Day of the Dumbocrats Day 2

Lost Among the Dumb

OK, the Dumbocrats are hopping around like ecstasy-soaked pagan hares. As they dance I hear on teevee this Iraqi saying, “There is no difference between Democrats or Republicans to Iraqis—the U.S. has one policy—it doesn’t matter what party is in power.” Yeah, because Slick Willie started bombing the hell out of Iraq—his bombs killed a great woman artist of Iraq—his bombs blew up a pharmaceutical facility because he thought it was a Weapons of Mass Destruction factory. Slick Willie instigated daily flights over Iraq; he set up the no-fly zones; he continued the embargo against the country knowing that people were dying due to lack of medicines and medical equipment (but at least they had electricity, a telephone system, computer systems, clean drinking water, ill-equipped and pharmacied but many working hospitals, and an up and running school system—also transportation services, buses, streetcars, taxis)—suffering under the irony of being a filthy rich nation due to their oil pools and yet unable to sell their oil and ending up being a just-surviving nation—and that while under the peasant Bathist who was elevated (he brutally elevated himself) to supreme commander (Saddam was a military man) of all of Iraq, a united Iraq. They are hanging Saddam by the neck for killing how many Kurds, 30,000—Holy Christ, the Amurican occupation has killed 650,000 Iraqis! Shouldn’t an Amurican leader be …uh-oh, I better keep me human-animal hybrid mouth shut—I don’t think you’re allowed to think that way in the good ole US of A, are you?

Iraq oil’s being sold as I type this, that I guarantee you. Who’s keeping an accounting of all the oil currently being piped and shipped out of Iraq? BartCop used to run a page on his site showing how much oil was being pumped out of Iraq every day and how much that oil was worth based on the price of a barrel of oil, which just shot back up to 60 bucks a barrel the minute the Dumbos won Congress back—and Bart blamed the Bush Family Evil Empire as pocketing a portion and dividing the rest of that money up and passing it around the coalition horn there around Iraq—Saudi Arabia, Israel—well you know they’re pumping oil to Israel across Iraq—through Syria, too, probably—into Israel; otherwise, where does Israel get its oil? Also, China is out there buying oil like they're buying up land production in Brazil and Africa—I mean I remember when Repugnican idiots called China “a paper Tiger.” Through my China-loving, Mao-understanding wife of the old days, I knew China wasn’t a paper Tiger. If that fool Douglas MacArthur had of gotten his dictatorial way we know today what kind of paper tiger China was (MacArthur was Dictator of the Pacific after he was given credit for beating the Japs and they surrendered to his old fake-personality ass on the USS Missouri and then he set himself up in Tokyo as King of the Whole F-in’ Pacific Rim Hop…and during the Korean War he wanted itchy-assed to cross the Yaloo River and bomb the damn Chinese Commies back to the Stone Age—the theory in those Atomic-Bomb days that unless we bombed them first they would eventually bomb us—remember, the USA under Harry S (for Secret Government) Truman wiped out 300,000 innocent Japanese lives under the excuse that by doing so he was saving the lives of 2 million American GIs, the number the military was estimating it would take to invade Japan—I mean, we had already bombed the shit out of Tokyo—Jimmy Doolittle and old Eddie Rickenbacker did that—ah, hell, it’s to sordid. Some great writer—who are our great writers at the present?—ought to write a novel about that time.

Back to Oil

I grew up around oil people; my best friends (boys and girls) in high school were nouveau riche oil men’s sons and daughters—and all their fathers were crookeder than snakes at night.

One of my friend’s father was busted and sent to prison when he was caught sneaking Mexican oil into the US in his fleet of oil tank cars he owned; it had something to do with him reporting he had 50 tank cars of oil when he was actually sneaking in 60 or you know 55.

Another friend of mine’s father, a drilling contractor, was caught “slant drilling,” which means his derricks were set up in one field next to an already active field—a field producing oil—and then he would start drilling, except he drilled at a gradual slant so that his drill would eventually slant into the producing field, strike oil there, and then start pumping that oil into his field and storing it there. I’m pretty sure he went to prison for that. Stealing a man’s oil was like rustlin’ a man’s cattle in Texas; both offenses carried heavy penalties, and Texas justice loves heavy penalities—like hangin’ ‘em by the necks ‘till they’re dead.

Right up the road from where I’m from was Odessa-Midland, Texas, both situated right in the middle of one of the richest oil fields in the US of A—the Perminan Basin. Midland, Texas, at one time was the richest little city in the world—more millionaires per capita than Kuwait—one of which was hey, nonnie-nonnie, old Pappy Bush himself—his tool shed was over in Odessa but his new ranch-style homestead was over in Midland, where Pickles is from too. One of my cousins, my dad’s brother’s slickest son—his other son was a weird crazy electronics genius—became a CPA in Midland and got rich as hell himself, and got into such a good life it blew his heart up when he was only 47—but he died with a big grin on his face, from a life of barbecues every night, Jack Daniels for breakfast with the pancakes and hogmeat aplenty and the heavy cream for the Louisiana-chickory coffee, and the hot babe wife and the football-hero sons—I mean the true Amurican Dream life, what every free-white-and-21 young man craved in those post-WWII days days of male reign--and my slick cousin got it and got to wearing big diamond rings, custom-made Western clothes, and handmade cowboy boots—my cousin must’a had fifty pairs of boots in his closet, and you always got a view of his stuffed closet when you got a tour of his ranchero in Midland. I was younger than he was but had been around him a lot when I was growing up and though he was one foul-mouthed kid when I knew him, bitter, too, he always liked me and been real nice to me—he gave me a real football one time signed by the whole high school football team he was an all-state end on, so I got to visit him and his show bride one time with my second wife and what a party they threw us—I got drunk and slept with my head in the lap of a pro lady golfer that night—and my slick cousin’s hot babe wife was a champion barrel rider, too, whose daddy owned a huge horse farm outside of Lubbock, Texas—quarterhorses, the horse of the Great Prairie that the white man stole from the Native Americans who used these horses, mustangs really, for their speed and agility. Barrel riders depend on the agility of these horses to make them champions since their sport is based on how close they can ride their horses around these barrels without knocking them over—it’s kind’a cool how these cowgirl babes operate in this shitkicking male world of rodeoers—they are the centerfolds of the rodeo world, which means they have to be colorfully dressed in very Western shirt and tight, tight, tight Western riding pants, which means they have to have fine rearends, which is the male interest in the sport—barrel riders ride with their asses sticking straight up out of the saddle—kind’a like the way you have to ride a racing bicycle—that dress is a costume demand in the sport of barrel riding, same as gal iceskaters have to wear those cute negligee-looking little-girl naughty outfits and show lots of leg and ass when they skate—come on, don’t ya know that’s to attract a male audience—teevee is for men, by the way. Males rule on teevee; even on the women’s programming during the mornings and afternoons.

Speaking of sordid teevee, this ruse called “My Channel”—it’s the old Universal channel in NYC—part of Universal changing it’s name to My TV and then Warner Bros.’s “the WB”—remember their trying to revive Michigan Frog. Teevee is so behind the times, but anyway, My TV has started running a couple’a nighttime shows—one on the World of High Fashion and the other about the lives of male studs—and they feature people slapping and hitting each other a lot—Wow, it’s sort of a Sado-Masichism festival—but the great male thing about the show on the Fashion Industry (Hollywood style, of course) is that it is featuring at least one cat fight per show—women belting each other and then falling on the floor wrestling—you know, conveniently allowing their tight skirts to slide up over their asses hopefully, at least that’s the male enticement of a cat fight, a chance to get teased by accidental exposures of raw female flesh during it. Praise the Lard how sleazy teevee is.

It’s funny, too, how shocked these network news jockeys are puzzled over how to handle the Dumbocrats kicking such ass in day-before yesterday’s elections—I mean the silly Dumbocrats are just as puzzled—they can’t believe in their own victory—they’ve taken Congress back over, first time in a decade we’ve had the Dumbos in control. Like the Iraqi said, it really won’t mean much in the way of change. It was just We the People giving overwhelming voice to our power—a power that fraudulent counts and voting machine breakdowns and voter ID requirements and purging the voting rules couldn’t manipulate this time. It was too big. Too large a margins in the states that were used to controlling and in the close races, they had no control in those states, Montana and Virginia—too many Dumbocrats turned out in those states. This Pelosi babe can’t believe how much power she’s certainly suddenly gotten—Whew, her worth is going up as I type this—millions now await her. Why she’s already had lunch with Georgie Porgie who is acting so cute since this blow to his wimpy ego. It’s sort of freed him up, you notice that? It’s freed him up to start smilin’ and yeehawin’ as though he’s suddenly gonna become a Dumbocrat himself—the lyin’ dog. Never trust a Bush—that’s a standard Daily Growler warning—NEVER TRUST ANY OF THE BUSHES.

thegrowlingwolf

for The Daily Growler