Hillary Clinton Rodham Hodcarrier, whatever her legal name is, has this black church in Bed-Stuy she loves to go to and preach a little sermon about how great she is as a representative of the people--and though she hasn't done one damn thing for the people--ONLY HERSELF--am I sayin' it loud enough?, the brothers and sisters overthere give her the pulpit and they give her hellashus cheer and Amens galore, too. They love her, and she can't even preach good. Hell, the old Wolfman can do a little preachin'--and a hell of a lot of it too, no hooey, just some good old bald prairie preachin'--Amen. Selah. Whatever's proper.
So I was watchin' some sound bytes of Hill over in front of the black folks, and they had teary eyes of love for her and I thought it ain't her they love, it's old Slick Willie they love--you know the rumor that the Slick One has a black chile down thar in Arkensaw.
Oh Gawd, if you all only knew how hillbilly, backwoods, backwards, free-white-and-21 true old Arkansas is, has been, and I suppose always will be. I mean the Slick Willie Museum (I think our Presidents call these things their "Libraries") in Little Rock is such modern architecture the hillbillies haven't figured out what the hell it is yet--a lot of 'em go there tryin' to catch a Greyhound. You bet the Slick Willie Museum was paid for with We the People's hard-earned money--and the last time I worked it was damn hard-earned money, too--I was supposed to sell my old Wolf soul to the damn Corporate Devil for a fabby liveable wage--always workin'--always workin' for the BIG DADDY Corporation, the Umbrella Company--always workin' your ass off--they call it teamwork--and when you hear a corporation start talking about teamwork--like silly, stupid, assinine, Team Wal-Mart (an Arkansas company, by the way) meetings--that means you gonna have to work some double-time ass off--and if you don't, then it's the old outplacement trick for your ass.
Well, hell, I detoured there. I remember the days when driving through Arkansas was one long series of detours. "Deee-tour, there's a muddy road ahead/Deee-tour, paid no matter what it said/ Deee-tour, there's a muddy road ahead/Should have read that dee-tour sign." Bad roads. Hell, Orville Faubus was once governor of Ark-ken-saw. It took hundreds of National Guard troops to get one double-brave-hearted and determined little black girl into the Little (White) Rock Public (White) School system back in the All-White fifties. Old Dwight David Eisenhower hated to do it, hated to impose "inter-gration" on those Arkies, but he was a military man and he was trained to follow orders and the Supreme Court had given him his orders--integrate the schools by...(the Supreme Court was much more "supreme" in those days than it is today--and I think it included a former member of the Ku Klux Klan on it, too--Judge Black--was he still on the Court then?
(Irony: Judge Black, a honky, ruling on whether blacks were human beings afterall and not just 1/4 human as the Constitution says--that is in terms of their children going to the sacred White Public Schools on an equal basis.)
Yep, Arkansas elected Orville Faubus ("Who's the eviliest man to ever live, Danny?"). Then they turned around and elected the most worthless-ever Rockefeller son, Winthrop, as their governor. Winthrop Rockefeller. A sad man really. A stone drunk. He always had a bottle in one hand and his other hand in the Rockefeller Family till. It got so bad, John D. Rock Jr. sent him staggering off to a large farm the family owned down there in the heart of hayseed country--and he became the drunk squire head of the Yeehawin'est Yahoos in the country--except the way they say it it's "cunch'ry" down thar--in them old Arkansas hills from whence came Slick Willie Clinton, from old Mammy Clinton and an unknown father--or was he known? I know the Slick One had a stepfather--Roger's daddy, wasn't it? I don't know; Arkansas family trees have a hell of a lot of entangled branches. Slick Willie's from Hope, Arkansas. One of the prides of Hope back in Slick Willie's little boy days was their "Welcome to Hope" sign at each end of the city limits on the big US Highway. It showed a huge big slice of red meat green rind good ole shinery-land watermelon with the head of a "pickaninny-style" (an art-deco-era White style of drawing black kids) black boy with big flashing white-with-black eyes face grinning over his minstrelsy whitewashed lips as they opened wide to let big flashing white upper teeth chomp out a bite of that juicy Hope-grown watermelon. "Welcome to Hope." Yee-dogies! The Beverly Hillbillies were a pretty good teevee representation of Arkansas's first-family types.
The only thing good I know of to come out of Arkansas was my first wife--and she was from Texarkana, which is in both Texas and Arkansas. "She's my Texarkana Baby/I love her, lawdy-lawd/Her Pappy came from Texas/And her Ma from Arkansas."
But, like I was sayin' 'fore I drifted off on Arkansas--one of my best friends in life, by the bye, has Arkansas in his immediate blood, though I'm certain if he had a choice between Arkansas and Hades, he'd pick Hades--anyway, like I was growling, blacks like Slick Willie and in return they love old Hillary, too.
Hillary is looking better. Someone has fixed her makeup and her hair and it really improved her immensely. Hillary's a hippy girl, you know, at heart. Oh, yeah; Hillary's pure Woodstock--and I could hazard some guesses as to what she's experienced in her life--in her casual moments--in those college partying days. There's a cute little college pic of Hillary posing on a rock in a miniskirt--hell yeah you'd chase her if you were a big Arkansas hick and saw little Hill slopping down the walk on her way to Moots & Tarts.
But what qualifies Hillary to be a Senator? A Senator from the State of New York?--making more money than she ever made as a lawyer down in Arky Land. Do first ladies get salaries?--I wouldn't doubt it the way these Presidents these days (hell, throughout our sordid history) rip us off--or "president" in the case of this current clown who's playing dumb as he steals us blind.
And what qualifies Hillary to be thought of as a potential President? The first woman president? I mean, OK, was she a good mother? And where is little Chelsea, by the bye?--named after an old Hippy song, if might may say so. You don't hear much about semi-beautiful Chelsea these days--just like it seems like Georgie Porgie has finally found a way to pen up the twins--or are they over in Dubai doing good will work?
As far as that goes, what qualifies any of these bastards to serve We the People? Their ability to come up with billions of dollars to run for a $150,000-a-year job? Amazin', amazin', amazin'.
I stopped this manure spreading for about an hour and went up and watched a new video I got on eBay, a vhs tape, remember those? of Herbie Hancock, Ron Carter, and Billy Cobham playing in Switzerland in 1987--and Jesus, I thought, that's 20 years ago now; these guys are as old as the hills now--but anyway, that's not my point--the music I saw being performed and heard being performed on that tape sent me high, wide, and handsome above all the ugly hustling that makes up the everyday bullshit of the reality we have to wake up to everyday. I mean it elevated me. It elevated me to heights where what is going on in this crooked world has absolutely nothing to do with me. I'm utterly spaced-out listening and watching Herbie and Ron--an absolute bassmeister general, man-o-man--and Billy--I mean Cobham has woven himself into his multiimplemented drum set--they ended the concert with an up-tempo rendition of Richard Carpenter's great jazz classical piece called "Walkin'"--the opening riff and then into the "walkin'" except Herbie and the Hurricane weren't walkin'--no, man, they were gliding. Dig?
I now know why I wanted to be a musician when I was young. I mean--to be able to get up on stage and perform any damn way you please, to play the music you were born to play the way you were born to hear it in your big ears--Wow, what a thrill.
These three gentlemen set my thoughts afire as I watched them perform with their easy brilliance. I mean they play these complicated instruments as though they were bodily appendages--and they are extensions of themselves--INSTRUMENT--look it up. I mean Herbie's sitting there in total control of the Bosendorfer he was playing (I prefer an old Steinway myself) on which he was weaving his improvisational tapestries--Picasso tapestries--or is Picasso forgotten now?--like Steve Wynne running his elbow through one of his many Picasso's as he was trying to sell it to another casino-read-mob-success-owner for 113 million--"Ah shucks; guess I'll keep this one," Steve said, with a little smirk, "but, hell, would you be interested in one of my others; I own 14 Picassos." What a lovely game.
I do not want Hillary Clinton to be my president. Not because she's a woman. Hell, I can come up with at least 10 women who I would like to see President--how about Dolly Parton? Or, hell, how about Chelsea? But not Hillary. She's a scorned woman. She's bitter. She's a bitch now and you can't trust her; she has a vendetta--is that the word? All of this because Slick Willie got a blowjob in the Oval Office. Still Slick Willie goes about being honored and praised and swooned over and given credit as being a Democrat-Liberal all-round wonderful guy--which is not why he got the handle Slick Willie--nope, and the boy is slick, like a West Texas prairieland preacher or hell a Hope, Arkansas, watermelon-eatin' good ole boy political preacher, which is what Bill is, a white preacher, though Billy Jeff wishes he were a black preacher--though hell no he wouldn't become one if you told him you could make him one in a jiffy. "Why, I was jest a jokin', brother...let's go grab a quick blowjob...I know this chick works for the FBI..., then I'll give you one of my new Cuban stogies that came in with the Canadian prime minister last week and we'll go get a Big Mac and some R-O-see colas...."
God-damn that Herbie Hancock is a masterer--you know what I mean? Like, there isn't anything about those piano keys old Herbie doesn't know how to put the correct finger on--even when he's clowning around; he's masterful, I tell ya--plus the son of a bitch has THE LOOK, too.
You gotta have THE LOOK. Hillary didn't have THE LOOK until recently; still you get up close to her and you see she's got bad hair, bad skin, a big broad ass, flat feet, thick ankles--my brother told me one time, "Never marry a woman with thick ankles. It means she's gonna be sickly all her life." Thing is, his wife, a gorgeous creature, too, don't get me wrong, had thick ankles, and sure 'nuff, she died young of liver cancer.
Hey, I just got hit by a truck--I gotta right to mock death and tragedy and shit; just like I've got a right to mock fools--Yahoos. God, I'm surrounded by Yahoos. I'm ruled by Yahoos.
Oh, yeah, the elections coming up? Who the hell cares? Dumbocrats. Plutocrats. Repugnicans. They're all scalliwags. They're all nest-egg stealers. They're all second-rate lawyers--hacks. They're all gamblers, except they're using We the People's hard-earned bucks to cover their bets.
As I look over Dumbocrats and Repugnican candidates--they're all rich assholes--even Slick Willie and Hillary Rod-on are multimillionaires now. Gore's a millionaire. Kerry's a millionaire--ex-Yaley. Ned Lamont's a millionaire. Joel Lieberman's a millionaire. The guys who will be reporting on the elections are millionaires. It's all a game. However, it's not as good a game as baseball; and it never ever will be either.
I predict: THE SAME OLD THING.
Like old millionaire bullshit expert Charlie Rangel--he's going around swearing, "Hey, you all, if I become chairman of the Ways and Means Committee, I'm not gonna roll back those tax deductions Georgie Porgie gave us rich folks. Common', you all, I'm still one of you first and a black crook second." Old backstabbing asshole. Sorry. I know Rangel's a black man and I'm not qualified to criticize him, but he looks phony to me--plus, he's been in Congress for 30 years; what the hell has he done for New Yorkers?; for Manhattanites?; for black people? The answer: Nothing. What's he done for himself? The answer: A whole Hell of a lot. He's set for life; that's more than you or I can say, isn't it? If you're fabulously rich, why are you reading a stupid blog like this on the blogosphere?
This blog is my yacht.
thegrowlingwolf BOOOOOOOO!
for The Daily Growler
And So You'll Be Proud to Be an Amurican, Here's Some News From Hell
Baghdad - A bomb ripped through a crowd of Shi'ite labourers on Monday, one of six attacks in Baghdad that killed at least 36 people, as the monthly death toll for the US-led coalition in Iraq hit 105.
The blasts came as Britain evacuated its large consulate in the southern city of Basra after it came under repeated mortar attack, and one day after 17 Iraqi police were murdered when they left a nearby British training base.
Meanwhile, the US military said October had seen 96 US troops, four coalition soldiers from other countries and five American contractors killed, confirming it as the bloodiest month for the allies since January 2005.
The violence raging around the country will deepen Iraq's bitter sectarian divide and undermine efforts by Prime Minister Nuri al-Maliki's government and his US and British allies to end Iraq's 44-month-old war.
From News 24 (South Africa)
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