Monday, January 26, 2009

Obama, Obama, Obama

We Need Some Hits
We never check on ourselves, we are very humble here at The Daily Growler, but occasionally we do Google ourselves (Google is an action verb, we assume; like Xerox used to be), which one of us did this morning on the early shift and we found that yes The Daily Growler comes up on the Google hit list, but not before first of all Google questions as to whether we mean "The Daily Growl" and then follows all these links to this Daily Growl. And, yes, it's a blogspot.com blog same as us. And we're cussing like demented sailors around the pits-of-Hell offices of The Daily Growler, and then Google has the nerve to say this Daily Growl is one of its top blogs! Holy shit, we all started screaming in typical The Daily Growler state of daily panic. And to make matters worse, not that all us Growlers are Anglophobes, but of course we know our fearless leader is the leading Anglophobe in the USA, but this blog is an England blog! Now the office is really buzzing with expletives! "What is this," Mr. Ed our editing horse asked, "a convention of sexless ninnie sailors?" "We get your point, Ed, we get your point," cried Franny & Zoe from her corner office. "Question is," said Col. Singh the Singing Sikh, "how do we distance ourselves from this bloody blog?" The ghost of Carmel Quinn, she hangs around wherever we move our offices, and now we're getting [quiet] used to her presence, shouted out, "Change your name, become ACTION: The Daily Growler, or AA for Anarchists: The Daily Growler. That'll get you hits." "How about calling it Obama's Home Page?" suggested Walter Crackpipe, our venerable old-timey reporter type--pipesmoker, you know the type. "By the way, Wally," we said, "Old Walter Cronkite is back on PBS soon--he's got a special on the changing world or something broad and rhetorical like that." "Jesus, that's all we need. How about hiring G.W. Bush as a Growler correspondent? No other blog would dare, would they?" "I can imagine it, 'A Letter From George,'" Franny & Zoe pondered.

A Letter From George W. Bush
Dateline, Dallas, Texas, Jan. 25th, 2009
I gotta fireplace here in this mansion I got from a foreclosure deal and you betcha I'm sittin' in front of it now with a branch water and Jack and a bowl of pretzels...'Pickles, baby, would you all bring me that bottle of Jack I left on the kitchen counter, babe, there's a good chicky.' She'll be in in a minute to freshin' up my drink here. So what it's 10 o'clock in the morning; I ain't president no more--not that I ever was president--hah-hah--you all get it? Anyway, like they say in Tennessee...er-ah, fuck Tennessee, like I was sayin', I ain't president anymore so fuck conventionality and decorum and all that college rot, I'm back to drinkin' steady and Pickles is back to rollin' her own doobs...er-ah, hold on here. 'Pickles, honey, where the hell are you with that bottle a Jack, I'm getting down to the Polish Army state in here?' [Ex-"president" Bush sits in expectation. There is no response.] Now where the hell is Pickles? I think SMU may have put her to stuffin' envelopes over at the Alumni Association. SMU used to be a big time school. They had some of the best football teams in the country back when I was a swaddling. Damn right. Eric Dickenson. That brown motherfucker could run. Scored more points than any running back up to that time. First motherfucker to run over 2,000 yards in a season. I should have been a football coach. 'Rosita, how 'bout you, my little Latin sugar, are you about the house?' Yep, we've hired a couple'a illegal Messkins to do the shit work around this house. We've warned 'em if they steal from us or shit like that, you know get Wetback lazy on us, we'll turn 'em in to ICE--we used to call 'em Wetbacks when I was a kid and old Pappy was stayin' down in Old Mexico most of the time leaving me with Mammy Babs at home alone. Me hanging on her apron strings while she cussed my Pappy out somethin' good. 'That two-timin' son of a bitch," she used to say while she was kickin' Messkin servant butt around the Midland house. 'What you all mean, Mammy Babs, he's two-timin'?' I knew what son of a bitch meant but I'd never heard'a two-timin' before. 'You're old Pappy, my husband, is down there in Mexico whorin' it up like there's no tomorrow, the son of a bitch.' I knew my Pappy loved Neil and Jeb better'n me. I knew that, but I had Mammy Babs all to myself. She kept me tied to her apron strings and she covered for my ass when I got a little rambunctious, beings we were very rich and prominent and all and I was gonna get to go to Yale no matter my grades in Midland. I had fun growing up in Texas, though, hell, everybody knows my family are totally Connecticut Yankees of the worst kind. I always used to joke at Yale about the Bushes being Tories! I have so many reflections going through my dazed mind. The Jack Daniels helps me clear up my head so my thoughts come through cool and clean. 'Pickles! Rosita! One you all bitches bring me that bottle of Jack!' One of my old Republican asskissers here in Big D brought me some solid rock by the other day. I haven't done coke in a passel of years...damn, I believe when I was president I said since God spoke to me while I was drunk and coked up on my faulty ass that night in the White House, that's right...see how this Jack clears up my head? They didn't let me drink when I was president. Pickles threatened to leave my ass if I started hitting the Jack heavy again. So I went, what's the word, on the wagon? Is that word in itself? Anyway, I went on the god-damn wagon and Jesus it fucked up my thinking. I mean, people, I lost my charisma. I got the shakes. I'd get up to make a speech and shit my brains were dry--I couldn't think of a god-damn thing--nothing made sense to me so I just blurted it out--no reason behind anything I said or actions I took or executive orders I signed--and I signed a record number of those tricks of the trade--all because they were the dealings of a sober man. Me sober. Me sober is me a bumbling idiot. I'm used to sailin' by by the skin of my ass. But I'm used to beaucoup respect, too. I come from a god-damn top-of-the-shelf American family, dammit, a privileged family--one of the Power Elite--somethin' I learned from readin' your thegrowling wolf--but anyway, yes, god-damn right the Bush Family is an Empire. I mean my old Pappy knows every important motherfucker in the world by their first name, and that includes--and I shouldn't reveal this, but what the hell, I'm a free man now--but my old Pappy knew Osama Bin Laden, that pansy, personally. You bet, the son of a bitch had my Pappy's cell phone number and used to call him all the time. In fact, when Prince Bandar Bush, my A-rabb stepbrother, and my Old Pappy were having a power breakfast and watching 9/11 going down, Bin Laden called my Pappy and his brother...oh, you didn't know Prince Bandar and Osama were blood relatives! Stupid people. And you people are stupid as hell. Believing all that bullshit my administration was spreadin'--hot damn, it was fun while it worked, and that god-damn Paul Wolfowitz assured me he had it all figured out, the New World Order of my Pappy's invention, how to pull it off. 'Soon,' this lying commie son of a bitch said, 'you'll rule the fucking world like Napoleon or Alexander the Great.' 'I don't wanna be killed or exiled,' I protested, and that Trotsyite bastard told me, 'Saddle up your victory horse, G.W., you'll soon rule the whole fucking world. It's in the writing on the wall.' Turned out it was writing on the wall of the White House pisser. And boy howdy did I get us into a fucking mess. You know the truth, and I had documents to this effect, neither Afghanistan nor Iraq had anything to do with 9/11. I knew my Saudi family connections had been the motivators behind 9/11. But what could I do, people? My family and the Saudis were intermixed, you might say. We knew the turmoil going on in Saudi Arabia. We knew the Bin Ladens through Prince Bandar invited my Pappy to organize his troops and air force strikes on Saudi soil. Prince Bandar knew his brother Osama would be pissed about that--organizing heretical soldiers on sacred Muslim soil was an abomination of the Islamic faith. Hell fire, we knew this, so what the hell, not only did we get the fucking Bin Ladens, including Prince Bandar, out of this country muy pronto but we had to blame it on somebody else mucho quick. The CIA knew exactly where Osama was. Hell, so did the Saudis and the Dubai potentates, too--hell Osama was staying at a tiger-hunting lodge he'd leased from the Dubai potentates...I better shut my mouth on this. Save it for my memoirs. Pickles thinks she can finagle me a couple'a million on a book deal. I don't need the money, people. The Bushes as a family are rolling in the dough and the land deals and the mortgage business--remember my bros Jeb and Neil were big in the savings and loan business back in those good ole days. That fucking Charles Keating. Hell yes my family knew Charles Keating. So'd John McCain know him. How do you think that mindless idiot got into politics? OK, sure, he made a big move by divorcing his first wife and hooking up with that hooker-looking beer baron's daughter--how 'bout those go-go boots she wore during old McCain's failed campaign? I laughed like hell and told Pickles, 'McCain's such a loser; you know he's the first US presidential candidate to lose to a wooly-booger.' Mammy Babs taught me to respect Knee-grows. Shit yeah. I used to play sort of with the little pickaninny that trimmed our lawn back in Midland. Yeah, we called a spade a spade in those days; we called 'em pickaninnies and darkies and [N word], too, don't get me wrong. Them were the days you did that in Texas and nobody thought the worst of it. The White Man ruled in those days with an iron fist. Knee-grows knew their place and they kept their hat in their hands when confronted by my Mammy or my Pappy, it was 'Yassuh, Mister George Herbert Walker,' in respect of Pappy's White Power, and 'Yassuh, Miz Mammy Bush, yo ladyship' in respect of her being my old Pappy's legal wife. That kind'a respect was championed by the Bush family in those days. Well, I'm gettin' pissed now. I can't find any subservients in the house. I seem to be here by myself. Shit, I guess I gotta get up off my ass and go get that bottle of Jack myself. So long, and God bless America. Actually, people, I've gotta admit, my attitude these days of total conspicuous leisure is 'Kiss my Bush ass, America. Let's see the [N worder] follow that!' I say paraphrasing Jerry Lee Lewis when he set his piano on fire right before Chuck Berry took the stage back in the good ole days. You all see, I know my rock 'n roll. You might just could call me now 'Rock 'n Rollin' George.' I like that. Cool your heels and take a tip from me, 'several nips a day keep the blues away.' Here's to you.

George W. Bush
a special for The Daily Growler
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Wow, we are jumping for joy here at The Daily Growler. Let's see them top that! A letter from Georgie Porgie. It's just good ole American, that's all it is. A letter from our worst president ever! The most ruin-causing leader the world has ever known. Including A. Hitler, you ask. More than likely after all the carnage he caused is finally totalled up. Remember like the Israelis in Gaza, we don't count Iraq or Afghanistan casualties and even when word gets out that one of our rockets killed 47 innocent civilians, including 14 schoolkids, we deny, deny, deny--and we're now doing it everyday after our missile attacks on Pakistan kill tons of civilians. We deny, deny, deny that.

How about we think Bernie Madoff deserves a Hall of Fame Award? Look at the greedy bastards he brought to their knees with his chutzpah--one trumped dude slit his wrists after realizing Bernie the Blessed Jewish Son had ruined his ass. Hell, Bernie ruined his own mother's old shrivelled ass. That's a real American to us! That's what America's all about: going for the jackpot no matter the cost a la Machiavelli.

thestaff
for The Daily Growler

EXTRA: Here's Shelby Again:

This time Shelby is tackling Moby Dick, chapters 82-106.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Moby-Dick: Chapters 82-106

Chapter 82: The Honor and Glory of Whaling

Throughout this novel, Ishmael has implied that whales are immortal, Gods. Now he takes a new approach, detailing the whalers as heroes, Gods. If whalers are the Gods, then what are the whales? This chapter emphasizes the idea of whales as the hunted mortal beings. Do Gods worship the worshippers? Is whaling a battle of the Gods? Are are there no Gods at all?

Chapter 83: Jonah Historically Regarded

The validity of myths is something debated to this very day. But his chapter seems to make clear that the myths themselves are the source of wonder, and they are capable of creating miracles.
________________________________Read the whole post at:

shelbyap.blogspot.com/
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Another EXTRA: Congrats to David Corn: he seems to have been reading The Daily Growler--We Heard Some Thorstein Veblen in His Comments This Morning on
Amy Goodman's Democracy Now--Why, Gee Whiz, David Is Now for Letting Wall Street Totally Go Under--For That We Give Him Cheers!

Here's David Corn's Blog:
blogs.cqpolitics.com/davidcorn/

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