Disordered Communings with the Great Purple Father

I’ll stay sozzled for the rest of my life, dulled to the ongoing hallucination to the north. It’s getting bad up there. Worse than blotter-acid gollywoggles in a shopping mall full of cops.

See, everything is coming unglued al norte, and everything is for sale, like a garage bazaar when somebody dies. You’ve heard that Mexico is corrupt? Nah. Little leaguers, small frijoles. It’s not that its heart is in the right place. Nobody’s seems to be. Thing is, Mexico couldn’t organize a backyard barbecue, but the US…ah, zat ees anozzer sing. In the US corruption is systematized, orderly, massive. Gringos go about national putrefaction with Teutonic efficiency. But only the big boys get the boodle.

It’s like Violeta says: In the US, corruption is only for the rich. Mexico is democratic about it.

Washington, I tell you, is nothing but a cloud of looters swirling around the country’s fly-encrusted cadaver. Aint it so? I ask you. Everybody wants to drain money from the federal udder, from the sour dugs of the great hydra-titted monster that dwelleth all bloated within the beltway. All you have to do is think up some crackpot scam, sell it to an affirmative-action bureaucrat with glazed eyes, or pay a commoditized Congress to buy it, and the lucre flows.

Do you know about the Pentagon’s spy-bot bugborgs? A swell rip. The colonels are going to grow insects—you know, wasps, beetles, crawly things—with circuitry inside them, so you can control them, maybe with something like a TV remote, to spy on terrorists. Or us. Do you think the little chitin-packaged horror buzzing around your window is just looking for whatever it eats? No. Some psychopath with a joy stick at Langley is watching you through its glittery eyes.

You think I’m kidding, don’t you? Check here.

Come on, ‘fess up. You were just thinking that’s where you wanted your money to go…weren’t you? Can’t fool me.

Something is wrong with my office. Things don’t seem as vertical as they were a moment ago. I’ll have to talk to the contractor.

These days in the great squirrel cage north of the Rio Bravo, everybody hates everybody else. How is that? Not along ago America was sane and agreeable, given the dismally low base line for the human race. It was my favorite country. You had slingshots and BB guns and monster-block Detroit iron punched out to more cubes than Rubik’s wettest dreams, and sock-hops and happy simple-minded rock-and-roll. And Wild Irish Rose. It was a pretty good America.

But somebody has pulled its cork. Now blacks hate whites hate browns hate women hate men hate Christians hate Musselmens. High-school girls either starve themselves or vomit right and left, and the boys come to school with semi-autos to design adolescent hecatombs. It will probably be an event in the X Games before long. The country has gone wigged out. I figure somebody must have put something in the drugs.

The world is swirling strangely about. Maybe I’m at the focal point of some galaxy-wide gravitc anomaly. I can’t be held responsible for what I write. Everything is somebody else’s fault. A verse come to mind from a song somebody wrote. Me, actually.

“I’m a metrosexual, meek, mild, and ineffectual/My girlfriend takes karate, stands up to use the potty/
We’re gender-confused to the tips of our shoes/The all-new American couple.”

Hey, I think it’s great. Copyright applied for.

Maybe it’s a good thing John Wayne is dead. He’d have to wax his chest and talk in a squeak.

I was in Nepal a month ago hoofing it in the Himalayas. Them’s gret big mountains. A guide pointed to a herd of monkeys and asked did we have them in the US. Yes, I said, chiefly in the White House but many in Congress. Oh, he said, here too.

This is good booze, is Padre Kino, cost-benefit wise. Only the extremely poor here drink shaving lotion. I wonder whether anyone shaves with Padre Kino.

But here’s the real problem. America has ceased being exactly a country. Instead it is like a professional-wrestling grudge-match with no rules and everybody throwing everybody else into the audience. Think about it. The place is going broke enough to live under a bridge, but the military spends like a drunken corporal on yet more clownish wars against pissed-off peasants. The military contractors grow fat. Corporations, supposedly American, bolt for China. Wall Street pillages what is left like Timurlane on a roll. Universities, no longer much more than enablers for loan companies, rape the young. This is going to last?

We’re gonna pay for this. Like Milton Friedman said, there’s no such thing as a frijol. If he didn’t say it, he should have.

But corruption. Take the drug racket. In Mexico it’s messy and splashes a lot, with narcos gunning each other down and spraying hemoglobin everywhere because they don’t have the brains to cooperate. In the States, druggery is organized and peaceful and everybody gets his cut.

The train ain’t got no driver and no tracks. Congress is a subcommittee of the Knesset and crooked as kite string in a ceiling fan, the Supreme Court an unlicensed morgue, and the president a shiny ball with pretty teeth bouncing around in a corporate pin-ball machine.

What’s really slick is how the criminal element in DC has fogged the alleged mind of that vast, sprawling, larval critter, the public. Tell those salt-of-the-earth suckers out there that some hideous danger crawls ever closer, tell them you are going to protect them, and you can pick their pockets till there’s not an ounce of meat left on their bones. Think buzzards circling a dying horse. I don’t think there’s enough Padre Kino in the world.

I mean, I keep reading that half the population believes that Iraq dropped those tower things in New York. So much for an informed public. (I’ve never understood why conservatives are so upset about the towers, since they would happily nuke New York if they could.)

There’s no hope. A staff-weenie McSoldier named McChrystal is running the War on Islam, and Hillary, who speaks nothing but English and has never lived outside the country, is Secretary of State. Alligator mouth and hummingbird ass, both of them, as we used to say down South.

I’m going to send out for another liter of the Padre. Or maybe switch to chloral hydrate.

American Airlines Again

Last week I wrote about American Airline’s wretched service, but didn’t mention problems with maintenance because, although I had heard rumors from pilots, I didn’t have any real evidence. As it turns out, the FAA does. Click here.

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