So old Jimmy Boy Baker comes out of his $10,000-an-hour study group assignment from the “president” saying, “OK, OK, we’ll admit, we’re getting our asses kicked in Iraq—it’s probably because we need more troops overthere”—hey, good thinking, Jimmy Boy—it’s the same old crap we peddled just before we bailed out of VietNam; the same as we needed more troops in Korea to go against the Great Red Menace right before we bailed out of there. Remember, the Chinese Commies and the Russian Commies were brothers and sisters under poor ole Karl Marx’s skin in those days, though they traditionally never trusted each other; in fact, they hated each other and still do; Russia tried to colonize China remember. Yep, it’s the yellow man vs. the white man—that white man coming out of the same Mongolian highlands as that yellow man—up from Africa, don’t ya see? Remember, I’m an African genesis believer until convinced otherwise. That’s the only reason we animals evolved into thinking animals with identifiable imaginations full of our old chimpanzee languages and mathematical sequences, chimps being higher educated gorillas, the apes man apes. All this evolving in order for us to realize things and to use that cognizant knowledge as commands in our battle to survive nature as a species. This is the true war on terror humans are born into—the war between frightened but reasoning animals and the inexplainable terrors of nature, the jungle from which we animals came. Remember, the jungle is true nature, a nature where anything (the savage) is permissible, what we thinking chimps call “the law of the jungle,” a law untamed, uncontrolled by monkey logic. We monkeys (monks) came up with this monkey idea we call “civilization,” which in my Monkey Dictionary is defined as “taming the jungle to the point where homo sapien monkeys are the true ‘kings over its nature' [in our legends it’s always man against the lion, the original king, lion, from the Latin leon; and man always defeats the lion, usually by grabbing the lion’s jaws and ripping them open and then clubbing the helpless beast to death with the jawbone of an ass or some desert-tool-weapon like that), masters of the superhuman dream, the imaginational world in which we civilized monkeys reside and think we own, this world where a bunch of us smart-ass monkeys have declared we’re no longer monkeys! I mean, next time you look a chimp in the eye, you’ll see that fear; you’ll see that sadness, too; you’ll see that heartbroken soul of our closest relative, those eyes saying, “Hey, cousin, you ain’t nothin’ but a damn monkey—I smirk at you.”
So, old Jimmy Boy Baker and his cronies go into their Capitol office and they put their one-sided heads together and they shuffle those decks of marked cards in their numbed skulls—they’re all boozed up, I’m sure; you know they’re all on painkillers—like John McCain—don’t you think he’s on painkillers and certainly Zoloft or something after the mind-blowing torture he survived in ‘Nam? I mean the Tiger Cage; come on, that’s almost as bad as being buried up to your neck in the desert like the Arabs used to do dudes—they stone women, come on, what do ya think they are uncivilized? Stoning is the traditional Middle-Eastern way of executing the felonious and adulterous amongst us. Wait a minute! The old Pilgrims and Puritans stoned, too, didn’t they. Ever read Shirley Jackson’s famous story about stoning? I can remember gang incidents when I was a kid in Dallas where we used rocks as weapons. I once hit a black girl with a rock in a fight we were having with the black kids over the money you could find in this big huge field up on top of this hill we called Dolphin Hill up from my house where the Ringling Brothers, Barnum, and Bailey Circus used to pitch their huge tents and set up their sideshows twice a year, and after they tore down and left town, we kids knew there was money, loose change and even dollar bills to be found in that field—and I don’t mean just chump change either. I once came away from there with 75 cents, which I immediately took to Cabel’s Minute Market and bought several packs of Bowman’s Pirate Bubble Gum, pieces of terrible bubble gum, the rage when I was a youngster—bubble gum, bottles of liquid cinnamon you stuck toothpicks in and sucked on ‘em all day in class, and Polypop straight from the package and before the sugar was added--Polypop, all Kool Aid was called before it became Kool Aid—and we bought small packets of the raw stuff and we’d chuck ‘em down in fell swoops and it was a minor high as that bitter rather sizzling-on-tongue shit went down our suckered throats. This is the same bubble gum company that put baseball cards in their waxy packages, which I collected, too, but these Pirate Bubble Gum cards were my particular favorites at that time and I bought 15 of those, at a nickel a piece, that day I found that 75 cents at the circus grounds the day I hit that black girl with a rock and I remember she cried bad and another white boy threw a rock at her and then I felt hurt that I'd thrown a rock at her and I felt moved to go to her, to comfort her--and I fell in love with that black girl at that moment.
From my Pirate Bubble Gum cards I remember Captain Henry Morgan (he sacked Caribbean cities like Havana and Panama City), Bluebeard (his castle’s a hotel in St. Thomas now), Captain Cook (he may have buried treasure like on Long Island), and a woman pirate I can only remember as Ann Something, and she was another girl I was in love with, and she was very sexily depicted in the illustration of her on her card; she was wearing very tight pants and a white ripped-open blouse that allowed her handsome cleavage to spill forth alluringly while she was swordfighting on the deck of a ship with a male pirate—shit, there’s too damn much to remember.
Robin’s barns are getting more and more massive, aren’t they.
So Jimmy Boy Baker comes out of his meeting and this brilliant gang of illicit businessmen spank Georgie Porgie on his cute little ass by saying, "Yep, G.P., old buddy-buddy, the god-damn atheists, anarchists, commies, hippies, cowards, socialists, Castro-lovers, traitors, bleeding-heart liberals, and bloggers were right all along, we’re losing in Iraq; in fact, little buddy, we’ve lost in Iraq and it’s time to get the F out of there and leave it to the towel heads to work out their own shit—EXCEPT, little oil baby…" and here comes the whole crux of my growling: the red light went off on the word EXCEPT—and they continued, "before we get out of Eye-rack, the cowards left alive overthere must concede their oilfields to privatization and first grabs to those oilfields will go to U.S. corporations, first dibs on it, dammit, OR we will withhold aid and reconstruction promises and shit like that from them, plus we’ll keep military bases there, by God, or F 'em." I only heard one person pick that out. On Amy Goodman’s mornin’ radio show, I think it was. Though I think, too, I heard Randi Rhodes mention it this afternoon--think, hell, I know I did.
One of my favorite girlwolves just loped by and left me with two bags of homemade chocolate-chip trans fat cookies. I just ate one bag whole; gulped it down like a wolf cub getting his chops around his first fresh-killed baby elk intestines--ohhh, yummy and now I'm on a sugar Jones.
The bullshit goes on. The beat goes on, too. Whatever happened to Cher? Aren’t we due another comeback CD? Does she have a new ass? New tits? Is she still a hot rock mamma or is she a worn-out old hag now like Liz Taylor—whewwww, for such a hot little teenage princess, Liz has turned into an old bloated crow of a woman—whewww, beauty is certainly a created image—yeah, it’s natural when these babes are 15 up to around 30 then they start hittin’ the skids and writing diet books and beauty secret books and doing workout DVDs—Tennessee Williams nailed it southern solidly in The Sweet Bird of Youth –plus, he’d already nailed it in Streetcar Named Desire, too, hadn’t he? “Stella!” Wait a minute, didn’t he write The Fugitive Kind, too? What a great scene when that great old actor Victor Jory is in a rage as his utopia burns to the ground and his fading Italian beauty is plucked right out from under his old crippled body by a snakeskin jacket-wearing Marlon Brando. Tennessee Williams, another genuine America thinker and imaginationalist.
The bullshit goes on and my girlfriend, my special girlfriend not the cookie bearer, keeps reminding me not to worry, it’s all NOTHING, she says. There’s NOTHING to ANYTHING.
What is this thing called Love?
Boy, there’s a monkey question for you to ponder. Don’t make a monkey out of yourself trying to answer it. Man’s the monkey that put a taboo on free sex; not the chimps.
I don’t know about the rest of the world, but New York City women are looking soooo (I’m howling now, not growling) gooooood these days. Women. I rejoice in them, monkey women that they are.
thegrowlingwolf –Ya can’t make a monkey out of me!
for The Daily Growler