Democrats Are DUMBOcrats

Get Some Cojones, Dumbocrats, Please
I can't believe what I'm reading on BuzzFlash. They are saying that Al Gore (one of the most boring gentlemen whose speeches and rallies I've ever slept through) is pretty much saying he's running for president in 2008 while he's out giving his PowerPoint performance piece trumpeting his worry over global warming and also hustling a new book he had published a year ago [I worked in publishing once (I've worked at everything under the sun) and believe me, you got any kind of "celebrity" at all, you'll get a book. Hey, some of these publishers will let you use their imprimatur as long as you pay for everything). I don't recall Old Slow Al being so concerned about global warming when he was vice president under Slick Willie, nor do I recall him harping much on it when he was running politically correctly for president. All I can howl is, "Please, Al, don't run for president again; the idiots on the farthest of rights, a farthest right we've ever drifted in this country, though we've been drifting towards this ruination since WWII, will pull tons of voting fraud wool over the voting Yahoos's eyes because the right-wing monarchists know even though you know you're getting your ass cheated out of votes, you'll stand there like a Burdezzo-ed bull being political correctly polite while we US numbskulls will have to suffer the next Bush Family Fool who'll inherit the office." But the Dumbocrats, per their wimpy thinking, will once again come up with a loser, I do hereby prophesy. See, it doesn't matter who the Dumbos run or whether he or she will actually lose or not, Pappy and his Little Bushes Gang know the Dumbos will give up and concede before eleven o'clock election eve, which is the latest any rich man I know will stay up, no matter what's at stake or that the press portrays him as working 24 hours a day, which is guaranteed total bullshit. Rich assholes like Al Gore and John Kerry, and I guarantee you Georgie Porgie, our "president," are in bed before eleven every night.

I used to have an office in Rockefeller Center, in the old Eastern Airline Building which is now called 10 Rock, and my office window looked straight over the skating rink at the Olympia (the airline) Tower, a tacky no-style black-glass box building built at an enormous profit in the late 60s by that sleazy old smarmy scumbag Greek shipping magnate (a la John Negroponte, the head of all OUR security) Aristotle Onassis. Only classe folks were gonna breed in that joint, it was announced, and soon all the wannabe asslickers and spotlite stealers were packing into the joint paying sky-high rents to old crabass Onassis's overflowing coffers for the sheet-rocked, plastered, aluminum-studded, gravelly concrete-slabbed, plastic-decored pieces of crap apartments everybody else in New York City lived in, at least all apartments built during that era (late 60s, the last time NYC had a building boom like it's having now, except then it was a plethora of office buildings and now it's 50-story luxury high rises galore). One day, one of my classe friends came staggering into my office--he was in charge of all the press releases that were issued by the whole NBC organization and he went to champagne breakfasts and drank toasts most of the morning with the news people down at Hurley's Bar so he was pretty tipsy by noon. "Look out your window, you won't believe it, you won't believe it!" he practically shouted. He was in one of his Judy Garland stages. I looked. "What am I looking for?" "Look up just above the roof of the British Building, see the guy standing there in the white smoking jacket, God, how cool?" "Oh, yeah, I see him, what about him, is he a jumper?" "No, no, that's Prince Blabbity Blab heir to the Blabbity Blab champagne fortune [I had to admit, it was my favorite champagne]. They did a profile of him in the Times's "Arts and Leisure" section. He says he does not arise until 11:30 when he goes to his window, pulls back the lavender, I swear, curtains, and has his morning glass of family champagne." "Yep, looks like he's got a huge champagne glass in his hands; smoking a cigarette, certainly a Frenchman, oui, bon ami?" "Yes, he says he reads the papers then from noon to 3 and then he has his first meal of the day." "Does he party hardy?" "Nope, not at all, and that's what's so cool; they say he's in his bed by 10 o'clock every night. He does all of his correspondence, phone calls, whatever work a rich bastard like that has to do, in his bed. He has his own chef so he can live a fantasy life right there in that magnificent apartment." "With the lavender curtains." "Of course! See you at Ho-Ho's in a bit, I gotta run."

Getting back to my drift [a recent commenter is correct about my flashbacks confusing the reader; sorry about that; there are just so many damn asides to life in the NOW; and nothing's prefab in this ranting and raving]--Pappy B himself, who is the big dog in all of this, don't'cha know [remember his "One Thousand Points of Light/New World Order" speech? Reread that sucker; it explains all this shit going on], just last week said he thought Jeb would make a fine president. [Oh, HOLY NO! Where's the God of the LOUD NO?] Georgie Porgie, GWHB's third stupidest son, seconded the idea. This is the "president" who said it would be much easier for him to do his God-given job if he were a dictator. That's how these fools think.

George Herbert W. (for Wimp) Bush is the kingpin in this degenerate filthy rich and powerful family. Pappy has no balls; remember, he's a wimp. But Babs has balls and her fiesty sons have balls and the boys use 'em as often as possible until they get prostate trouble, which is probably happening to Georgie Porgie as I write this--I mean all the fornicating, drinking, and coking he did; his prostate must be a swollen-as-big-as-a-grapefruit by now. Neill's balls were clipped by his ex-wife [read about Neill's divorce if you want some good sleazy "prime time" tomfoolery and adultrous oat-sowing]. Remember, Neill's the one who whores just come to his hotel doors while he's off doing "business," knock three times and then just do ol' Neill for the fun of it. Neill said, "Hellfire, when a whore offers me some poon for free, wha'd'ya think, I'm gonna run her off?

We now know ol' Marvin has balls, balls enough to run the security company than ran security for the World Trade Center and whose contract ran out exactly on September the 11th, why son of a bitch!; holy shit, why wasn't this little prick called to testify in the Congressional jokey hearings on 9/11? As a matter of further fact, why wasn't G.H.W.B's adopted son, Prince Bandar Bush, called to testify before that hearing? I know--I know, that hearing was a big f-ing joke.

So, Al Gore! Please don't run! And, Howard Dean, you quack doctor, get off your own self-aggrandisement and pick someone to run who is a NEW FACE, with a NEW ATTACK on these fools, somebody able to stand up to these fakirs, these coward bullies. That's all you've got to do, get some balls and spit your venom right flat-dab, smack-dab in their groaning faces--shoot counterdialog shotgun pellets, a la Unka Dick, in their Mussolini-looking faces [check out photos of that fool, Mussolini, who led precious Italia back during WWII; an ex-newspaper man, by the bye, and he strutted his power like a pompous pouter pigeon in front of the hat-holding pisanos who quivered in their Bruno Maglia loafers--recall Georgie Porgie during his "Mission Accomplished" foto op--except Lil' Georgie is too lazy to do much pompous strutting. GP is a mama's boy; he has that mama's boy slouch; ever notice that?]. Please, ye Dumbocrats, don't keep giving us fools like Al Gore. Ask Gore Vidal one our leading political commentators who you don't hear much from anymore, except occasionally on Pacifica (he lives in L.A. now), about his relative. Why doesn't the Dumbocratic Party hire somebody like Gore Vidal to give them advice and allow them to correct the stupid moves they are fixing to make in this unfair chess game going on in this poor old world on the verge of being checkmated. Al Gore ain't a great chess player. He gives up without a fight. So does that wimp John Kerry--showboater deluxe when he was a pissed-off Nam vet and chunking his medals away, but now he's a castrated [Burdezzo-ed bull] ex-hero who lives a life of pure-dee-ass-good-ole-Capitalist luxury thanks to his own inherited largesse, plus the jumbo bundle he inherited when he married the rather condescending ex-wife of the Heinz catsup-family inherited-wealth fool who went out superstudding and got himself killed so John Kerry can now live a life of double-luxury with the dude's ex-wife and all his ex-money. "So, John, why don't you disappear with your wife to one of those paradisiacal islands you've got to own and leave politics alone? You don't have the balls for it anymore."

"Hey, Hillary, you, too. Give up. Take Slick Willie and all those millions you guys have amassed thanks to the Slick one getting a BJ in the Oval Office and move back to Little Rock where your intelligence is more appreciated; I mean, those Arkansas yokels will kiss Slick Willie's old shriveled ass and give you BJs all day long, that is if you ain't calcified yet." [This reference to a calcified "you know what" comes from Ernest Hemingway's charming little book he wrote when he was half-bonkers, right before he found the final solution to his problems, A Moveable Feast [from Gertie Stein saying "Paris is a moveable feast"], and the chapter he wrote on Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas--"Oh, pussy, is that you?" Wonderful book.]

But, I'm a cheery pessamist--those who know me know I kinda look forward to the coming doom--remember the definition of "doom"?--and love making slurs about what life will be like when we all have to volunteer for the slavery we'll be offered, you know, the kind that conscentrates low-life human beings like us in camps--though when it comes, I'll try to keep y'all laughin' as you break your older and older backs for the rich Pappies and Mammies like Pappy and Mammy Bush who will be the monarchs of the corrupt corporate plantation world. By then, the Bush Family Empire will be able to afford to form a gene pool that will give us a trough-full of Bush clones for centuries to come; Pappy will probably find a way, maybe it's hidden in Walt Disney's private papers, to keep himself and Babs alive forever. Can you imagine one day when the Bush boys make Pappy a god and we all have to fall face down and worship his bony wimpy ass or suffer banishment to our Siberia, Guantanamo, on the beautiful little commie island of Cuba.

So look for the Democrats to come up with yet another loser. Either a retread like Gore or Kerry, or a precious "serious" woman like Old Ironsides "senator" Hillary Rodham Clinton [remember when she said she wanted "Rodham" to be a part of her name? Old Slick Willie must have charmed her legs open again 'cause now "Clinton" seems to be good enough for her]. All losers. Losers because they won't stand up to the Bush Regime when it attempts to throw the next election to Jeb, which I GAR-RON-TEE they gonna try, my friends. They have another big kooky lie up their filthy sleeves and the Good Lard only knows what he's gonna whisper in those hell-bent-for-leather Bush big ears. Look out!

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler

The Daily Growler Quote of the Day
We found this quote from Thomas Paine interesting since we don't usually think of Tom as a literary critic: "Poetry consists principally in two things- imagery and composition. The composition of poetry differs from that of prose in the manner of mixing long and short syllables together. Take a long syllable out of a line of poetry, and put a short one in the room of it, or put a long syllable where a short one should be, and that line will lose its poetical harmony. It will have an effect upon the line like that of misplacing a note in a song." Thomas Paine, Age of Reason, from our office copy from Liberty on Line, 2002.