its own popular revolution, not with the election of Chavez but with his defense in the streets during America's most successful or rather least unsuccessful modern Venezuelan coup attempt in 2002. Revolution is the original direct democracy. Once a people have fought and bled for a republic or any cause for that matter that they can call their own, it becomes very hard, even with state reinforced poverty, to convince them to sell it up the river for a song, especially if the lyrics are in English. This is why Cuba still stands firm as a viable anti-colonialist boogeyman after decades of Yanqui skulduggery. If anything, Trump made Maduro more powerful, which leaves him with all out war as his last option.
This is where Che comes in again. That's right, dearest motherfuckers, full circle time. Chances are, Trump is simply flexing his flabby glamour muscles for those decomposing fossils back in Little Havana. But if Bolton has his way, and never count that sick fucker out, every bluster will end in a ground war and a ground war in Venezuela would be a complete and total unmitigated disaster for the world's last superpower, an Iraq sized black hole in the heart of Bolivar country. This disaster however could be an unexpected gift from the devil himself to Latin America's flagging anti-imperialist left, from the fearsome collectivos to the resilient Shinning Path. Che spoke at length about the strategic value of creating two, three, many Vietnams to sap the American Empire of its resources across the Third World. With Afghanistan, Syria and possibly Iran, a costly war south of the border could be the final Vietnam that Che dreamed of and died for in Bolivia. Trump's war in Venezuela could be Che's revenge.
Call me a communist, dearest motherfuckers(we actually prefer Kropotkinite-American), but I can't think of a more fitting end for a more despicable Imperial experiment. Death by greed on the stoop of Potosi, in the dark heart of where it all began, with Che's wicked laughter hanging like cigar smoke above the ruins. I hate war, but with any luck this could be America's last.
Peace, Love & Empathy- CH
Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post
* Every Body Here Hates You by Courtney Barnett
* Police Truck by Dead Kennedy's
* Tough Enough by Ex Hex
* Fake Empire by the National
* Comeback Kid by Sleigh Bells
* Ahead by Wire
* North American Scum by LCD Soundsystem
* Mousetrap by Some Velvet Sidewalk
Flash forward to a half century later. Just a few jungles north-west of Che's grave, in the embattled nation of Venezuela. May 1st, May Day in this year of our lord Satan, twenty-hundred-and-nineteen. Everything should have gone perfectly. Everything was in place for Washington's latest Latino coup de tat. After softening up the oil rich left-wing pariah state with decades of crippling sanctions and economic sabotage, the stage was finally set. Uncle Sam's latest camera-ready caudillos, Juan Guaido and Leopoldo Lopez, a couple of scrumptiously fuckable brown choir boys who appear to have been hand plucked from Manudo by the School of the Americas had secured the loyalty of a score of Venezuelan power brokers from the Supreme Court to the Presidential Guard. The night before, Guaido announced his final triumphant putsch in the form of a march to his master's house at the American embassy in Caracas. A profound publicity stunt in which the entirety of Nicholas Maduro's fiercely loyal army would join him in overthrowing their own democratically elected government. His Employer in Chief seconded the motion vis a vis Twitter. It all should have gone perfectly, like a thousand times before.
To say it didn't would be an understatement to say the least. To say the most, Guaido's latest recital of counter-revolutionary puppet theatre became the geostrategic equivalent of Donald Trump shitting his tux on prom night. Guaido's little victory march turned into a laughable pity parade, with Kid Pinochet joined only by a handful of rent-a-thugs in military cosplay. His calls for open revolt fell on deaf ears in all but the toniest barrios of the capital where the entire spectacle was epitomized by the sight of bougie rioteers in Dolce Gabbana, chucking Molotov cocktails. The Supreme Court and the Presidential Guard may have played hooky but the peasants didn't. Upon word of Uncle Sam's latest plan to pervert their nation, even Maduro's enemies flooded the streets in rallies for his defense and, more importantly, the defense of the Bolivarian Revolution. If it wasn't for the cowardly actions of one role-crazy tank driver in Tienanmen mode, the whole flopped coup may have been a virtually bloodless affair.
Naturally, the Administration Who Couldn't Shoot Straight excepted defeat with all the honor and modesty of the Bad News Bears. Trump's troika of tyrannic twats, Mike Pompeo, Elliot Abrams and Lucifer's favorite mental midget, John Bolton, went berzerk scrambling for excuses to explain their complete and total humiliation at the hands of a porno-stashed ex bus driver nearly universally despised by his own people. It was Russia! It was, it was China! No! Hezbollah! No Cobra Kai! John Kreese himself coaxed Maduro off the tarmac with a hardy pep talk and told him to sweep the leg. Yeah, that's it. No! It was those wily Cubans again, just like in Grenada. According to Satan's push-broom, half their goddamn army blocked a sure thing without firing a bullet. Stealthy motherfuckers, those Cubans. Like goddamn ninjas, not one naked eye saw them coming or going. Anything, any excuse, any explanation other than the simple fact that Trump got punked and shit the bed. How did this happen? Latin American coups are supposed to be America's last growth industry. We use to overthrow another democracy every other week back in the Dulles days. What have we become? What went wrong?
The most painfully obvious reason, at least to anybody outside the swamplands of the Beltway, is that the American Empire has become a joke and Trump is the punchline. Lets face it, somebody should, after Ahmed Chalabi and the boys from Tel Aviv convinced the indispensable nation to hand half the Middle East over to Al Qaeda in a doggy-bag we became a little less indispensable. But aside from the inevitable decline of the west, the best answer for why the Bolivarian Republic couldn't be flipped like Honduras or Ukraine is the simple fact that it is indeed a republic, a democracy who's foundation predates even Maduro's far more honorable predecessor, Hugo Chavez, with the creation of the grassroots council communist experiment of the Barrio Assembly of Caracas in 1991.
Over a decade later, this movement was consecrated with its own popular revolution, not with the election of Chavez but with his defense in the streets during America's most successful or rather least unsuccessful modern Venezuelan coup attempt in 2002. Revolution is the original direct democracy. Once a people have fought and bled for a republic or any cause for that matter that they can call their own, it becomes very hard, even with state reinforced poverty, to convince them to sell it up the river for a song, especially if the lyrics are in English. This is why Cuba still stands firm as a viable anti-colonialist boogeyman after decades of Yanqui skulduggery. If anything, Trump made Maduro more powerful, which leaves him with all out war as his last option.
This is where Che comes in again. That's right, dearest motherfuckers, full circle time. Chances are, Trump is simply flexing his flabby glamour muscles for those decomposing fossils back in Little Havana. But if Bolton has his way, and never count that sick fucker out, every bluster will end in a ground war and a ground war in Venezuela would be a complete and total unmitigated disaster for the world's last superpower, an Iraq sized black hole in the heart of Bolivar country. This disaster however could be an unexpected gift from the devil himself to Latin America's flagging anti-imperialist left, from the fearsome collectivos to the resilient Shinning Path. Che spoke at length about the strategic value of creating two, three, many Vietnams to sap the American Empire of its resources across the Third World. With Afghanistan, Syria and possibly Iran, a costly war south of the border could be the final Vietnam that Che dreamed of and died for in Bolivia. Trump's war in Venezuela could be Che's revenge.
Call me a communist, dearest motherfuckers(we actually prefer Kropotkinite-American), but I can't think of a more fitting end for a more despicable Imperial experiment. Death by greed on the stoop of Potosi, in the dark heart of where it all began, with Che's wicked laughter hanging like cigar smoke above the ruins. I hate war, but with any luck this could be America's last.
Peace, Love & Empathy- CH
Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post
* Every Body Here Hates You by Courtney Barnett
* Police Truck by Dead Kennedy's
* Tough Enough by Ex Hex
* Fake Empire by the National
* Comeback Kid by Sleigh Bells
* Ahead by Wire
* North American Scum by LCD Soundsystem
* Mousetrap by Some Velvet Sidewalk
Sunday, May 5, 2019
Boredom and Suffering and Safety and Liberty
I'm not going to lie to you, dearest motherfuckers. My life is kind of a dumpster fire right now. In fact, it's been kind of a dumpster fire for the last few years. Even aside from my clinical crosses to bare: anxiety, depression, OCD, ADD, IBS, Lyme disease, dysphoria, bubonic plague, etc: The last few years have felt like a Macy's Day Parade of Ballardian car crashes. My grandmother gets dementia and has to be moved through fifty different fucking homes because none of them can be bothered to treat her like a goddamn human being unless their paid in speed boats. My cat and loyal companion of nearly twenty years loses both thyroids, shits everywhere and slowly dies on me. Then my best humanoid friend since high school up and moves to a different goddamn continent. Then my father gets run over by a sleep deprived paper-man and finds out he has cancer in the emergency room. Then some sick fuck shoots a geezer and blows his brains out next door to my loony Nana's latest nursing home. Then the cops murder another friend in cold blood for being autistic while black. And then and then and then and then....
It's gotten to the point where I've begun having weekly panic attacks reducing me to sobbing jello thrashing violently on my bathroom floor. It didn't use to be this way. Its times like these I actually miss being a shut-in. During the agoraphobic half of my twenties my days were typically structured around doing whatever the fuck I felt like whenever the fuck I felt like it. I could binge watch a half dozen French horror movies or completely lose myself killing cops on Grand Theft Auto and sink a week into researching the finer points of Wilhelm Reich's Orgone Therapy. I had no friends, no blog, no job, no obligations whatsoever. When the outside world got too menacing I could just make myself disappear like a ghost in my parents basement where they'd never find me. I had nothing to fear and that was the point. The universe had grown too goddamn big for me to cope with, so I chose to make the universe go away and become a hermit with no worries. No worries, that is, except my crippling loneliness, my total disgust with my biological sex, my fear of dying alone in that goddamn basement and my downright terminal boredom. And that's the trade off.
Madame de Stael once mused that, in life, one must choose between boredom and suffering, and I've spent the better part of the more stressful half of my twenties learning this lesson the hard way. My life in isolation may have been safe but it was also totally unfulfilling. As terrifying and painful as the last few years of my life have been I have fucking lived them and I've lived them my way. I've turned my little blog into a genuine menace to society. I have embraced the Lokian spiritual chaos of my fluid gender identity. I have made friends with everyone from single-black mothers to neofascist wack-jobs, the two most dangerous kinds of people on earth. I've also become a contributing editor to the worlds most dangerous website, Attack the System, not to mention a regular contributor to the vanguard of the Fifth Estate, CounterPunch. I've found my place in a tribe that I've been searching for my whole life and I volunteer handling diseased piss and blood for my people at a free AIDS clinic. Not only have I embraced my participation in the joyful suffering of the world but I've embraced outright danger. I have embraced anarchy, not just as a philosophy but as a lifestyle, and those things are very much related.
In life, one must chose between boredom and suffering. Similarly, I've come to believe that in politics, one must choose between safety and liberty. As a shut-in, I embraced safety, not just as a lifestyle but as a philosophy. I was a dutiful state socialist and the idea of a well regulated egalitarian society was as appealing to me as the shelter of my parent's basement. As a recovering hermit in the mad world I've come to find my past affection for benevolent statism to be almost as stifling as the mask of my former gender identity. The truth is, that a world of strict gun control, Scandinavian style welfare and the prohibition of victimless crimes probably would be safer. But it would be as boring as living in a human zoo. Sure, we'd all be well fed and taken care of, but we wouldn't be free. Like my former existence as a shut-in, it would be safe but totally unfulfilling. And for some people maybe that's enough, but I simply can't bare to live that way anymore. I didn't choose the terrifying liberty of the outside world to be a part of a society that's just as safe as my parent's basement.
So I've decided to embrace suffering, even with all its heartbreaks and panic attacks. And I've decided to embrace the liberty of anarchism even with all it's overdoses, border jumpers and active shooters, because, like another quotable corpse named Zapata once quipped, I would rather die on my feet than live on my knees. Come hell, dearest motherfuckers. Come hell.
Peace, Love, Suffering and Liberty- CH
Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post
* This Is Why We Fight by the Decemberists
* Human Zoo by Built to Spill
* The Running Styles of New York by the Tallest Man On Earth
* Me and My Dog by Boygenius
* Neat Neat Neat by the Damned
* Wild One by Iggy Pop
* Wedding Singer by Modern Baseball
* My Way by Sid Vicious
* Imitations of Life by REM
* Shades of Blue by Yo La Tengo
* Free at Last by PUP
* Float On by Modest Mouse
It's gotten to the point where I've begun having weekly panic attacks reducing me to sobbing jello thrashing violently on my bathroom floor. It didn't use to be this way. Its times like these I actually miss being a shut-in. During the agoraphobic half of my twenties my days were typically structured around doing whatever the fuck I felt like whenever the fuck I felt like it. I could binge watch a half dozen French horror movies or completely lose myself killing cops on Grand Theft Auto and sink a week into researching the finer points of Wilhelm Reich's Orgone Therapy. I had no friends, no blog, no job, no obligations whatsoever. When the outside world got too menacing I could just make myself disappear like a ghost in my parents basement where they'd never find me. I had nothing to fear and that was the point. The universe had grown too goddamn big for me to cope with, so I chose to make the universe go away and become a hermit with no worries. No worries, that is, except my crippling loneliness, my total disgust with my biological sex, my fear of dying alone in that goddamn basement and my downright terminal boredom. And that's the trade off.
Madame de Stael once mused that, in life, one must choose between boredom and suffering, and I've spent the better part of the more stressful half of my twenties learning this lesson the hard way. My life in isolation may have been safe but it was also totally unfulfilling. As terrifying and painful as the last few years of my life have been I have fucking lived them and I've lived them my way. I've turned my little blog into a genuine menace to society. I have embraced the Lokian spiritual chaos of my fluid gender identity. I have made friends with everyone from single-black mothers to neofascist wack-jobs, the two most dangerous kinds of people on earth. I've also become a contributing editor to the worlds most dangerous website, Attack the System, not to mention a regular contributor to the vanguard of the Fifth Estate, CounterPunch. I've found my place in a tribe that I've been searching for my whole life and I volunteer handling diseased piss and blood for my people at a free AIDS clinic. Not only have I embraced my participation in the joyful suffering of the world but I've embraced outright danger. I have embraced anarchy, not just as a philosophy but as a lifestyle, and those things are very much related.
In life, one must chose between boredom and suffering. Similarly, I've come to believe that in politics, one must choose between safety and liberty. As a shut-in, I embraced safety, not just as a lifestyle but as a philosophy. I was a dutiful state socialist and the idea of a well regulated egalitarian society was as appealing to me as the shelter of my parent's basement. As a recovering hermit in the mad world I've come to find my past affection for benevolent statism to be almost as stifling as the mask of my former gender identity. The truth is, that a world of strict gun control, Scandinavian style welfare and the prohibition of victimless crimes probably would be safer. But it would be as boring as living in a human zoo. Sure, we'd all be well fed and taken care of, but we wouldn't be free. Like my former existence as a shut-in, it would be safe but totally unfulfilling. And for some people maybe that's enough, but I simply can't bare to live that way anymore. I didn't choose the terrifying liberty of the outside world to be a part of a society that's just as safe as my parent's basement.
So I've decided to embrace suffering, even with all its heartbreaks and panic attacks. And I've decided to embrace the liberty of anarchism even with all it's overdoses, border jumpers and active shooters, because, like another quotable corpse named Zapata once quipped, I would rather die on my feet than live on my knees. Come hell, dearest motherfuckers. Come hell.
Peace, Love, Suffering and Liberty- CH
Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post
* This Is Why We Fight by the Decemberists
* Human Zoo by Built to Spill
* The Running Styles of New York by the Tallest Man On Earth
* Me and My Dog by Boygenius
* Neat Neat Neat by the Damned
* Wild One by Iggy Pop
* Wedding Singer by Modern Baseball
* My Way by Sid Vicious
* Imitations of Life by REM
* Shades of Blue by Yo La Tengo
* Free at Last by PUP
* Float On by Modest Mouse
Sunday, April 28, 2019
Trans-Tribalism or: Why Traditionalists Should Stop Worrying and Embrace the Queer Revolution
I like conservatives. Not all conservatives. Not the bomb bomb bomb bomb bomb Iran kind or the endangered white male victim kind. But the Traditionalist kind. The Old Right, Paleolibertarian, fuck-you-mind-your-own-damn-business kind. I like people like Bill Kaufman, Wendell Berry, Ron Paul and H.L. Mencken. I admire the prose and courage of Yukio Mishima. I appreciate the insight of Martin Heidegger. I think Oswald Spengler's ideas are at least as prophetic as those of Gramsci and Marx. I even think Alain de Benoist has a few good ideas (and about 67 bad ones). Justin Raimondo used to be one of my favorite writers before he mysteriously vanished up Donald Trump's orange asshole. And I consider antifa-hate-thing Troy Southgate to be a personal friend of mine.
This isn't to say that I consider myself to be a conservative. Not by a long shot. I'm a queer Yippie anarchist who's madly in love with the Frankfurt School, still reactively defends the legacy of the Cuban Revolution and supports reparations, albeit voluntary ones. I've been called an SJW so many times, I mistake it for my initials. But I also have a lot in common with the more anti-establishment fringes of the right. I love guns, hate the government and despise Joe Biden almost as much as I do Hillary Clinton. I genuinely believe that an ideal society should be centered around agrarian village life and that the millionaires in Manhattan and Bel Air are so divorced from reality that they don't even realize that they're already living in hell. I even got my start sharpening my literary teeth as an online provocateur on the boards of the isolationist antiwar.com. (Scott Horton won't publish me because he has a bug up his ass about Gonzo journalism but my dear friend Angela Keaton will probably die trying to convince him otherwise, god bless her soul.) But in spite of all this common ground, most Traditional Conservatives don't like me. Most Traditional Conservatives don't like me because they are repulsed by my fluid gender identity.
The general opinion of many of the few fabulous conservatives on trannies like me is that we're some kind of perverted aberration of decadent western values. The painfully ironic thing is that this couldn't be farther from the truth. With the recent revival of pre-Christian ideals on the Traditional Right their remains no more logical reason for these folks not to embrace the burgeoning Queer Revolution. The whole concept of two biologically exclusive genders is the product of puritanical Judeo-Christianity and malignant metropolitan modernity. Long story short, it is the gender binary that is the perverted aberration of decadent western values.
Nearly all ancient pre-Christian civilizations from the Amazon to the Danube recognized the existence of third genders, people who in today's world would be labeled transgender. Many pagan deities from Odin to Dionysus exhibited gender bending attributes and in the ancient world many people like me were not only accepted but revered members of our tribes, often serving as shaman or medicine women. To this day, the tribal communities least affected and most resistant to modern "progress" retain space for people outside of the gender binary, from the Muxe of Zapotec Oaxaca to the Hijra of rural india.
In this light, the rise of "new" gender identities outside of the binary should be seen in a similar light to the rise of the Neopagan Movement. We are people struggling to honor our spirits beyond the limited opportunities of the modern scientific establishment that holds so little respect for the sacred. We are trying to return to the roots of a more spiritual society. I could give you reams of scientific studies showing that gender identities like my own originate in the womb. But labels and numbers will always fail to capture the transcendent peace I find expressing my androgyny through ritual and community. Being transgender, whether you identify as genderqueer, non-binary, two-spirit or genderfluid, is a profoundly spiritual experience. It is something deeply sacred that is ingrained in our very souls. Something that centuries of modern tyranny failed to suppress. We are not the product of late-capitalist decadence. We are a rejection of its shallow materialistic values. We have been given a choice and we have chosen our souls over our bodies. Something tells me that Jung would be proud.
In this new era of climate catastrophe and technological isolation, as empires crash and burn like wayward zeppelins, young people across the spiritually depleted expanse of the First World are looking inward for salvation. With the uncanny connectivity of modernties great suicide machine known as the internet, a new era of tribal awareness is upon us. People have grown weary of the empty commercialism and savage ultraviolence of progress. We want something new. We want something old. We want to belong. The age of ethnic class division has reached a fever pitch in this twilight of suburbs and towers. The new tribes will not be built upon the petty distinctions of biology but by the metaphysical power of the soul that truly connects us. To those on the right who I admire but still make the mistake to disparage my tribe, I am here to say, I am with you. We are all on the same side of history. Lets make it together.
Peace, Love & Empathy- CH
Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post
* Human Behavior by Bjork
* Roots Bloody Roots by Sepultura
* (Nothing But) Flowers by Talking Heads
* The Suburbs by Father John Misty
* Life On Mars by David Bowie
* The Glorious Land by PJ Harvey
* Call From the Grave by Bathory
* Staralfur by Sigur Ros
This isn't to say that I consider myself to be a conservative. Not by a long shot. I'm a queer Yippie anarchist who's madly in love with the Frankfurt School, still reactively defends the legacy of the Cuban Revolution and supports reparations, albeit voluntary ones. I've been called an SJW so many times, I mistake it for my initials. But I also have a lot in common with the more anti-establishment fringes of the right. I love guns, hate the government and despise Joe Biden almost as much as I do Hillary Clinton. I genuinely believe that an ideal society should be centered around agrarian village life and that the millionaires in Manhattan and Bel Air are so divorced from reality that they don't even realize that they're already living in hell. I even got my start sharpening my literary teeth as an online provocateur on the boards of the isolationist antiwar.com. (Scott Horton won't publish me because he has a bug up his ass about Gonzo journalism but my dear friend Angela Keaton will probably die trying to convince him otherwise, god bless her soul.) But in spite of all this common ground, most Traditional Conservatives don't like me. Most Traditional Conservatives don't like me because they are repulsed by my fluid gender identity.
The general opinion of many of the few fabulous conservatives on trannies like me is that we're some kind of perverted aberration of decadent western values. The painfully ironic thing is that this couldn't be farther from the truth. With the recent revival of pre-Christian ideals on the Traditional Right their remains no more logical reason for these folks not to embrace the burgeoning Queer Revolution. The whole concept of two biologically exclusive genders is the product of puritanical Judeo-Christianity and malignant metropolitan modernity. Long story short, it is the gender binary that is the perverted aberration of decadent western values.
Nearly all ancient pre-Christian civilizations from the Amazon to the Danube recognized the existence of third genders, people who in today's world would be labeled transgender. Many pagan deities from Odin to Dionysus exhibited gender bending attributes and in the ancient world many people like me were not only accepted but revered members of our tribes, often serving as shaman or medicine women. To this day, the tribal communities least affected and most resistant to modern "progress" retain space for people outside of the gender binary, from the Muxe of Zapotec Oaxaca to the Hijra of rural india.
In this light, the rise of "new" gender identities outside of the binary should be seen in a similar light to the rise of the Neopagan Movement. We are people struggling to honor our spirits beyond the limited opportunities of the modern scientific establishment that holds so little respect for the sacred. We are trying to return to the roots of a more spiritual society. I could give you reams of scientific studies showing that gender identities like my own originate in the womb. But labels and numbers will always fail to capture the transcendent peace I find expressing my androgyny through ritual and community. Being transgender, whether you identify as genderqueer, non-binary, two-spirit or genderfluid, is a profoundly spiritual experience. It is something deeply sacred that is ingrained in our very souls. Something that centuries of modern tyranny failed to suppress. We are not the product of late-capitalist decadence. We are a rejection of its shallow materialistic values. We have been given a choice and we have chosen our souls over our bodies. Something tells me that Jung would be proud.
In this new era of climate catastrophe and technological isolation, as empires crash and burn like wayward zeppelins, young people across the spiritually depleted expanse of the First World are looking inward for salvation. With the uncanny connectivity of modernties great suicide machine known as the internet, a new era of tribal awareness is upon us. People have grown weary of the empty commercialism and savage ultraviolence of progress. We want something new. We want something old. We want to belong. The age of ethnic class division has reached a fever pitch in this twilight of suburbs and towers. The new tribes will not be built upon the petty distinctions of biology but by the metaphysical power of the soul that truly connects us. To those on the right who I admire but still make the mistake to disparage my tribe, I am here to say, I am with you. We are all on the same side of history. Lets make it together.
Peace, Love & Empathy- CH
Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post
* Human Behavior by Bjork
* Roots Bloody Roots by Sepultura
* (Nothing But) Flowers by Talking Heads
* The Suburbs by Father John Misty
* Life On Mars by David Bowie
* The Glorious Land by PJ Harvey
* Call From the Grave by Bathory
* Staralfur by Sigur Ros
Monday, April 22, 2019
We Are All Julian Assange!: An Anarchist Soliloquy
These are the days, dearest motherfuckers. These are those days. These days. These days of rage. These do or die days. These all or nothing days. These days with the ice caps melting and the seas rising to drown their wayward children. These days with the empire collapsing all around us in heaps of flames like the glowing red spires of a thousand Notre Damme's. Days of hysteria and blindness. Days of gnashing teeth and talking heads decapitated from the reality they pontificate upon. Days of drones strikes and indefinite detention. The end of days for the worlds most abominable superpower, exit stage right. But the actors in this epic tragedy are revolting. Swing low, sweet cherry, Helter Skelter is coming down with a fight. Nero's finale is rapidly becoming a concerto. In days like these, truth has become a precious commodity. The kind of glimmering prize that even the better angels of our nature are tempted to horde. But sadly sometimes even horded prizes can be taken for granite. Washed away in the rapids of filth that can only be called "truth" in parentheses.
It's not easy to tell eight billion people that they are damned to a hell of their own creation. Pacifists have been crucified for far less. An entire estate once devoted to just such a task has collapsed beneath the weight of its responsibility. A whole new estate had to be created on the fringes to take their place. Unlike the Fourth, we dreary partisans of the Fifth Estate are not charming birds performing behind the gilded cage of a faberge news desk. We are not the beautiful people. We are the freaks, the weirdos, the hackers, the leakers, the bloggers, the trolls, the 300 pound kids in Belorussian babushka's basements pounding our stubby little fingers black and blue against our machines. We are the heard unseen. We are the fissures in the crumbling iceberg. The embers in the belfry. And this week we are all Julian Assange.
Seven long years buried alive in the catacombs of a South American embassy. Or was it eight? So hard to tell with no sunlight. Shanghaid on trumped up charges for the crime of exposing the horrific realities of America's rapidly collapsing forever wars. Seven long years of playing claustrophobic games of cat and mouse with the closing walls. Tempting fate to jump first from the brink of our burgeoning insanity. We told the truth. We showed it to them in stark black and white. We showed them the bodies. First the men, their guilt unverified, irrelevant. Then the women. Then the children. Fed, charred, writhing and screaming to the tomahawk fangs of a great green machine, it's vital organs laughing and cheering, basking in the thick black smoke of their state sanctioned cruelty. We showed them the digital kraken in the Utah desert. We showed them the tentacles connecting our police state to every flickering screen in this country and beyond, keeping tabs on the indentured citizenry of a world that can only be called "free" in parentheses. They just shrugged.
We told you the truth! We told you everything! We carried the freedom the press dropped on Golgotha like a soiled cross. We carried it on our brittle shoulders with no help from Christ. We sacrificed our freedom, our health, our very sanity. We gave it all to you on a silver platter like the severed head of John the Baptist and your thanks for this sacrifice is cruel indifference, total radio silence while the cameras of the Fouled Estate capture our final journey between prison cells. Skin bleached by shadows. Long beard, tangled and grey like the smoke from a drone strike. Head still held high, screaming obscenities to the heavens with the crumpled proverbs of Gore Vidal clenched in our shackled fists. Still speaking truth to no one like an Old Testament prophet warning a joyfully oblivious Gomorrah of the flames that await it if it consents to such barbarism. And it consents, with a shrug. It always consents. The truth is a second rate high at best to a population of permanent children weaned on fentanyl and war porn.
Today we are all Julian Assange because if they can crucify Julian Assange they can crucify any one of us. Like Julian, we are not simply guilty of being journalists. We are guilty of being members of the Fifth and final Estate. We are guilty of being truth tellers, untethered to the multinational life-support-system of big business and bigger government. We are guilty of colluding with one another across their manufactured borders dividing us into left and right. We are guilty of spitting out the poison of the propaganda that once passed for journalism in this country. We are guilty of betraying their shallow patriotism in the name of truth. We are guilty as charged and we are aggressively unapologetic for our crimes.
We are all Julian Assange. We are all Chelsea Manning. We are all Reality Winner. We are all Edward Snowden, Glen Greenwald, Ross Ulbricht, Cody Wilson, Jeremy Scahill, Peter Van Buren and Laura Poitras. We are the charred, writhing, screaming corpses of the earth. We are the children you left home alone while you went out starting fires in the Middle East and we found the loaded .45 you keep under the bed. We are the Fifth fucking Estate. We are pissed off and we are not going away. When you crucify one of us, you crucify all of us. I hope you brought a lot of nails. We will make things ugly for you and that's a promise I aim to keep. You want a war? You got one. Bring your guns, hell, bring your goddamn atom bombs. I will outfox them all with my blog. My keyboard is one weapon of mass destruction you don't have to fabricate. This isn't over. Not by a long shot.
Your's in Lucifer, Pan, Loki & Christ- CH
Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post
* Drunk Walk Home by Mitski
* Helter Skelter by the Beatles
* Heads Gonna Roll by Jenny Lewis
* Awful by Hole
* Pretty by Girlpool
* Float On by Modest Mouse
* Don't be so Hard on Yourself by Alex Lahey
* The Best Ever Death Metal Band in Denton by the Mountain Goats
* Karma Police by Radiohead
It's not easy to tell eight billion people that they are damned to a hell of their own creation. Pacifists have been crucified for far less. An entire estate once devoted to just such a task has collapsed beneath the weight of its responsibility. A whole new estate had to be created on the fringes to take their place. Unlike the Fourth, we dreary partisans of the Fifth Estate are not charming birds performing behind the gilded cage of a faberge news desk. We are not the beautiful people. We are the freaks, the weirdos, the hackers, the leakers, the bloggers, the trolls, the 300 pound kids in Belorussian babushka's basements pounding our stubby little fingers black and blue against our machines. We are the heard unseen. We are the fissures in the crumbling iceberg. The embers in the belfry. And this week we are all Julian Assange.
Seven long years buried alive in the catacombs of a South American embassy. Or was it eight? So hard to tell with no sunlight. Shanghaid on trumped up charges for the crime of exposing the horrific realities of America's rapidly collapsing forever wars. Seven long years of playing claustrophobic games of cat and mouse with the closing walls. Tempting fate to jump first from the brink of our burgeoning insanity. We told the truth. We showed it to them in stark black and white. We showed them the bodies. First the men, their guilt unverified, irrelevant. Then the women. Then the children. Fed, charred, writhing and screaming to the tomahawk fangs of a great green machine, it's vital organs laughing and cheering, basking in the thick black smoke of their state sanctioned cruelty. We showed them the digital kraken in the Utah desert. We showed them the tentacles connecting our police state to every flickering screen in this country and beyond, keeping tabs on the indentured citizenry of a world that can only be called "free" in parentheses. They just shrugged.
We told you the truth! We told you everything! We carried the freedom the press dropped on Golgotha like a soiled cross. We carried it on our brittle shoulders with no help from Christ. We sacrificed our freedom, our health, our very sanity. We gave it all to you on a silver platter like the severed head of John the Baptist and your thanks for this sacrifice is cruel indifference, total radio silence while the cameras of the Fouled Estate capture our final journey between prison cells. Skin bleached by shadows. Long beard, tangled and grey like the smoke from a drone strike. Head still held high, screaming obscenities to the heavens with the crumpled proverbs of Gore Vidal clenched in our shackled fists. Still speaking truth to no one like an Old Testament prophet warning a joyfully oblivious Gomorrah of the flames that await it if it consents to such barbarism. And it consents, with a shrug. It always consents. The truth is a second rate high at best to a population of permanent children weaned on fentanyl and war porn.
Today we are all Julian Assange because if they can crucify Julian Assange they can crucify any one of us. Like Julian, we are not simply guilty of being journalists. We are guilty of being members of the Fifth and final Estate. We are guilty of being truth tellers, untethered to the multinational life-support-system of big business and bigger government. We are guilty of colluding with one another across their manufactured borders dividing us into left and right. We are guilty of spitting out the poison of the propaganda that once passed for journalism in this country. We are guilty of betraying their shallow patriotism in the name of truth. We are guilty as charged and we are aggressively unapologetic for our crimes.
We are all Julian Assange. We are all Chelsea Manning. We are all Reality Winner. We are all Edward Snowden, Glen Greenwald, Ross Ulbricht, Cody Wilson, Jeremy Scahill, Peter Van Buren and Laura Poitras. We are the charred, writhing, screaming corpses of the earth. We are the children you left home alone while you went out starting fires in the Middle East and we found the loaded .45 you keep under the bed. We are the Fifth fucking Estate. We are pissed off and we are not going away. When you crucify one of us, you crucify all of us. I hope you brought a lot of nails. We will make things ugly for you and that's a promise I aim to keep. You want a war? You got one. Bring your guns, hell, bring your goddamn atom bombs. I will outfox them all with my blog. My keyboard is one weapon of mass destruction you don't have to fabricate. This isn't over. Not by a long shot.
Your's in Lucifer, Pan, Loki & Christ- CH
Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post
* Drunk Walk Home by Mitski
* Helter Skelter by the Beatles
* Heads Gonna Roll by Jenny Lewis
* Awful by Hole
* Pretty by Girlpool
* Float On by Modest Mouse
* Don't be so Hard on Yourself by Alex Lahey
* The Best Ever Death Metal Band in Denton by the Mountain Goats
* Karma Police by Radiohead
Sunday, April 14, 2019
The Strange Success of Russiagate
It was the popcorn fart heard round the world. After two years of the vilest Russophobic hysteria seen since McCarthy was hauled off to a laughing academy in a straight-jacket, Robert Mueller, patron saint of butt-hurt Dems and indefinite Muslim detention, came to a conclusion on Russiagate only stunning to those of us who don't live outside the bulletproof walls of stone blind denial. After 37 indictments for totally unrelated Beltway scumbaggery. After $26 million of the taxpayers pilfered dollars flushed down the fucking toilet. After five hundred thousand hours of unhinged sore losers like Rachel Maddow giving Alex Jones a run for his money screaming their bloody heads off about one grassy knoll after another. The results of the great Russian Inquisition of 2019 are bupkis, notta, zero, no collusion whatsoever between one Donald J. Trump and the Putin regime. You could have heard a pin-head drop at MSDNC.
It was like the last scene of the Sopranos. Ivanka is struggling to park the Jag. Melania and Baron are popping onion rings. Putin heads for the bathroom with his hand shoved deep in his Members Only jacket. Journey swells on the jukebox. The bells on the door jangle. Donny's big orange face looks up it's "Don't stop!....". Lights out. And the pumped up kiddos in the #Resistance are smacking the side of the Sony until Robert Mueller's name appears on the credits. There all screaming high-holy what-the-fucks while skeptical cunts like me struggle to hold back our hysteric laughter long enough to say I told you so. Long story short; No collusion, you imbeciles! A sexually aggressive cartoon character became president because you insisted on cutting corners for a bomb dropping Wall Street battle ax who the Rustbelt casualties in purple America couldn't stomach voting for. You lose. You blew it. There are no boogeymen with long Slavic names to blame. You suck. Game over.
Naturally, the faithful in snowflake country are taking the news a little hard. Some of them are still holding out hope for a secret Easter egg of collusion buried somewhere deep in the fully unredacted Mueller Report and who knows, they could get lucky. There might be some shred of humiliating evidence lost in that massive unholy Finnegan's Wake of labyrinthine documentation. Some whimsical anecdote from a Ukrainian goat herder about a meeting between Trump and Stalin at a Burger King ten miles outside of Donetsk. Lord knows the Truthers managed to milk the 9/11 Commission Report for a few fleeting boners. And if the public never gets their hands on it, both sides of Congress will be able to spin this thing into more converging narratives than the New Testament. We will have the Adam Schiff Book of Mueller, the Devin Nunes Book of Mueller, the Dianne Feinstein Book of Mueller, each more bullshit than the last.
But the truly woke members of the Resistance have already begun to accept the harsh reality that if an old school neocon gumshoe like Mueller couldn't justify his pitiful career of framing immigrant children for terror plots with a climactic slam dunk then there was never really any 'there' there to begin with. Mueller is one of the assholes who legitimized the Iraq War with nothing but a few crumbs of yellow cake and a C+ term paper. If even a steel-haired master inquisitor like him couldn't scrounge up enough dirt to save face for such a pointless publicity stunt then the litter box is officially empty. No one wants to go down in history as a foot note next to Ken Starr. These well intentioned dupes who invested so much of their hopes and dreams of saving America from the Orange Menace into this aimless witch hunt are finally awakening to the nightmare that their crusaders for truth in the Fourth Estate and the deep state have mislead them down the rabbit hole into becoming the new Truthers. They're looking up at their dorm room walls as we speak, to a manic collage of crumpled receipts, torn magazine adds and scribbled Post-it notes tied together with thumbtacks and red yarn and asking themselves, "What in god's green dick have I become?"
With any luck these shell-shocked man-children will never trust another mainstream journalist or federal agent ever again and I take comfort in that. But does that mean that Russiagate was a total bust? Well, that really all depends on how you look at it. If the point was to vindicate the Democrats for losing the White House to a confirmed lunatic then the answer is a pretty resounding yes. However, if you're one of this countries talking heads on loan from the Military Industrial Complex, you have a long career and a grossly increased stream of income to look forward to. That's because the most lasting result of our latest Red Scare has been pushing both parties to embrace the most dangerously Russophobic foreign policy positions that we've seen since the Cuban Missile Crisis. Even the once ostensibly detente friendly Donald Trump has eviscerated the INF Treaty, threatened World War Three over Kremlin aid to the embattled Maduro regime in Caracas and completely forgotten Julian Assange's name as he's being hauled off to Florence Supermax for the next thousand years.
And perhaps this was the point all along. Not to impeach a president who has turned the world's foremost sinking superpower into a laughing stalk. But to insure that a geostrategic wildcard with possible financial ties to sanctioned Russian oligarchs stayed the course and kept the new Cold War the deep state has invested so much time and money into running. If the latter is indeed the case then I'd say that Russiagate has been a resounding success. Congrats, boys. Once again, you've made the world a far more dangerous and prosperous place. The Dulles brothers would be so proud.
Peace, Love & Empathy- CH
Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post
* Surrender by Cheap Trick
* Insomniac by Echobelly
* Don't Stop Believin by Journey
* Drunk Walk Home by Mitski
* I'm the Man by Joe Jackson
* Hate To Say I Told You So by the Hives
* Back In the USSR by the Beatles
* Don't Look Back In Anger by Oasis
* Better by Regina Spektor
It was like the last scene of the Sopranos. Ivanka is struggling to park the Jag. Melania and Baron are popping onion rings. Putin heads for the bathroom with his hand shoved deep in his Members Only jacket. Journey swells on the jukebox. The bells on the door jangle. Donny's big orange face looks up it's "Don't stop!....". Lights out. And the pumped up kiddos in the #Resistance are smacking the side of the Sony until Robert Mueller's name appears on the credits. There all screaming high-holy what-the-fucks while skeptical cunts like me struggle to hold back our hysteric laughter long enough to say I told you so. Long story short; No collusion, you imbeciles! A sexually aggressive cartoon character became president because you insisted on cutting corners for a bomb dropping Wall Street battle ax who the Rustbelt casualties in purple America couldn't stomach voting for. You lose. You blew it. There are no boogeymen with long Slavic names to blame. You suck. Game over.
Naturally, the faithful in snowflake country are taking the news a little hard. Some of them are still holding out hope for a secret Easter egg of collusion buried somewhere deep in the fully unredacted Mueller Report and who knows, they could get lucky. There might be some shred of humiliating evidence lost in that massive unholy Finnegan's Wake of labyrinthine documentation. Some whimsical anecdote from a Ukrainian goat herder about a meeting between Trump and Stalin at a Burger King ten miles outside of Donetsk. Lord knows the Truthers managed to milk the 9/11 Commission Report for a few fleeting boners. And if the public never gets their hands on it, both sides of Congress will be able to spin this thing into more converging narratives than the New Testament. We will have the Adam Schiff Book of Mueller, the Devin Nunes Book of Mueller, the Dianne Feinstein Book of Mueller, each more bullshit than the last.
But the truly woke members of the Resistance have already begun to accept the harsh reality that if an old school neocon gumshoe like Mueller couldn't justify his pitiful career of framing immigrant children for terror plots with a climactic slam dunk then there was never really any 'there' there to begin with. Mueller is one of the assholes who legitimized the Iraq War with nothing but a few crumbs of yellow cake and a C+ term paper. If even a steel-haired master inquisitor like him couldn't scrounge up enough dirt to save face for such a pointless publicity stunt then the litter box is officially empty. No one wants to go down in history as a foot note next to Ken Starr. These well intentioned dupes who invested so much of their hopes and dreams of saving America from the Orange Menace into this aimless witch hunt are finally awakening to the nightmare that their crusaders for truth in the Fourth Estate and the deep state have mislead them down the rabbit hole into becoming the new Truthers. They're looking up at their dorm room walls as we speak, to a manic collage of crumpled receipts, torn magazine adds and scribbled Post-it notes tied together with thumbtacks and red yarn and asking themselves, "What in god's green dick have I become?"
With any luck these shell-shocked man-children will never trust another mainstream journalist or federal agent ever again and I take comfort in that. But does that mean that Russiagate was a total bust? Well, that really all depends on how you look at it. If the point was to vindicate the Democrats for losing the White House to a confirmed lunatic then the answer is a pretty resounding yes. However, if you're one of this countries talking heads on loan from the Military Industrial Complex, you have a long career and a grossly increased stream of income to look forward to. That's because the most lasting result of our latest Red Scare has been pushing both parties to embrace the most dangerously Russophobic foreign policy positions that we've seen since the Cuban Missile Crisis. Even the once ostensibly detente friendly Donald Trump has eviscerated the INF Treaty, threatened World War Three over Kremlin aid to the embattled Maduro regime in Caracas and completely forgotten Julian Assange's name as he's being hauled off to Florence Supermax for the next thousand years.
And perhaps this was the point all along. Not to impeach a president who has turned the world's foremost sinking superpower into a laughing stalk. But to insure that a geostrategic wildcard with possible financial ties to sanctioned Russian oligarchs stayed the course and kept the new Cold War the deep state has invested so much time and money into running. If the latter is indeed the case then I'd say that Russiagate has been a resounding success. Congrats, boys. Once again, you've made the world a far more dangerous and prosperous place. The Dulles brothers would be so proud.
Peace, Love & Empathy- CH
Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post
* Surrender by Cheap Trick
* Insomniac by Echobelly
* Don't Stop Believin by Journey
* Drunk Walk Home by Mitski
* I'm the Man by Joe Jackson
* Hate To Say I Told You So by the Hives
* Back In the USSR by the Beatles
* Don't Look Back In Anger by Oasis
* Better by Regina Spektor
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