Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Conductor, Slow Down, Please Let Me Off This Bus

Holy smothering mothers, what's going on in this world? They're talking about using nukes on Iran. Huh? Isn't that kind'a like DUMB? Is our "president" and all his Neo-conning henchmen drunk? On coke? Crystal meth? Valium? Not marijuana. You can't enjoy war if you're stoned on grass. One of the purposes of the hip hop evolution is to ask "Why?" That's why I'm forced to growl, "Whyyyyyyyyyyyyy?" Why be mean in the name of peace and freedom and democracy? Why be bullish; bullish people are bullies. Why act like you are above the people you are suppose to represent and provide services to? Why do these birds think they know more than the citizens who pay their every way; who make these donkies, jackasses, dumb elephants (with huge asses to kiss and lick), primo-Yahoos fabulously rich, set for life, nest-egged for sure, perpetuated on through a whole slew of their worthless offspring and that offspring's worthless offspring that will come along and try to rule us in the future, i.e., the Kennedy family: what a joyous little bevy of joy-boy assholes, the whole family, starting with Bootlegger Joe and Mama Rose (check out what a member of Congress gets in terms of benefits--they get more than they'll ever give Mr. Average Joe Blow and that is one thing your government guarantees you, if you are a Joe Blow). Assholes. And now they can't wait to use their nuclear arsenal. Check out this little news drama: "Let's smoke those sand-shitters," Donald Rumsfeld tells Chris Matthews (what a dipstick he is--Holy Jesus, how do these "repetitive head" clowns asskiss their way up to a point where they can give their opinions so openly without any fact checking going on, with merely your instincts to guide you through their total bullshit, instincts that tell you to "Watch Your Step" all across their shit-strewn fields of operation). "We did it to the I-rackies, as the president said on that one, 'Mission Accomplished,' and now we gonna do it big time to E-ran, same thing, except this time the shock and awe is gonna be awesome. Whew what f-ing explosions that's gonna be. Praise the president, I swear, this is gonna be a lot'a shock but a hell of a lot more awe. Hell, we'll have those towel heads running for cover when we drop my new 75 million pound bomb on their fucking 5-story-deep bunkers." Chris then slid off his stool, made Mr. Rumsfeld stand and lower his pants and shorts, and then he kissed and licked like the true investigative reporter he is. "Oh, thank you so much, my defenseman big boy. Ohhh, you make me wet my shorts I'm so in love with you." "I got nothin' against homos, Chris, hell, Unka Dick's daughter's a homo, but hell, boy, Unka Dick's daughter can kiss ass better that you and you gotta dick down there, ain't you?" "Do you want to see it, Mr. Rumsfeld, maybe touch it?" "Not today, maybe on a later show when you have me back, but right now, I gotta go blow up some towel heads and camel jockeys."

Is is some kind of Freudian-rooted death wish these birds are fulfilling? It's like once you've killed the pleasure becomes addictive. You have to find some more to kill. You have to keep killing and killing and killing--like the Christian god in the Old, Old Testicular History they call the Old Testesment--you know the worth of old testes, don't you?--if that bastard didn't like the way you worshipped him, he zapped your ass right there on the spot. When Onan spilled his seed on the ground instead of in his babe's vagina, Jehovah zapped his f-ing ass drop-dead right on the spot. Killing becomes these creeps's metier.

Our "president" as foreman of the big Texas ranch in the sky executively executed 157 human beings (yes, I know, mostly black men--whether sane, insane, retarded, brain dead, or drug addicted, a few good ole white trash boys (an exception was that corny old cracker asshole, Henry, was that his name?, the worst serial killer in US history--they didn't whack him; he got life; he got to live his life on out. Too bad, for the hundreds of young women he killed who didn't get to live longer than this piece of crap cretin decided he didn't want them to live). And, little privileged, rich, spoiled brat Bush baby got to whack ONE WOMAN. 157! That's a lot of human beings to snuff out in two terms as guv'nor of the Lunatic Star State...just shove a needle in their ass and watch 'em die--bam, bam, bam, bam. "How many more we got to go, boys?" "153, Mr. president, suh." "Whewy, you mean that many. Hot damn! But I know you boys can do it. You're workin' with me, right boys?" "Yes suh, Mr. president." "I could even give you boys a hand...that might be some fun...hell of a lot more fun than having to go back to mah ranch and do Pickles [heh-heh-heh]...don't tell her I said that now, boys [heh-heh-heh]. But, shit, I trust you boys. Do a good job and I'll send ya each a bottle'a Jim Beam, for medicinal purposes now, of course." [He turns to talk to Tom DeLay.] "Little Tommy Tucker here, remember that joke, boys? But Old Tom here tells me you all got a woman you're goin' to shoot up, too." "Yes suh, Mr. president, a real nice Christian lady who found Jesus in prison." "Yeah, well, boys, we gonna send her to Jesus just as fast as we can get to it, right boys?" "Yes suh, Mr. president." "Yeah, shoot that needle into that bitch all the way to the bone, boys. Y'all take care now, ya hear? And get your asses to work 'fore I start catipultin' the propaganda towards y'all's bony asses." "Yes suh, Mr. president." And off went the limo back to the faux ranch in Crawford.

Hot Damn! War!
This Growler was born at the beginning of World War II. I was reared to hate Nazis, Japs (or Nips), and Wops (or Dagoes as my totally biased and prejudiced uncle used to call them). I was taught to make fun of Hitler, Tojo, and Mussolini. I liked Uncle Joe Stalin's look so much, I cut his picture off the cover of a Life magazine and pinned it up on my room wall. My mother made me take it down because she said she didn't trust Stalin; there was something about his face she didn't like. I liked his style. He didn't necessarily look benevolent, I just thought he looked cool with his moustache, his hats with big red stars on them, and his pipe. I read a few years ago in a psychology publication that men who smoke pipes are more likely to be ax murderers than men who get their nicotine fix from other sources [very few women ever smoked pipes, except down South where a lot of old hags smoked corncob pipes, though in the fifties, the Kaywoodie pipe folks came out with ladies's pipes--all different colors with faux diamonds set in a circle around the bowls]. That sure turned out to be true about Uncle Joe. I grew up seeing war as fun.

After WW II, suddenly we had the "regular" man, HST, as our president. There was good reason to be a little afraid of Harry Ass Truman. After all, this cocky little bastard is responsible for the literal evaporation of over 300,000 innocent Japanese men, women, children, grandpas, grannies, babies, nurses, doctors, whores, policemen, big shots, dogs, cats, rats, you name it, those A-bombs microwaved Hiroshima and Nagasaki. There was every reason to fear the US after WWII when our libidos and egos were soaring sky high; WE WERE THE CHAMPIONS, MY FRIENDS.

With an added cockiness to this already cocky little asshole from the big Kansas City political machine--a rabid racist until his Big Daddy Boss Man told him he would have to get the black vote if he had any hopes of winning a Democratic seat in Congress. Fuckin' ass Harry suddenly became the most ass-kissing, hand slapping, friendliest son of a bitch in the black community around Kansas City, and sure enough, he got his crummy little failed haberdasher ass elected to Congress. I'll bet the day he found out old crusty FDR had kicked the bucket (an unfair phrase since FDR couldn't a kick a god-damn thing since he couldn't use his legs) there was a lot of Mizzouri waltzing going on around the Truman mansion--Bess banging on some pots and his out-of-tune singer/daughter flitting about singing "Happy Days Are Here Again."

Then, how about that "police action" against the Korean people?--dividing that country up into the two-faced mess it is today. That was little citizen Harry, too. Hey, we lost a lot of troopers in that war, too. Nor did we really accomplish anything but division by interfering in the country's politics. But then, that's the purpose of our saber rattling, to divide and conquer, except we aren't very good at conquering.

Citizen Harry was a happy little son of a bitch when he finally retired to "Independence," Missouri, where he wiled away his time reminiscing with Walter Krockedtight about the privilege that allowed Little Priss Harry go to sit in the Oval Office wearing his tailor-made suit, his handmade shoes, his custommade shirts, his stupid suspenders, garnering all the benefits of being the "leader of the 'Free' World" where you can just lean back in your big, comfortable, oversized, overpriced swivel chair and authorize the annihilation of other countries's citizens, bomb them into photographic negatives [When Harry nuked Hiroshima and Nagasaki, some people's silhouettes were photographically reproduced on the ruined walls when the flash of the explosion happened and took a deadly picture of them as they did whatever it was they were doing that day]. What power to give a worthless little failed ex-haberdasher; the power to oppose anybody in the world you want to simply because you don't like their politics or it could be just because you don't like the way their eyes are shaped, according to white biology.

White biology?, you ask. Yep, white biology. White politics. White laws. A white Constitution. White history. White analytics. White policies. White reasoning. Anglo-Saxon reasoning and thinking. British philosophy, in particular the philosophy of old reprobate John Locke who impressed aristocractic thinkers like Old Long Tom Jefferson, that self-indulging jicky head who had a certain Utopia branded into his brain by the power of his landholding, slaveholding, possessing a library, being a white renaissance MAN, women not meaning much to dudes like Tom--except when it comes to being a good master and getting first pick of the hottest slave women--that coaxed out Tom's sexual perversions and when he finished and wiped off his chin, he cockwalked back to Monticello, and had a bottle of Gallo Revolutionary beaujolais as he waited for his first bastard child to be born.

Shit, I'm growing hair thicker than the wool on a blocky Merino sheep, though I'm not wanting to bleat, bleating is for little lambs; I'm in sheep's clothing; I want to GROWLLLLLLLLLL and then HOWLLLLLL like HELLLLLLL at that moon up there, that full god-damned devil moon getting full right before my nightsight eyes. I can't stand all this shit, this really really dumb shit that is being dumped on me.

The Superphony Supernatural
We act like we are supernaturally blessed since we are "human beings" created in the image of some supernatural Big Daddy, "Love me, Daddy!," like Big Daddy Buddha. At least Big Daddy Buddha like Plato liked to sit under trees and think, a little bowl sitting in front of him for offerings and sustenance. Mohammed? Hell, all I know about Mohammed you could write on a pinhead--Look, there's a pinhead there--Oh, excuse me, professor, I thought you were a pinhead; that's what you sound like.

Norman Mailer once suggested that we build a huge battlefield in an outland somewhere, he suggested Brazil, and stage "war events" there: "Today, ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, we have a biggie, Palestine (0-10) versus Sweden (0-0). Why they're fighting, we don't give a shit as long as they're mean and get god-damn good and bloody and kill the shit out of every human bean that moves. Refreshments are now being served in the Embassy compound." Make war a sporting event. My brain is now growing wolf hair all over its many fissures.
Relating to What's Above: a Little Taste of HipHop Philosophy
I discovered a little hip hop philosophy at http://www.hiphopphilosophy.com Check it out, it's interesting reasoning. Self-respect is the message; training young men and women to be self-respecting and finding strength to fight the oppressing separatists through the music and its blossoming philosophy of self-rhyming as the ability to know yourself and respect the laws of NATURE given us by the glory of this planet, which the separatists are intent upon breaking apart and therefore destroying [a lot of white theologians see the world as belonging to Old Ned (the Devil; also known as Satan) and therefore in need of destruction]. Cool. "The only way to eliminate a problem and its effects is to eliminate or prevent its cause." I can't argue with that. Cause and effect thinking, dig? And listen to this, I dig this, too: "Your shade of brown simply depends on where your ancestors descended from, in relation to the equator. As time goes on, and as society gets sicker, our relationship with 'God&Allah' increasingly becomes social, ideological, economical, industrial, political, divisive, and mostly apathetic." Jah, I can't argue with that either, can you?

I could go on forever with these words from the Temple of HipHop, but I will instead lope off back into my jungle where I can bay at my full moon lavishing in the rhymes and rhythms of my innerself's best songs. This program director says at the end of his blog: "[I have] reason to believe in my theory of conclusive and inconclusive conclusions."

The Daily Growler a la Oprah Book Club
1) The Astonished Man by Blaise Cendrars
2) The Ancient Near East: a History by William W. Hallo and William Kelly Simpson

New books will be added as a Growler leads us onto them.
From The Daily Growler Central Newsroom:
Good news! The "president" seems bound and determine to bomb Iran, Praise the Lard. Yeah, he says he's puttin' everything on the table before he makes a move. He's a liar, remember, so from all his ballyhooing, I figure we've already bombed Iran. [a Daily Growler scoop?] Whatever the case, if a huge red glare awakens you one night, I'd get right with my maker if I were you; either that or get out your lead-lined thermal wear. It's gonna be a different world after the big mushroom cloud finally disappears.

for The Daily Growler

Keep on keepin' on.

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