I am listening to the pack of rascals in Washington, District of Corruption, interviewing sweet old Rummy Rumsfeld’s replacement for his comfy job he had to vacate, Cousin Dick Gates. Old mumble-mouth ancient one, Dick Byrd, questioned him with questions he couldn't answer truthfully—though I must admit, Cousin Dick walks on eggshells about as cool as any of these Neo-Con freaks; however, check out his past and you’ll find he’s been in some pretty sleazy situations during that Checkers-ed time. Shut the gate on him, I say, but, no, this Senate committee, including old ex-Ku Kluxer Byrd and old Tiger Cage McCain, gave him their gung-ho approval. Yahoooo! Life goes on in the District of Corruption as predicted no matter what political party is in control. Like John McCain. I mean, is this war-throttled boob on every committee in Congress? You see this mentally crippled wildeyed nutjob being interviewed on every topic no matter the ignorant and nutty answers and beliefs he sputters back at them. Those eyes of his are lost back in those jungles of 'Nam. Hey, I keep shouting, he’s a ‘Nam vet and a guy who spent years in a Tiger Cage, had his teeth pulled out with pliers, hell he had his fingernails and toenails pulled out with pliers, too; he had to endure extreme heat or cold in his Tiger Cage; yet, that horrible experience doesn’t sway McCain’s love of war and killing and torturing and getting Christian-white revenge on those heathen assholes who are against the American Way. He sees Bush’s “terrerists” the same as he saw the Cong, as scumbag anti-Christ heathen who need the salvation of the American God Mammon; hey, man, a large dose of American-controlled Capitalism is all these poor slobs need in order to drop to their knees in worship of the Head from which beams out those Thousand Points of Light old Pappy Bush set forth in his New World Order Pappy Bull he babbled out during his sham job as president. So the fact is, this Senate committee unanimously approved Cousin Dick Gates to replace Rummy, and since the approval was unanimous, I assume Byrd’s stupid-dick questions were answered the way one old Dick wants another Dick to answer them, with a mouth full of hoity-toity, wishy-washy half-answers, continuing the backwards logic that rules in that great city of swindle on the Potomac River, the same river on whose banks in front of Mount Vernon, George Washington’s plantation, the Father of Our Country’s slaves cultivated the finest crop of marijuana ( or hemp if you wish) grown at that time. I remember the Firesign Theater in one skit parodied our Revolutionary forefathers by having Ben Franklin saying, “Me thinks me’ll take me down to the Hashfire Inn for a pipe….” (And remember, one of the cars sold by Ralph’s Spoilsport Motors came with a lid of Panama Red in the glove compartment (do they still call them glove compartments? it’s where old driver’s used to keep their driving gloves and goggles). It’s obvious from his slurred speech that according to the Firesign T guys old Ben was chocked full of good weed as he went about his merry business of mafficking, spoilsporting, and revolutionizing around the filthy streets of old Philly when it was the seat of our fledgling White government. I’m sure old Tom “Whar’s My Cullard Gal?” Jefferson found out Virginia grew damn fine marijuana, too. Hell, the slaves used it to make clothes. Wonder if the slaves blew pot or any drug they could get their hands on to make their miserable times pass with less pain? I mean, that pot must’a been Holy Toledo holier than today’s hybrid crap—though I wouldn’t know, folks. I’m like Nancy Reagan, I say “No” to drugs—especially aspirin, cold capsules, Oxycontin, percodan, ibuprofin, Tums (Smut spelled backwards), Lipitor—right on, Nancy, baby. I don’t think Pickles Bush would go along with Nancy in saying no to drugs. I believe I read where Pickles sold little brown Mexican cigarettes to help her get through college; heresay, yes, but since she’s a Texas girl from the same area of Texas I’m from, and the same era, and I can clearly remember doin’ some dope in the backseat of my dad's Caddy with some Odessa gals near Permian High, especially the barrelridin’ babes, all up and down the Teepee Line from Dallas all the way out to El Paso, and I know ever’body did mary-ja-wanna at some moment or another in them thar days of growing up with Mexicans who knew where to get it or who knew how to grow it and knew it grew especially well in the ditches along the backroads of old West Texas—I mean with the constant sunlight and the rich loamy creek and river banks to grow on, that stuff grew like the evil weed it is; it grew heartily and densely during my raisin’ time. My friend Tricky Lopez and I once found a full-grown cannibus bush among the brambles along Jim Ned Creek just south of my hometown. Or how about the Twins? You think they haven’t done some pot in their day? Coke, too. And we know their already taking after Daddy with the booze. Or, don’t ya just know it, as the old song used to sing.
I noticed also that the new Dumbocratic chairman of the Armed Services Committee, Reyes, I think his name is, has now decided even though he voted against the Iraq War in the first place, he’s now leaning toward sending more troops overthere. Whaaa! I mean these stupid one-track minded (feathering their own nests) assholes were given Congress back by We the People not to just carry on in the same old sleazy, crooked, bilking, and lyin’ way but to change directions, to get our pompous asses out of Iraq the same as we got our asses out of Korea leaving it divided and in perpetual civil war; the same as we bailed our asses out of Viet Nam leaving it divided and in civil war. Sam Kinison was right: “It never ends.” Eugene O’Neill is right too in saying life is simply “days without end.” We is screwed, folks, so you might as well start whistling a few bars of "Dixie" while you slave away—sorry, no trans fat for relief; sorry, you gotta say no to drugs—slaves are no longer allowed pleasures. Slaves are allowed to satisfy the first two primary needs all animals have—the quenching of thirst and the alleviation of hunger—however, Freud’s third primary need, pleasure, must be denied to slaves. Toil is their middle name not pleasure. Sex isn’t even pleasure to a slave. Think about it.
thegrowlingwolffor The Daily Growler
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