VICTORY IN IRAQ

With the Latest Death of al-Zarqawi, "Mission Finally Accomplished" in Iraq
A Daily Growler embedded reporter [name is being held for security reasons] in Iraq sent the following telegram this morning to The Daily Growler outhouse office on the banks of the Suwanee River: "The streets of Baghdad are berift with cacophonous yodellings and yowlings and ululations only 'these people' understand, though we all know what all of this means: Victory alas in Iraq. Is that correct? Rummy [Donnie Rumfull] made an appearence this morning wearing his official Department of Defense tasteful polyester jacket--only the head of our mighty defenses can wear one of these Made-in-China special jackets, so we know he's serious when he wears that--and he cautiously declared that to him it's a great day to be alive because finally the head of all al-Qaeda operations throughout the world, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, like the great Chalabi, a Jordanian gentleman, who has been around, out by the oilfields mostly, since the beginning of the US's noble invasion, is DEAD. This time for real, and well you may ask about the reality of this reported death since this is about the 4th time this Sunni 'Shia snake' killer has been killed. Maybe even more; we can't remember that far back. Well, at least, they have a photo of a very ugly dead face they're showing around as proof it is al-Zarqawi who was blown to bits by a US Air Force attack, evidently his body was blown to bits that is, yes, ruined beyond recognition but not the head and face, both left whole and totally unmarked by the Air Force bomb that so mangled his body. It was peculiar to this reporter that the site of the big victory was yes a bombed out bunch of deserty looking stone dwellings; yet, there were no signs of furniture or clothes or garbage, just a rubble of these weird adobe-looking stones and one rather wimpy looking hole in the ground they said was where the bomb hit. Oh well, victories in Iraq are hard to find so we'll make the best of this one. Yes, Donnie Rumfull was cautious. He said though this is a big blow to al-Qaeda forces around the world and to the insurgents in Iraq it probably didn't really mean that much in terms of freedom's triumphant march into all areas of Iraq, especially the oil fields. It didn't mean that anything has really changed in our little War on Terrorism. Why, I even heard in 2003 before the war, Rummy himself kinda told the "boys" to go easy on al-Zarqawi, you know, give him some safe havens, etc. Sound suspicious? But still, in the streets of Baghdad today...well, let's see two car bombs went off last night killing a few innocent bystanders here and there, one bomb killing Iraqis in an evening market--I saw over and over one film clip of a little Iraqi boy wearing one of those huge white bandages all war hospitals seem to have tons of as though he'd suffered a head injury. They didn't report what had hit him--well, for that matter, they didn't even report who the kid was or actually where he was from or where were his parents or even why his head was bandaged; they just showed the film clip of him over and over on every channel. This kid got his fifteen minutes of fame, right Andy? So far, I haven't seen any showerings of rose petals toward US troops. Whoops, there goes another car bomb. Looks like another normal day here in Baghdad. al-Zarqawi is dead...but no one seems to give a shit. Really. I wouldn't kid ya, I'm a crack reporter. Whoa, I'm gettin' the hell outta here, that truck filled with 10 tons of Canadian fertilizer driven by a Canadian teen-ager is headin' right toward me. Whoa, General, let me in your Humvee, old buddy." A Special Frontlines Report for The Daily Growler by one Sympathy Sid [not his/her real name] somewhere in Iraq.

Victory?
Didn't sound like much of a victory to us. Al-Zarqawi's been dead before and there was no triumphant-trumpeting then either. Like Sympathy Sid, after watching the morning teevee reports, you'd a thought the war was over overthere and that Rummy Rumfull and Georgie Porgie, our "president," were up to share the Nobel Peace Prize this year for sure; certainly they'll give each other Medals of Honor--maybe in a private ceremony in Georgie Porgie's wifeless White House bedroom. [Remember, Pickles lives in the Mayflower Hotel now.]

In the meantime, Bin Laden was reported having a great day. After his dialysis session, he was wheeled out to do a little tiger hunting with Prince Bandar Bush and some Pakistani leaders. He was in a jokey mood and after some vigorous hunting, while Camel cigarettes were being passed out by White House lobbyists and the Gunga Dins were pouring some Folger's coffee, Bin cracked a joke as he quipped while lighting up a Camel, "In US of A, you say 'woman fucks, Camel sucks'; in my country we say the opposite, "women suck, the Camel she fuck.'" This joke is a big success as a joke especially with the Pakistani leaders who laughed their fat asses off as they chowed down on tiger meatballs in a special curry-tiger-colon-juice gravy, cooked by Bin Laden's personal chef, Baksheesh Puck.

World Cup Begins
The World Cup has begun. The Daily Growler watched Germany beat Costa Rica 2-1, from Berlin. Odd seeing a sports championship being held in Berlin, where once Hitler enjoyed the Olympics. Germany didn't look that great; of course, they were without their star. Germany dominated the game but Costa Rica could have won just as easily as they lost; Germany was excellent with plays but they couldn't score; only enough to win. Currently the Europeans on our staff are fighting with the Latinos, as Ecuador is leading Poland 1-0. We're watching the game on the Mexican channel on our hotshot digital teevee. The commentadores are saying Brasil is favorite to win the whole thing. We've not seen Brasil play yet, but we've seen Mexico on several occasions though we don't see them advancing much further than the quarterfinals. It's fun, it's coming to ya from Berlin, and listen to it in Spanish and it'll warm your sports solar plexus. It will keep us sporty Growlers entertained 'til the Yankees or Mets games come on, when we'll switch over and watch a little beisbol; the best baseball going this year is happening in New York City. Does Davenport have a baseball team this year? We know they used to have a dandy stadium right down by the river there. The ballpark always floods everytime the Mighty Mississippi runs out of her banks. Are rivers women? Whoa, we just thought, the Mississippi is the father of all our rivers, so I s'pose the Mighty Mississippi is a male. Cars used to be women when I was a kid; ships always were, I think.

We've Probably Lost the Internet Afterall
The asshole Repugnicans yesterday voted down a Democratic-sponsored law that would give every site on the Internet equality--it would have made the Internet neutral in terms of control by the megacommunications companies that want to own it. Nope. The Repugnicans countered that they wanted no government regulations to interfere with the Internet. Holy shit these fools are killing us. Why do we put up with this shit? This will ruin Amazon.com, eBay, Google, all these companies; it will ruin them because first of all they will now have to pay taxes on all their transmissions as well as increased costs and fees for maintain a high-speed-tiered site. Here comes the dirt road for We the People. Fuck the People seems to be the intent of this Repugnican fucked up Congress.

GOD-DAMN THESE LYIN' TOTALLY HYPOCRITICAL ASSHOLES WHO ARE DRAGGING US ALL DOWN INTO A CESSPOOL HELL OF THEIR CREATION; A SYSTEM OF TWO-FACED GOVERNMENT DEDICATED TO THE ENSLAVEMENT OF ITS PEOPLE WHO IN ACTUALITY ACTUALLY OWN THE INTERNET.

WAKE UP, WE THE PEOPLE.

thecorruptedstaff of The Daily Growler

Yes, All Fool's Day has been continued past April 1st indefinitely so that We the People can do a little celebrating while Freedom's on the march.

The Daily Growler Quote of the Day

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom
A field where a thousand corpses lie.

Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep,
War is kind.

Stephen Crane, from his poem "War Is Kind."
from his book of poetry War Is Kind, New York 1899.

Note: Ecuador scored a second goal with 10 minutes left in the game. Ecuador 2 Poland 0.

Celebration Time, Come On

The Daily Growler Just Became 2 Months Old
Since April 6th. Before April 6, "a blog" was avidly bounced around the Growler penthouse executive offices high above downtown Davenport, Iowa, or even that office we have in that basement under Jack Kerouac's birthplace in Lowell, Massachusetts...

Fragment

What is poetry? Is it a mosaic
Of coloured stones which curiously are wrought
Into a pattern? Rather glass that's taught
By patient labor any hue to take
And glowing with a sumptuous splendor, make
Beauty a thing of awe; where sunbeams caught,
Transmuted fall in sheafs of rainbows fraught
With storied meaning for religion's sake.

Yes, you guessed it, a poem from Amy Lowell, from her A Dome of Many-coloured Glass.
We "copied" it from a wonderful site...ah, truly wonderful (we're mimicking dear ole cigar-smoking Amy)...

www.everypoet.com

"Are blogs worth the time?" we asked ourselves. "A waste of time!" was growled from the back of the plexiglas-walled cell. "A troubling of desires," was yowled through the troubling seas of the long-haired heads of that cell of Growlers. "Well, since everyone is so enthusiastic, I say let's do it," said Franny & Zoe our two-headed "babe" correspondent. "Hear hear," chanted a surprise guest, a local out-of-work hostler wearing a Prince Charles mask...or was that a Camilla Parker Bowles mask? It really is hard to decide which is the uglier of that double-ugly couple. Can you imagine they used to meet in the middle of a field and screw while poor Amurica's princess Die-anna was fooling about, I say, with the stable boys. What a life! Our "president" Georgie Porgie loves that life; that's the life he's used to. That's why he wants a monarchy here. "Hell, they got one in Saudi-Arabia...heh-heh...and I'd say that economy's doin' a heck of a job; or how 'bout my friends overthere in Ab-boo Dabby...I wouldn't say they're slouchin' over there either...heh-heh. My job would be easier if I were a dictator...er-ah, as long as I'm the dictator...heh-heh." What a dolt. And these clowns...oh my God! Why a blog, we asked, and a couple of hired consultants said, "Hell, get off your rusty dusties and go on, start a damn blog; quit wastin' our time debating the matter. You're all bloviated blowhards...you're all blowin' in the wind...a hot-air wind...but hell, hot air rules the world so we might as well get used to it. Hot air could actually be transformed into the Devil Incarnate in some cultures."

Hey, Christian Fools, and that's all y'all, how about that as the excuse for the scientifically proven global warming going on...just say it's the Devil rising up out of Hell to take on Jesus on that White Horse and those hosts of Los (t) Angeles comin' for to carry the US home. That's it; it's getting hotter because the homosexual Devil is comin' up out of Hell to tempt Brother Jesus with a same-sex marriage proposal.

Even a stupid-fool Mormon yesterday said he was against this absolutely absurd fascination with getting an anti-Gay marriage amendment on the books. Fools! Go over to Baghdad and listen to an Amy Lowell lecture, oh ye of no culture at all.

Two months old. The Daily Growler. Is it walking yet? Hell if we know. We're having fun; you want'a wreck the party, go ahead...and if you wreck some parties make it the Democratic and Repugnican parties...I'm sorry, they're already pretty wrecked right (wing) now.

Dumbocrats 0; California Fascist (Swartzeneggerists) Repugnicans 2
The assinine politically correct Dumbocrats blew two in California. Yeah, one in John Birch-crazy San Diego, a lovely glistening little paradise for white folks just up the road from magnificent Tijuana, Mexico, and one could viciously say, San Diego sits in the beautiful rectum of the State of California...but, no, we won't say that. A beautiful woman once whispered in a Growler's ear that she was fascinated by San Diego; that it seemed a wonderful place to raise a family. Too many sailors for us, but not for Franny & Zoe; they love sailors. Too many bums and rats in Balboa Park for me, too. But then that's us. Wonder how Franny & Zoe feel about rats and bums.

"Bloggin' with the best of them,"

The Daily Growler staff ("thy rod and thy staff...")

al-Zarqawi Killed Again
Yes, it's true, the amazing Bush Baby air force announced it have blown al-Zarqawi, the Jordanian mastermind of the so-called "insurgents," now mostly referred to as "Al Qaeda" forces, to kingdom come again. This is at least the fourth time in the past 3 years they've blown his ass up. Should we expect a video tomorrow? Of course, this is another episode from the Repugnican soap opera writers having to do with Iraq coming into its own now, I mean, all the citizens of Baghdad are finally throwing rose petals at the great Amurican freedom bringers who have finally ridded Iraq of it's second-most evil Devil, the who knows? The scumbag, pig-shit media is trumpeting this death all over everywhere, yacking it up about how this is a big victory for "the president," who like the fool he is has announced this is a big blow to al-Qaeda. So the fuck what! THE DAMN WAR IS STILL ILLEGAL; AN AUTROCITY; WE'VE KILLED MORE IRAQIS THAN TWENTY AL-ZARQAWIS...COME ON! How can any rational human being work for the major newspapers and television channels in this country and not see how utterly ignorant and foolish reporting al-Zarqawi's so-called death--he was blown up by bombs so who the hell knows! My first guess would be it's not al-Zarqawi but some poor innocent Iraqi son of a bitch trying to get a night's rest when BOOM. Oh hell, the US Freedom Bringing Air Force is nutjob bombing again.

PEACE in memory of Hilton Ruiz and Billy Preston who finally have that "peace that passeth all understanding."

A Day Beginning With Death and Horror

From New Orleans:
The Latino jazz pianist extraordinaire, Hilton Ruiz, has given up the ghost down in New Orleans Hospital, expiring while still in a coma. His family is forcing a police investigation of his death. An eye witness says Hilton was beaten by a large man on a New Orleans street. That's all I've heard. Like I've said, one of the most powerful piano solos I've ever seen--for its washing out of one man's total energy into an instrumental solo--was Hilton soloing during a Latin big band reunion show with all the big Latino stars, and he built it from a low crouch over the keyboard on and on and on and up came his body gradually, on each finished chorus rising higher, until the build built it up so high it couldn't go any further until it became Utter Chaos and Hilton was standing straight up on his tip-toes, actually trying to climb up on the piano bench when his solo ended and the band and the applause drowned him out and he fell back down on the bench and there was no piano for the rest of the tune. As a note: all jazz players know when you get to Utter Chaos in a working solo--you are totally drained but satisfied just like finishing a great performance of love--for a male I speak, ladies, though I've seen several women piano players who know what I mean, I'll bet ya! Gerry Mulligan's theme song with his great Quartet was "Utter Chaos," which was a very simple blues. Maybe a jazz soloist does go from a birth (the blues) back to the way out of Chaos (a simple blues). We'll play a serious blues for Hilton today when we go down to the house piano and just sit and give him some peace of mind. A serious jazz musician very seldom experiences a peace of mind. BB King wrote and recorded a song about that.

From Out of Nowhere
Then I heard that one of the most fascinating musicians I've ever seen and heard, Billy Preston, gave up his ghost at about the same time Hilton Ruiz let his go, from a coma, too. Billy had been in a coma for a long time. The music business killed him, too, except Billy was better able to fly through life than was Hilton. Billy was a Ray Charles production. Ray took him under his big blue wing and taught him show biz. Billy was a protege of Ray's already on the piano. So, Ray, who played it himself, put him on the organ. Then Ray put him in his band back in the fab '70s, so far the best decade I've lived through (1969 to 1982 (the year AIDS came on the scene and put an end to our fun)). From there Billy became a star, on the piano then, with "Nothing From Nothing Leaves Nothing" and the great "Everything Goes in Circles." Billy got to hanging out with the Brits, Sir Paul, Sir John, you know, hanging in London and making records and scoring all the good chemicals in life...the good life for a musician. Unfortunately, it's the worst life for a human being. Billy had it all, but in the end he had to pay with his body giving up before Billy's musician head thought to. It's funny, people in a coma, and I've just experienced a family member being in a coma, seem to be still alive. I mean they're breathing normally; their eyes may open and their eyelids blink. They seem to be alive, dammit; I can understand those Schiavo parents thinking their daughter was still alive; it takes intelligence based on science and not religious hoodoo to know the truth about a person in a coma who you have to pull the plug on when they're truly gone, when they finally stop breathing, the last thing any body does--they stop breathing. Life is in breathing in the elements, drinking in the elements, and partaking of the elements, the trinity of most religions if you think about it.

They said every organ in Billy's body was diseased--heart problems, liver problems, kidney problems, artery problems, more and more drugs needed to keep it going. It's difficult to beat a good piano to death but it's easy as hell to beat a good pianist to death. "They never shoot horses," ya know. So, hell, we'll blow some heavy B17 for Billy today. It's a crying shame to me when these great musicians leave. I'll be leavin' one day, too, and I always wanted to leave like Lil Hardin Armstrong and she was one hell of a well-trained and improvising, hard-playing pianist. She once sat right behind Jelly Roll Morton while he was performing in Chicago and she said from watching him she learned how you had to play the piano, with every ounce of energy you could muster up in your body and let the music ride that energy directly from your solar plexus to the keys--powerful fingers working like the tappets on a powerful combustion engine, which is what a piano player has to be. So Lil was in her late seventies and she was performing at the Playboy Jazz Festival in Chicago--back in the seventies and while she was conking out on one of her specialties, she dropped over real gone. Her ghost gave up and moved right into that piano, which if I'd a been rich, I'd a bought on the spot and treasured it. I mean Lil's ghost was in that piano. That's the way I, as a pianist, and I'm pretty good, too, so don't sell me cheap, want to go. I'd hope it will be while on stage in front of thousands of screaming mimis but hell even if it's at my Korg in my own studio; that'll be fine with me.

I Play the Blues for the War-torn Blue, Blue World, Too
And my blues go on into the Utter Chaos of what life is becoming in Iraq and Afghanistan. The Iraqi president is releasing prisoners today--he already has as I compose this. They are trying to convince us they are taking over; poor bastards. They'll never get rid of the Bush Babies under Unka Dick's dictatorial direction; I mean, come on, the US is building the gaudiest combo fort/embassy on the banks of the Tigres ever built by man right there. The damn thing looks permanent to me. It's bigger and more gaudy than one of S. Hussein's famous palaces, one of which is a military headquarters to this day. US troops still control the big oilfields, too, don't forget; US troops and Halliburton's private army always heavily guarding those oilfields. The oil disappears by millions of barrels a day at $75 a barrel--I remember when oil went to $35 a barrel right after the windfall oil profits act was voided by the Reaganites. So it's all about OIL afterall; never was about Al Queda or Bin Laden or any of those other supposedly 9/11 dudes. A commenter on

http://xymphora.blogspot.com

yesterday set me straight about Bin Laden. I had commented that Bin Lauden claimed the reason his boys hit the WTC on 9/11 was because the US was using Saudi-Arabia as a take-off point to attack Islamic people and that was an abomination to him and he was punishing us by finishing the job the blind Egyptian caliph from Newark, New Jersey, and his office boys botched in the first attack on the WTC. [Bye the by, just a passing fancy, the Irish terrorists did more damage to NYC back in the 1860s--they burned the whole damn town down over blacks getting more respect from the white Amuricans than they were--nanner, nanner, nanner.] Anyway, a commenter corrected me by saying at first Bin Laden denied he had anything to do with 9/11. That's true, too, folks. Wonder how much money the Bushes gave him through Prince Bandar Bush to take the blame for 9/11? The political assassinations or terrorist acts all seem so suspicious, don't they?

I recall the same kind of suspicions arose daily in the Kennedy assassination. I was in Dallas that day. Every story I heard, every person at the scene they interviewed, cops on motorcycles escorting the parade, I mean every body, said the gunfire came from in front of the motorcade, to their rights, all of them pointing toward what became known as "the grassy knoll" at the time of the shots, directly facing the motorcade just before it would have slid a bit left to go under the Commerce St. viaduct to get over to Stemmons Expressway and barrel-ass out to the Trade Center where JFK was giving a speech that day. Instead, once they got on that expressway, they went past the Trade Center up to Parkland Hospital, where the president was pronounced dead around 1:30 or so pm and Lady Bird Johnson at the same moment was kicking Jackie O off Airforce 1 and on whose board Lyndon was later sworn into office by Judge Sarah T. Hughes. JFK must have been rolling already inside his soul knowing old scroundel LBJ had taken over the controls and that Jackie O and the kids were left stranded out on the tarmac of Love Field in Dallas (named after a man named Love and not the physical emotion) waiting for a gyrene helicopter to whisk them over to Air Force 2, if there was such a thing. Didn't the Kennedy family have a private jet in those days?

Another blues goes out to the people of Peru who just got this crooked-as-a-python-at-night asshole as president again, Al Garcia; oh my God and Jesus, this has Bush Baby/CIA intervention written all over it. This bastard who took his country to Utter Chaotic ruin last time he was president and like we said above then he was crooked as a jaw-jutting robber baron and treated the Peruvian people like so much llama shit; the guy he was running against was a social reformer who unfortunately used Hugo Chavez (not really as shining an angel as he appears) as his idol, thus causing Condi to have to run down there and give those assholes the right way to vote. "Here, boys, use these Florida voting machines to count your votes so we'll make sure Al wins. You, boys, wanna keep taking small-plane flights safely don't you?" Remember Condi's trip to an economic conference in that area recently?--I think she actually went to Peru. Al Garcia has already started bullhorning how he's throw Hugo Chavez out of Latin American politics--he's a roadblock to his political steamrolling. I guess the Peruvian Army will attack Venezuela now. How about a massive war in the Caribbean! Wow, I think I'll email Unka Dick that idea...WHAT! Paul Wolf O'witch and Richard Perils have already written up plans for such a war. Damn, I'm always late with my ideas. I must be a wimp.

Have You Noticed
Those oil company ads that explain how carbon monoxide is LIFE? Absurdness rules!

The amendment banning Gay marriage fell flat on its damn face in this Repugnican-bowling alley. Pobrecito, Little Georgie Porgie.

Did you know there's a Baptist church in Topeka, Kanned-Ass (a very backward state) that send groups out all over the USA and they attend funerals of soldiers killed in Iraq and shout and carry banners declaring "Your son or daughter died because of homosexuality taking over Amurica." You believe that? It's true. How f-ing bald-ass demonistic is that? It's like Charlie Manson shows up at your baby shower and starts spraying "Redrum" all over the walls. One soldier's father is suing them for invasion of privacy after they came to Ohio for that funeral. One right-wing nut commentator said that wasn't an invasion of privacy because it was a public cemetery. These absurd bastards have turned everything scientific as being sin--and their answer to this sin they are so afraid of (original sin to these freaks is sex, ya know) (Philip Wylie said the price we paid for having sex is death--think about it) is, of course, DEATH. These assholes worship a FEARSOME, WRATHFUL JEHOVAH--an F-ing Big Daddy terrorist supreme! I really thought the fabulous Jesus said he did away with those Torah-jiving Ten Commandments--he had only one commandment, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"--anybody know Jesus? Isn't that what he rabbinically believed? Didn't he say he took the place of the Passover or the sacrificing of a lamb every year--what's that in the Jewish faith--Atonement?
Mostly Essene principles I've heard, though I'm not Judaically knowledgeable. It's all Jungian, right Philip Wylie?

I'm Goin' Down and Play Some Downhome Blues...
For Hilton Ruiz, Billy Preston, the regular folks in Baghdad (they yesterday found a sack filled with 9 decapitated heads on a street in Baghdad--Damn how cruel!), the good citizens of Afghanistan, the good citizens of East Timor (here we go again over there--it's about oil there--we just solidified a big military agreement with the Indonesian crooked-as-hell government, the massacring sons of bitches who hate the East Timorans, probably for religious reasons but also because they have so much untapped oil beneath them. Praise the Lard OIL, EARL of OIL.

May God or all the other gods stay out of your lives,

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler

We Need a Night in Tijuana

Yo soy cansaro
I am dreaming of being on some dreamy Tijuana merry-go-round that I'm transfixed by from off in the distance of one of my most distant dreams, one I've been searching for since I started dreaming, which ironically, I never really really do in reality. That's my trouble. I've been living too fully in reality these days. I'm getting too involved with this country's inanities and insanities, including the politicians it lets get away with absurd reasoning and vindicative pronouncements and Achtung-type orders...see, there I go, off on a cynical wild-goose formation of rhetorical flying-south baloney again. That's what I mean by "my trouble." The wolf in me is totally taking over; I'd rather be a "human/animal hybrid" than face the harsh reality of being a human being at this point in time in this world's history. I'm balmy because of this spinning circus of a world.

First of all, I commented on a blog called The Grit and I ran off the track in it by saying, "Canadian authorities admitted they profiled Arabs..." WRONG. I should have said, "Muslims," because most of these latest Al Quedans-- and you notice that's what they're definitely calling them, these Canadian kids who don't even know how to find Iraq on a map and who are mostly related to Bangladesh and India more than they are the normal countries associated with Al Queda that are Arab, like Saudi-Arabia and the United Arab Emirates, thus my mistake is understandable. Isn't it? Just like everybody after the Okie City bombing thought surely it was an Arab who did that. At least someone like Sirhan Sirhan. A white guy from Buffalo, New York! Never! A white guy from Buffalo who had just gotten discharge from the U.S. Army. Yeah, such baloney. However, should some better article reader than myself and our "president" find I was correct that the Canucks did say they profiled "Arabs," then please let me know. I've always said I don't believe there is an Al Queda and if it exists like they say it does on the Internet, then it has to be a sham, a shadow site set up by GUESS WHO? And you see, I don't trust anybody anymore and that's a part of my trouble. "Trouble in mind," as the old song said, "am I blue...but I won't be blue always..." And here's where HOPE comes into it..."...'cause the sun's gonna shine in my back door some day." That's what you start singing when you're entering the hallowed halls of desperation. When you're down and out in Paris, London, Istanbul, Prague, St. Petersburg, New Orleans, Baghdad, or Podunk, you surprisingly get HOPE even when that's all you have. You know, there's always escape through song, or poetry, or novels, or a piece of art.

For Direct-from-Canada Info on This Here's a Blog for You:

http://xymphora.blogspot.com/

Yesterday I was thinking about having one time read a French-written book called in English translation, A History of Art, by a man Henry Miller introduced me to in I suppose The Rosy Crucifixion the first of his books I ever read--a French physician named Elie (accent over the "e") Faure (pronounced El-ay For). It's a book that lets you soar through the whole world of art from world-ancient times up until Elie dies in 1940--he definitely gets to Picasso and Braque and Matisse, all those beautifully minded French (I know, Picasso was an immigrant) artists. Paris. Saying it lets me dream. Wow. Will we ever have another Paris like it was back during the days of Gertrude Stein's Lost Generation? Except, of course, one trouble with art and reading novels and biographies of artists and poets is THEY LIVE IN THE FICTIONAL WORLD OF THEIR ART. We don't have time anymore for Goya to paint his paintings showing how horrible war is or Picasso to paint an updated Guernica--which I used to go see all the time when it hung in the Museum of Modern Art in NYC, kind of ironic given that museum was founded by a Rockefeller wife and some of that art was from Nelson's private collection and how many wars did the Rockefellers contribute to?; Standard Oil traded with the enemy in WWI and I'm sure they did in WWII, too. See there I go, off on a romp through rantland again. Growling my damn wolf head off. The great American entertainer, much more a natural-born entertainer than you're ever gonna get off American Idol, Chester Burnett, who called himself "The Howling Wolf" used to get to rockin' so hard he'd suddenly get the "Wolf spirit" and lope howling over to and grab one of the curtains and start climbing it. And the Wolf wasn't a small man either; in fact, he was a giant of a man. And he kept on singing as he climbed as high as his mic-cord would reach. He recorded in England with some of the Brit boys who because they'd gotten filthy rich off stealin' the Wolf's and Rice Miller's and J.B. Lenoir's and Jimmy Reed's and Chuck Berry's vocal styles, guitar styles, and changes, and modulations and making a mockery of this sacred American (not Amurican you notice) art felt guilty as hell about it and brought these ORIGINAL STARS to England and recorded with them and made those albums bestsellers, though still the Wolf died poor, Rice Miller died poor, Jimmy Reed died in utter poverty. And the Wolf said after he heard that recording he made in London, "That's dog shit, man, dog shit." This is the man who wrote and put out the great "A Coon on the Moon" right in the middle of the Civil Rights Movement. I never heard a white Brit band cover that tune, have you? God I get so carried away soaring out on the wash of my heroes in music like the Howlin' Wolf. The first novel I ever tried to write I called "Hot Like Bread and Pepper" from a Wolf tune, "She's hot like bread and pepper/sweet like cherry wine/I'm so glad she loves me/she loves me all the time/she's my little baby/sweet as she can be/yes, she really loves me/she belongs to me/so if you hear me howlin'/howlin' for my darlin'/Hooooo, hoooooo, a hoooeeee." I'm howlin' for my darlin' America to come to its senses.

I add, what a crass piece of crap show American Idol is. Besides that the show is making Rupert "Asshole" Murdoch richer and richer and more dominant in television, it's just too god-damn vulgar for me to watch. And, anyway, how dare an F-ing white no-talent Brit, a washed up white ex-pop star nympho, and a who's he? black guy decide whether any of these kids have talent and are qualified to become American pop idols. These puppet kids all overact, overcheese it, that's for sure; even the winners are telephone-conversationally phony as hell, I don't care how sweet and innocent Kelly Clarkson poses. I always wonder, do the chick contestants have to screw the Brit and the who's he? black guy like Paula Abdul gets to work with the horny young dudes (except even that's questionable with some of the high-voiced hairless wonders--maybe the Brit takes those goofuses on for private auditions)? Funny how Paula screwing that contestant on the show was deemed not having any effect on her ability to be a fair judge. The young guy that screwed her got a CD and a book deal out of it, though he's long ago been swept under that big rug of oblivion and, if he's lucky, there may be a question about him on a card in a future Trivia game.

How gross such television is. How down in the slop with the filthiest of pigs. How could anyone watch that show; don't watch it and it'll disappear, but the Yahoos don't give a shit; they want immediate entertainment. It's OK, they'll soon end up with brain tumors they're on those damn cell phones for so much of their lives. Once they get brain dead, then they can really enjoy American Idol. My computer sitting on my lap gets as hot as a hotpad gone wild; that bothers me; is it microwaving my leg like a microwave cooks a ham?

Note to Jerry Springer (or Whatever His Real Name Is)
Jerry Springer spent his precious three hours on Air America this morning discussing whether or not there is a God and if he exists what's his religion? Wasting time arguing about a man-made fiction. The Big Daddy of an old Jewish fable built on the original writing in the famous King List of the Mesopotamians back when the Jews weren't Jews yet.

How did Jerry Springer ever get a show on Air America? Jesus he's a dumbass. He's especially dumbass when he's discussing religion. Come on, Jerry, you're a Jewish guy, henpecked by your wife or wives, always tight with your money, and able to make a living with the most puerile slop ever slopped out to the teevee pigs. Your teevee show reminds me of Hustler magazine and old Larry Flynt being a "First Amendment" defender yet pandering off poor male jack-offs who are so timid they'd rather shoot on a paper girl than into a real warm and clean and sweet and lovely sweet fleshed real woman. Either that or they have a woman who's the equivalent of a human/animal hybrid and could never live up to the airbrushed purity and the "absolutely gorgeous" plasticity of Hustler or Playboy or Penthouse hussies. I may have to take that back about Hustler babes being "absolutely gorgeous"--does Larry use an airbrush?


By the Way, The Daily Growler Jumped the Gun on the TeleComs Stealing the Internet...We'll be a monkey's uncle; this Internet tier bill is still in Congress. We misread an article we sent out as a victory for Internet freaks. The Canadian blogger linked up above, xymphora, is more cynical than The Daily Growler in this matter. He sees the Internet as lost already; that we can't beat AT&T and Verizon (who by the way are being sued out the ass by just about everybody over their turning telephone records over to the Bush Babies). That pisses us off here at The Daily Growler. The Internet is one of the greatest things the public ever had access to. This is better than public access teevee, which is being stolen out from under us by the Cable networks who want the channels for commercial reasons as I type this. [Should I say, "as I compute this"?]

The Daily Growler Quote of the Day
"Thou twittest me with my grey hairs, yet considerest not how I am of the nature of leeks, which with a white head carry a green, fresh, straight and vigorous tail." Francois Rabelais, Gargantua and Pantagruel, First Modern Library Edition, 1928.

Some more Rabelais (another writer like Goethe who only uses his last name)

PANURGE was indeed very much troubled in mind and disquieted; therefore he made his address to Friar John, in pecking at, rubbing, and scratching his own left ear, he said unto him, Keep me a little jovial and merry, my dear and sweet bully, for I find my brains altogether metagrabolized and confounded, and my spirits in a most dunsical puzzle at the bitter talk of this devilish, hellish, damned fool. Hearken, my dainty. Ibid., Chap. 26, "How Panurge Consulteth With Friar John of the Funnels"

Hasta luega, my dainties.

Godot Still's Not Here, Is He? or She? or It?

Googling
Yes, I couldn't sleep so in the early still-yawning hours of this morning, I was "Googling" for familiarities: I found my brother and thanks to finding him I found Trammell Crow, a Dallas billionaire who invented the "ready now warehouse" concept of selling already available space to big-daddy corporations and who, using fresh young bucks just out of college, spun it into an "empire" (that's what journalists love to call these guy's holdings); it's an empire that out-incomes Donald Trump, to me, one of the goofiest and dumbassest numbskulls to ever pop up into public attention, whose old daddy made the fortune and Donald inherited it; ah, inheritance--it's saved my ass twice in life--Georgie Porgie, our "president," wants to do away with estate taxes, a good move since that means he will inherit his share of the Bush Crime Family's Empire without paying one jack-dime in taxes--people fail to realize, this spoiled-brat rich-boy never-elected president is making big bucks off his tax deduction for the rich legislation and tax doing-away-withs for folks like him, his scumbag brothers and Dodo sister, and old Pappy and Mammy, Unka Dick, Kenny Boy Lay--it's disgusting if you keep thinking about how much richer and how expanded their empires have become since the Supreme Court gave us this dumbass back in 2000--follow the bucks, they'll lead you right to a cesspool full of Bush Family and asslicking cronies--like who is the president of Halliburton (still headquartered in the metropolitan city of Duncan, Okie-homa)? Answer: David Lesar, a long-time Halliburton company executive who took over from Unka Dick Cheney. Funny to note that two of the world's largest corporations, Halliburton and Wal-Mart are from hillbilly states--Halliburton Okie-homa and Wal-Mart Arkie-saw--check out tax breaks at the state level and whose pockets were lined by these slick-shit companies back in the days of old Senator Kerr from Okie-homa and Senator McClellan from Arkie-saw.

Here's a site that will thrill your pandered soul:

http://www.halliburtonwatch.org/news/lesar_stock.html

Everyone in Hell is happy as a ass-slapping pervert these days they're all getting so rich off Georgie Porgie Puddin' Pie--while Georgie is pulling his pud, his Daddy's big-buck pals, and this includes a hell of a lot of Saudis, you understand are getting doubly filthy rich. "Pull that pud some more, son," you can hear old Pappy chortling as he plays golf in Palm Springs with ancient ex-"president" Gerald Ford, another president that was never elected. Remember, he couldn't chew gum and walk at the same time. While Jimmy Carter picked up a hammer after his fucked-up time in the White House, most of the other dumbass sleazy ex-presidents pick up a golf club--with the exception of Lyndon Baines Johnson, who died mysteriously if anyone remembers after taking a helicopter ride with a bunch of FBI and CIA dudes from his "library" in Austin back to his Perdinales ranchero just outside of Johnson City, Texas. All presidents must end up their presidential careers owning vast numbers of properties, including radio stations in the case of Lyndon, a scumbag white trash asshole from Deep South Texas who didn't have a pot to piss in before he met the Duke of Duvall County, George Pharr, whose vote fraud, people who had been dead a hundred years starting voting again, got Lyndon his first political win by a mere 80 votes--most of them dead and buried--"Hey, it's Amurica; it's a democracy where even the dead can vote." You can find all about this Lyndon crap in a book by a Texas weirdo right-wing history professor, J. Evetts Haley, who wrote the book, A Texan Looks at Lyndon back when Lyndon, considered a "liberal" by right-wing Texans in those days, was running for president, "All the way with LBJ," back in 1960 when the Texas cowboy politicians were politically maneuvering against the little asshole Irish Catholic boy from Boston's Back-ass Bay whose initials rhymed with Lyndon's. [Check out how many of Chicago's dead and buried voters voted for JFK in 1960, thanks to old Democratic demagog M-f-er Jake Arvey and his good ole shanty Irish pal Richard Daley (Kennedy was shanty Irish, by the way), controllers of Democratic votes for decades in Illinois's crooked politics (and that includes that poor olde "egghead" Adlai Stevenson, a poor troubled once-governor of Illinois whose last words were "'Till Hell freezes over," and then he froze over of a massive coronary (some said brought on by his having to lie like a dog in his role as UN ambassador) in the streets of Holy London, a favorite hang-out for American politicians. Tories feel so at home in London).]

You can find dirt on every president we've ever had; they all were scumbags. I like the fact that Warren G. Harding's (absolutely our most openly crooked president before Georgie Porgie) wife refused to give up the White House after her homespun Wineburg-Ohioan overblown husband's heart blew up thus forcing Cal Cool-edge (a real New England stiffshirt rich boy), Warren's replacement, to have to move into the over-expensive Willard Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue at the expense of course of We the People. Anybody who sells used cars, insurance, real estate, or becomes a politician is a potential scumbag, I don't give a shit how well meaning and outwardly honest they trumpet themselves as being.

Let me run back through that last sentence; extend on what I shot my mouth off about. 1) You gotta be a maniac to make a living off anything used. 2) Anybody's gotta be a psychotic whose profession demands you gotta scare the hell out of as many of your fellow human beings as you can hustle up and convince them by swearing on your pore'ol mother's soul or perhaps looking up with your most serious eyes and swearing on an Almighty to give you total control of their lives and pay you for taking it to boot. Further signs of the business being a pig trough of psychotics are the various protection-racket packages of salvation they offer to their captured customers, all of them more expensive than the other! Jesus, I'm wound up!--look at the insurance industry and ask who the hell are the Yahoos here? You wanna play the "3 guesses and 2 don't count" game? I've always said, one way to stop these corporations is to stop using them. Like banks. Any community can start their own banks; you don't have to be a Rockefeller or a Morgan or a Mellon, all true nutjobs (Google Morgan and check him out). 3) And real estate sales people crazy? Well, I'll tell you, I personally know a top rung player in the real estate game and trust me, talk about neurotic, phone hung, constant motion nervousness, jitterbug needs--Holy Cow, yeah, a lotta bucks, but a lotta actin', too and a lotta soul searching as you close another over-the-top-priced apartment to some foreigner (that's who have enough money to afford rents and properties in our current economy--Euro dollars are becoming the standard way of exchanging money and to them our properties currently being so damn cheap. According to Henry George, We the People own the land; it's part of the commonwealth; most of the early states of this country were commonwealths--the Commonwealth of New York; the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and according to commonwealth constitutions the people of the state own the wealth of that state, its land, its natural resources, its real wealth--so the people of the State of New York are owed huge fortunes from the rents they've been denied since the state was chartered in the 1780s). I apologize to my real estate friend; she is a totally beautiful human being.

The New Orleans Disaster was caused by political scumbags who gave the oil companies and their dick-boys at the Army Corps of Engineers (who are really terrible at their government big-buck jobs; see how they've screwed up the Mississippi River system and the Colorado River system) permission to totally decimate the Louisiana wetlands from above Baton Rouge all the way down to the mouth of the Mississippi, the real Mississippi Delta--thar's oil in them there swamps, boys; EARL, which is Louisianan and Texian for OIL. Check out a history of Lawsbanana politics. It's even more scumbaggy and white trashy than the history of Texas politics. The history of offshore drilling off the Louisiana coast will lead you right back to today's Halliburton, which is a combine corporation of old-line legal reserve oil wildcatters, like Brown and Root, originally a Texas oil production company same as Halliburton (an Okie company remember), or this Kellogg name you see mentioned as one of Halliburton's big-buddy affiliates--these birds all got rich off offshore oil. Check out Pappy Bush and his infamous Zapata Offshore interests. Any politician who comes from Texas has big oil behind him. Big Earl is the true Big Tex. The Texas Railroad Commission really rules Texas because it regulates all the oil production both inland and offshore in Texas--it's the railroad commission because, hey, thank about it, you gotta haul that oil off to that refinery once you get it out of We the People's ground. In the good ole days of Spindletop and all the oil that big field led to in eastern Texas, southern Arkansas, and southern Louisiana, your big refineries were built down in that area, like at Baton Rouge, or far all the way on over west along the Gulf Coast to the ports of Galveston and Houston where the crude was either refined or put in tankers and shipped to the East Coast. John D. Rockefeller built Standard Oil not on owning oil wells but by owning the tank cars that hauled the oil from the wells to what became his refineries--he started his tank car scam in the early day Pennsylvania oil fields around Titusville and Oil City and by controlling those tank cars he came to be able to take over the refineries and bank them into that god-awful Standard Oil conglomeration. John D., a true old f-ing hawk of a man, figured this all out in his raw skull, "If I own the leases to all the tank cars--or if I build my own fleet of those babies, I can control the distribution of all the oil--and, hell, I just got another bright idea! By refusing to haul the oil to certain refineries...why God-damn, excuse me, Lard, but I can run those bastards out of business and end up owning every refinery in every state in America. Other refineries want the oil, they gotta pay double for it, or I'll say, 'F you, brother.' Hot damn, I'm a f-ing genius."

The OIL Business
The oil industry has been corrupt since its very beginning. First of all, these assholes had to get the mineral rights from We the People to drill the shit out of our earth. We the People are the biggest dumbasses in the world. For a lousy few million dollars, these oil conglomerates can get mineral rights (or leases to these mineral rights) worth billions of dollars. Of course when you're dealing with dumb hicks, like West Texas farmers and cattlemen or Indian Territory savages (that's oil talk for Native Americans; that was also a word Amurican white presidents (whoa, they've all been white) once used), it's easy as hell to bilk them out of their mineral rights for a few lousy worthless US dollars. "Look at them stupid chiefs ridin' around in them thar Pierce Arrows, smokin' them high priced seegars; stupid assholes; I've got five Pierce Arrows in my multi-car garages back on the banks of the Hudson River and a whole cedar-lined building as a humidor for my seegar collection."

Anybody born and raised in West Texas knows how crooked the oil business is. I knew a lot of the sons of these oil scoundrels, like Pappy's boy Georgie Porgie, when I lived out near Midland, Odessa, towns founded and grown on oil, and I knew these kids when I knew them and I know they knew nothing about the things that bothered the average kid and his parents, whether middle-class or under. Like my parents worried like hell about how they were going to afford send me to college; they hard bound to get me out of high school. Rich oil kids didn't worry about a damn thing like that; that was all done for them by their good ole Pappys--they go to Pappy's school or in some cases Grandpappy's school. As a matter of fact, they don't even have to go to college if they don't want to; they can go right straight into the oil business. Hell no. Oilmen's sons get motorcycles for Xmas when they're 13; they get Corvettes for Xmas when they're in high school. They get to date oilmen's daughters, all of whom are loose as Post Toasties spilled out of their boxes all over the floor. Oilmen's daughters have their own convertibles by the time they're in high school, and they are quick learners when it comes to sex, swimming, dancing, or tennis--a sport Texans used to dominate, like they once dominated golf. Two of my best friends in high school were oilmen's sons. One of them had no ambition and was slovenly, careless, a total asshole really, though he was a nice guy. He turned up lost as a jackrabbit on a six-lane thruway running a bunch of beer joints down in Austin. The other one was a very decent dude who was interested in literature and architecture but because he was an oilman's son, he knew he had to take over daddy's business one day and any creativity he had accumulated was washed down the toilet of an oil well by the time he got his geology degree from Oklahoma. He ended up shooting himself in the head a la Doctor Hunter Thompson one fine spring day in a Halliburton-supplied tool shed out by one of his dry holes (a wildcat drilling that hits artesian water but no oil) on what was left of his daddy's oil leases.

OIL made the University of Texas the most heavily endowed university in the world, second only to Harvard. U of T in Austin used to have a working oil well on its lawn.

Natural Gas is another commodity people tend to forget originally came from Texas. The longest pipelines in the world first ran from the gas fields of East Texas all the way east to as far as New York City. These pipelines to this day still blow up at places along their vast 10,000-mile system; a few years back, if you recall, the Big Inch blew the holy hell out of a neighborhood in Edison County, New Jersey. That pipeline was "the Big Inch," it was a 24"-diameter pipeline and it was the first one built, starting in 1944, and its little brother was the second pipeline these dudes built and it was called "the Little Inch," a 20"-diameter pipeline, and both were commissioned by the U.S. goobermint's War Assets Administration during WWII to haul natural gas and Gulf Coast oil from East Texas to the Northeast, especially to refineries around New York City and Philadelphia, due to the threat from Nazi subs against big oil's vulnerable tanker ships (several of which were sunk as they rounded Florida and headed into the Atlantic after leaving out of the ports of Galveston, Houston, Port Arthur, Beaumont, and New Orleans). The Big Inch and Little Inch were built by a company called the Texas Eastern Transmission Company (TETCO). Check out two names associated with this venture: George and Henry Brown. Does the name BROWN ring a bell? How about as in Brown and Root? Yep. You guessed it. TETCO has gone through many name changes, mergers, limited partnerships (check out this great creative accounting designation--it'll blow your sox off to see what corporations get away with under limited partnership status) and today is known as TEPPCO--because of its being accumulated by the Panhandle Eastern Corporation in the 80s. Also today, a large percent of the Big and Little Inches is owned by a conglomerate called Duke Energy. Yep, you guessed it again; Bull Durham Smokin' Tobacky, the roll-your-own smokin' tobacky, that later was rolled into salt-petred papers by an 18-year-old James Bonsack clumsy rolling machines and given the moniker "Lucky Strike"--the slave-picked tobacky, the slave-loaded tobacky bales, the slave-labor used in building the factory at Durham, North Carolina, became the American Tobacco Company (with a Native American man as its real Amurican symbol--because they gave the white man his tobacky habit--the Native Americans used it in a ceremonial sense). Hooo-boy! So a product that became one of the Number One killers of human beings gave birth to not only Duke University, the city of Durham, but also Duke Energy. Hot damn! It's all one big crooked family tree--OIL and TOBACCO! Worth dying for? You damn betcha!

Frightening
There has been a sudden unleashing of flocks of furies on Iraq, Afghanistan, East Timur, leaving behind utter chaos, which is becoming the new everyday way of life in those hellholes. Look at the freedom we have brought these people--and OIL and US have something to do with the problems in East Timur, you bethcha--the freedom of perpetual war and oil pumping to pay for it...

Warning, a Daily Growler Aside: WHY DON'T WE GO BACK TO HORSES? F the shit; horseshit is not going to F up the atmosphere like all the carbons we pump into it now--think of how many horsepower your SUV represents...that's a lotta horses and thereby a lotta horseshit. When you're on your own horse, or in your own buggy, you cruise along, as long as your shielded from your horse's evacuating and pissing as they trot you along, happy as a lark and with plenty good ole worthless US bucks in your pocket. Come on, don't laugh: buggy driving's cool. Take the SUV through middle Pennsylvania on up through northern Ohio and check out the Amish. They got the buggies rollin' and they got no electricity and their fields look beautiful, their crops lush and rich--of course they've got their peculiarities, which Hollywood has played to the hilt--nothing like seducing an Amish girl, I was told one time by a horseplayer friend I saw every day when I used to play the piano in a place called the Horseshoe Diamond Bar (the owner loved diamonds, wore three diamond rings, a diamond watch, and a diamond earring, and when he wore ties he wore diamond tiepins--his wife, one drunk used to say, was a walking diamond mine, "and I'd sure like to pan for diamonds in her little sluice"--that's old diamond miner talk--and bar owner claimed he paid for all the diamonds by constantly winning at the horse races).

Where was I? Jesus, I got off the ferry somewhere in the middle of this stream: but, let me
go back to my "frightening" comprehensions:

With all the shit going on in our chaotic wars why the hell is the "president" getting up tonight and making a total ass out of himself defending the Christian idea that Jehovah defines marriage in his Merriam Webster's Collegiate Dictionary as "between man and woman." Not "male and female" now; that would imply it's OK for animals to get married (is that a Hee-Haw I hear from the sheepherder section of the North American Man-Animal Association...NAMAA...or 'baaaaaaaaaaaah' for short?). The mean little fool "president" is so desperate to get voters for his crumbling Repugnican papier mache Elephant dungheap party he's going after white trash and hillbillies--you know the Bush Family despises these people they have to coddle to get their monies and to get their votes; none of these fools would ever be invited to say a dinner for Prince Bandar Bush at the Bush family empire home in By God Black and Latino Houston, Tejas. I don't know though, remember, Pappy Bush is a big supporter of the highly-offensive Rev. Sun Yung Moon, whose gotta be one of your Amurican heroes; that little Korean son of a bitch in that cheap Korean suit owns all the fishing fleets on the East Coast; how 'bout that? He owns his own newspaper--run by Moonies, can you imagine? Also, all that ginseng you buy--we have just as good a ginseng in the good ole USA--Upstate New York is a great place to find ginseng--goes to Moon, his family owning the ginseng market back in Korea. Mountain Ginseng, I think it's called; though don't take any Moon facts of mine serious I so despise he vulgar ass. The Daily Growler is growling like a mad wolf growls warnings; you know, warnings for you to Watch Your Step and check out all this shit. It may be the end of humankind right around the corner; don't you wanna have at least one last party before we perish? Or should we get together and go throw these slimeballs out on their fucking bony asses; just like old Pappy Bush was a wimp, so are all of these jack-offs. And that's exactly what they are, too. All you dudes know what I'm talking about; they're jack-offs in the sense that the only way they can cum is by getting it off by hand. If Pickles is pissed, I guarantee you, I know why. One of The Daily Growler older babe reporters told me women get hotter the older they get. Is that true? Jesus; I'm going out tonight. F the war in Iraq and that 50 young people were pulled out of a bus in Baghdad yesterday and were taken and lined up and blown away by dudes wearing those black hoods; who the hell knows who they were? Oops, were those a pair of Marine-issued combat boots I saw that one insurgent wearing? But this fool in his big white house is going to show his concern tonight about a god-damn antiConstitutional amendment to our old worn-out out-of-date Jeffersonian hypocritical Constitution--an amendment banning Gays a right to marry. How stupid. How utterly F US IN OUR FACES stupid. This brazen little wimp who went AWOL from a National Guard unit and whose big-shot oil-connected vice presidential Pappy got him off all the many, many GD hooks this poor spoiled little mamma's boy got himself hooked up on, how dare he talk about taking away some more human rights when the bullshit horror of REAL WAR is going on in Baghdad, Basra, Kabul, Kandahar--people, women, children, babies, old folks are being assassinated by this worthless commander and cheap-ass's army; it's not our army, not anymore. This fool says the RADICAL COURTS are allowing these damn Gays to get married and he just can't allow this in his kingdom. And, by the way, you better not burn an Amurican flag, buddy. It's all right for our Olympians to cut up the flag and make uniforms out of it, but don't you dare burn it.

OIL is now $74 a barrel (even though it only costs big oil $20 a barrel).

The "president" has pretty much wiped out with his little sign-offs 750 bills since he was appointed president by the Supreme Court. This signing off on bills started, I'll guarantee you, during Ronnie Ray Gun's administration. Just the same, all the other presidents did this about 50 times in over 240 years.

Remember, Slaves (African-Americans) are only 1/4 human in our original Constitution.

Remember, too, the Christian God doesn't want the races to marry either. And certainly white folks are against that, too. Remember, the white race is the PURE race--haven't you heard that ever? Nor does the Jewish God; nor does Mohammad (and I'm not about to say anything about Mohammad, except he was businessman, a dealer in Silk Road trade, who originally allowed Jewish folks to live and trade in his bailywick at peace because of the money they brought to the caliphate coffers, though, of course, he ridiculed them and didn't want them intermarrying with Arabs. It was actually the successors to Mohammad, his so-called "sons," who began a true holy hell for Jews in Islamic nations. Nor does Moroni or the Mormons believe in innerracial marriages. Hell, these people believe that only Christians should marry Christians...and you see how complicated this amendment is going to become.

How to treat prisoners according to the Geneva Agreement has been eliminated from the Army Field Manual (the Army's Boy Scout manual). Unka Dick Cheney believes you need torture in order to interrogate terrorists, EVEN THOUGH so far all information gotten through torture has been pure-dee bullshit.

It don't make no sense to me. How 'bout you guys?

the [crazy]growlingwolf
for The Daily Growler

Poverty and Love

Men Live Under Male Illusions
My brother's remains now live a luxurious life on a bluff overlooking a West Texas panorama of vast cattle country far out in the middle of a Texas nowhere with his first wife already by his side and his second wife due to arrive when she's ready for her place on his other side. He was not prone to offer me any brotherly advice when he was alive, but one time he did. I was in love with his newspaper's rock and roll columnist, a 16-year-old very bright girl who had decided that early in life she wanted to be a journalist and who, once he introduced us, became terribly involved with me and what I wanted in life, which then was to be a writer and live a writer's life and adopt a writer's lifestyle, or what I thought that was, which looking back on it now I see was purely fictional, most of it invented in my mind based on reading Hemingway, Scott Fitzgerald, Thomas Wolfe, Henry Miller, and building up my bohemian dreams based on their writing-thinking and their word-adventures; and also, their supposed understanding of women. What? They all had terrible misunderstandings about women. Not to me then they didn't. They were males; I was a male; males need women; males need women who love them sexually and want to have their children and who, though they may be talented writers, give up their desires to the wills of the males they love. Most of these guys's books are about their running around looking for the adventure of love in all the most fascinating places of the world. Especially Paris. Wow, Paris was just the perfect place for writers in those days, but especially American writers looking for love, which all of them were. In most of their novels, it is frustrated love that keeps them searching and marrying or shacking up with their ideal women, who were for the most part as nutty and as whiskey-laced as a hyperfruitcake. All these guys drank a lot and F-ed a lot and then drank a lot some more and then got F-ed by the women they idealized, but not the way they wanted them to F them. Their women F-ed 'em in their minds.

Hemingway's best novel, to me, was The Sun Also Rises [A Farewell to Arms is probably a better written book]. What's that about? A young man, a writer, who had his pecker shot off during WWI--not his cojones mind you, but just his tool. That left him horny but without the tool to pry open the treasure that horniness so desires. Love to Jake Barnes was possible and impossible at the same time and of course in this situation, every hot babe within several miles of poor old Jake fell in love with him and offered him treasure after treasure, and you're reading about him and loving the same wonderful women who are offering him their treasures and you're understanding how he's getting his sexual thrills from men with complete dicks that bulge out of tight uniforms--like bullfighters--men who can enjoy F-ing him, the fact that he has no pecker no matter the them. It gets so male-degrading to the point one of the bullfighters he so admires from his macho point of view actually gets the prize treasure of the book, Lady Duff Twysden in reality, and poor old Jake has to know the bullfighter is enjoying with his woman what he can only enjoy with the bullfighter. He spends the whole book acting like a fully applicational man though in truth, he knows he's not even really half a man, or he's only a man now to another man. According to the advice my brother finally gave me, Jack Barnes screwed up; he could have simply offered these babes a certain surety and they would have paid to get him a new tool.

My brother just out of nowhere one day gave me this advice; we were building him a brick patio in back of his new house, and my girlfriend and his wife were making us Kool Aid and sandwiches and laughing as they watched us working our asses off in a broiling hot West Texas sun. They were having a damn good time. He said, "The mistake men make with women: they think women want them for the love they offer, for the sex, but that's not what women are wanting. Men marry for love; women marry for security." That was it. That's all he said, and he said it while looking over at our women. I caught on right quick. The women were happy and serving us not because they were in love with us or looking forward to our next session in bed or the back seat of a car (in my case) but rather because we were working our asses off in building them something they desired, a nice patio to sit on or rest on or party on and hopefully also at the same time getting in the mood to perform the double-backed beast-- that is if they feel like it. Yes, I caught on, but I didn't learn anything. I kept on going into life with the same illusional attitudes toward women.

The rock and roll columnist went on to get knocked up and marry a DJ, a lad who offered her the potential of DJ stardom and big bucks and who was also going to college learning how to be a lawyer. On the other hand, all I had to offer her in the future was more poetry; by the time we broke up I was a poet, a broke poet, yes, but a published poet. That wasn't enough for this modern woman. She married the DJ and had his baby. I was still floating around in her ethereal; I was still able to have sex with her, but I was not able to steal her away from the DJ and make her into my Elizabeth Barrett. I was an usher at her wedding and by then was going with her best friend, a girl whose dreams included being a children's book writer. She was probably perfect for me, but I was still addlepatedly in love with the rock and roll columnist who was now married to a DJ, the would-be lawyer, so I spurned the sweet girl friend and went off to serve my punishment for being a healthy young male in the U.S. Army and when I came back on my first leave, this girl was knocked up by a friend of the DJ who stole my rock and roll columnist, and now you see how twisted it is wanting a woman for sex and only being able to offer her as something in return a poem about a flying red horse and a telephone pole. I love being able to add some irony here; both these marriages failed and both women went on to try other males; the rock and roll columnist finding her perfect male, a college English professor with a sharp wit; the girl friend...I know she divorced the father of her child but what happened to her after that I have no idea. The last time I saw her she was pregnant, separated from her DJ, woeful, depressing, and trying to get me to go for the woman that she was living with then, a really cute blonde who told me later that the children's book writer was still so madly in love with me she had gone mad herself. Was she suicidal? I used to think so when I was dating her. I'm a vicious male; I apologize to all women, like Philip Wylie had to apologize for A Generation of Vipers to women back in 1955 at the same time trying to convince them he was not a misogynist bastard and really loved ALL women madly. Me, too; I claim I was born and reared by three women, my mother, her Anita-Loos-like sister, and my witch grandmother (a gentle witch; a lovely witch; but a witch just the same). I guess I'm copping out that what's wrong with me is due to my feminine upbringing, what has developed into my mother and her family living within me, doing didoes on the dancefloors of my plasma, brewing potions within the cauldrons of my bowels, tricking my male brain via the feminine emotions that have bloomed in the hothouse of my solar plexus.

And one day, I became a married man. It happened fast; it happened while I guess I was in a stupor. My bride was another woman who knew my brother through his editorials in the local newspaper and she was into politics and was a constant "Letter to the Editor" writer on his editorial page. He called me one Sunday morning and said check out the Wedding page, page 15C, top left. I went out and got his paper and checked it out. Holy Christ, there was my beautiful fiancee looking too pretty to describe in words at this time (it's saved in my memory), with a headline that she was to become the bride of me on such and such a January day way back in the 64th year of the 20th century. Me? A husband? Yes, we had talked about it. Yes, we had gotten the blood test and the marriage license and yes we'd bought the rings. But damn, I guess I just hadn't considered it real; it was just a story in my head. The night before I was getting married the next morning, I had a date with a woman I'd been hitting on heavy for over 5 months, a former beauty queen from De Queen, and after I left her apartment at 4 in the morning and stumbled into my apartment in the dark and sat down in my favorite chair, a Danish modern job with orange upholstery, and started remembering what I'd just experienced, my remembrance realerting my phallic desires to the point my whines woke up my mother who whipped on the light and then screamed bloody murder as I ran for my bathroom into which I literally jumped, almost tripping on my sloppy pants that had been down around my ankles when that light exploded in my impassioned face. I'd forgot. My parents were asleep in my room having arrived from my hometown, not found me home, found my key where I told them it would be, and me not coming home until that ungodly hour, they had simply washed up and gone to bed. That was the state of my mind I was the next late morning when I was married to the most beautiful girl in the whole damn world, and smart as a whip to boot.

After my wedding, I told my best man, my best friend, that I still couldn't believe I was married and he said he couldn't believe I was married either except that at least my wife was a beautiful woman with a great body and I should sure better hold on to her at all cost. And she was very young, too. Yeah, go ahead, you can finish this thought...too young; absolutely; both of us; too damn young. We were both escaping something, she her parents and me my job and personal dissatisfactions and wanting so badly to be a writer and where I was was just not a place where any writer with any sense writes, so right after my marriage, we moved to New Orleans.

I was still looking for love even after our marriage was working and we were living the bohemian life in New Orleans. The life William Faulkner wrote about in his first novel, Mosquitos, which I read in New Olreans while sitting in the Bourbon House bar on Bourbon on a bench behind which was a plaque reading "It was at this table William Faulkner began writing his novel, Mosquitos," a statement William backed up by mentioning his doing just that in the Bourbon House in the novel he was writing right there where I was reading the damn novel then on the same bench at the same table. Just what a man wanted: a chance to live a romantic life in a romantic city with a beautiful young fully developed romantic woman who was always romantically available anytime, day or night...except soon she came to me one day and said, "We are running out of money. So, what about work? Are you going to go look for a job? Or am I going to have to go look for a job?" She found a job--BANG!, just like that. Like the next day. And she started out making good money, too--something like $4,000 a year, being an administrative assistant to a rich man. She took me out to dinner with her first paycheck and after the king crab legs and several glasses of champagne later, she suddenly up and said, "Now it's your turn to get a job."

I did it. I got a job; really quick, too. But it was making just over $3000 a year. She made more than I did. Son of a bitch. Yep. Then my brother's words came flashing back: "Men marry for love; women marry for security."

My marriage ended one Sunday afternoon. She was sitting on the couch reading the New York Times; I was sitting in my Marcel Breuer chair listening to Bach, Glen Gould playing the WTK, on my headphones. She kicked me to attention from the couch, you know, just tapped at me with her foot. "Take off your headphones, we have to talk." "OK, baby, what's up?" "I want a divorce." "Whaaa?" "Yes, I want a divorce." "What the hell brought this on?" "You. I think you should be making more than I am or at least as much as I am." At that time, I was a freelancer making $7000 a year and she was on the board of a large employment agency making $45000 a year. I kid you not. I tried to reason with her. "Sweetheart, senior editors at Random House don't make as much as you do." "Then you should find a profession that will pay you what I make." "It's impossible, baby, you know that." "Then I want a divorce."

"Men marry for love; women marry for security."

The very insecure,

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler
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The Daily Growler recommends the following Web sites:
-- wood s lot (if you like the arts, you'll find this blog the cat's meow-deluxe; wonderful stuff)

The Daily Growler is run by dummies and has not learned how to "link" yet. Everytime we try and link wood s lot, the html. doesn't work and addresses it wrong.

-- always, we highly recommend:

www.languagehat.com

Today there was some interesting Jimmy Joyce's Wake discussion with links and also language discussing the recent National Spelling Bee results--how German words were the final words--one girl going down on Weltschmerz or something ja vol like that--go to languagehat and find out about it. We were champion spellers in elementary school but in later life we have totally depended on our Merriam Webster's Collegiate Dictionary as our spell checker, for of all the disgusting things we do, misspelling words is the most disgusting.

Take a look at this California guy's art we've discovered recently on one of our spasmodic searches:

http://geoffreygreene.com

The Daily Growler Quote of the Day
"Where is this new bird called the true American? Show us the homunculus of the new era. Go on, show us him. Because all that is visible to the naked European eye, in America, is a sort of recreant European. We want to see this missing link of the next era.

"Well, we still don't get him. So the only thing to do is to have a look for him under the American bushes. The old American literature, to start with.

"'The old American literature! Franklin, Cooper, Hawthorne & Co.? All that mass of words! all so unreal!' cries the live American.

"Heaven knows what we mean by reality. Telephone, tinned meat, Charlie Chaplin, water-taps, and World-Salvation, presumably. Some insisting on the plumbing, and some on saving the world; these being the two great American specialties. Why not? Only, what about the young homunculus of the new era, meanwhile? You can't save yourself before you are born."
D.H. Lawrence, Studies in Classic American Literature, Viking Compass Books, 1973.

The Medium Is the Message

Blessings on the Dixie Chicks
The music business is mean as hell. Women who make it in the music business, like the Chicks, amaze me. Either you fall into the gender trap the music business has set for you if you're a woman--Britney, Christina, Mariah, Kelly-- to be manipulated to the point you have no self-assurance or political feelings at all or you wither on the vine. Your social responsibility is to your imaged "I." The Dixie Chicks managed to buck the big-buck scumbag meisters of the music industry who were bound and determined through megabooker tour companies hooked into radio stations, like Clear Channel (owned by one of Georgie Porgie's boy toys--you know, an old drinking and bullshit buddy, now a big-bucks political fund contributor), tried to teach these babes a lesson, to send them back to the bedrooms and the kitchens where they feel most women except Lesbians belong. I'm proud to say I'm a Texan from the same part of that great state the lead singer of the Chicks is from. It's in our genes to fight your ass back when you try and ruin us--some of us are gifted with barbic pens enough to get our revenge--and the Chicks are gifted with barbic lyrics made more barbic by their music beds and they've gotten their revenge against these talentless, cold-hearted, lavishly rewarded asshole accountant-types who rule the music world. The Dixie Chicks worked hard to get to the top. They mostly had to create their own music domain by taking the money they made through their early successes and setting up a Dixie Chicks corporation, buying their own stage equipment and the 18-wheelers to haul the stuff around: the sets, the lighting, the amplifiers, cords, sound boards--and also a "musician plush" outfitted tour bus. They produced their own tours and they worked over 200 days a year touring the world. But when musicians are driven like they are, working that hard is a part of the fun of it.

It was great to see the Chicks hit #1 on the charts this week. Huzzahs to them from The Daily Growler. And thanks to them for giving a great big F U to Georgie Porgie and his Corporate Crusaders and their attempt to corral us all in commercial pens and fatten us up so we'll be ripe for robbery and slaughter.

Here's a quote from Marshall McLuhan for your digestion:

To the mind of the modern girl, legs, like busts, are power points, which she has been taught to tailor, but as parts of the success kit rather than erotically or sensuously. She swings her legs from the hip . . . she knows that a "long-legged girl can go places." As such, her legs are not intimately associated with her taste or with her unique self but are merely display objects like the grille on a car. They are date-bated power levers for the management of the male audience.

No More Gossip
I haven't read one word anywhere about G.W. and Pickles splitting up. Must be a nasty rumor. Spread by Hillary and Howard Dean? Nah! I don't think those two have the moxie to do such a thing. They're too busy being rich and idolized to be concerned about G.W. and Pickles throwing down gauntlets at each other. Hillary could certainly give Pickles some advice; I guess because she's a woman who's gone through Slick Willie jilting her many a time she would take Pickles's side and refuse to make a political issue out of it; Howard Dean, who knows what the hell he would do with this hot potato? He's one of those doctors who married a doctor so they probably don't see each other enough to fight or compromise, but they must, you know, cheat on each other. You think Howard Dean has a mistress? How about Hillary and dudes? I love juicy gossip so I'm disappointed I haven't seen a follow up on Pickles moving into the Mayflower, to me, a very hot-item story.

Again a quote from Marshall McLuhan:

Phony implies that a thing so qualified has no more substance than a telephone talk with a supposititious friend. (McLuhan found this definition in an early-1900s New York newspaper and wrote about its meaning in Understanding Media published in 1964.)

http://www.aber.ac.uk/media/Documents/short/phone.html

The above link is a well-done dissertation on The Telephone. Take a look at it. [Note, the above link may not work. The Daily Growler is not acquainted with enough html.] [The Daily Growler house pianist has sent us an email with a basic html. lesson; hell, some of us know a lot of html. but we can't link for shit on the blog.]

Al Queda in Canada
I guess you've read by now about the 20 some-odd (the figure changes with each newscast) natural-born Canadians the Canadian equal of the CIA, CSIS (sic)?--busted in Toronto, the mastermind was from Scarborough, Ontario, right outside Toronto. The oldest of this bunch is 22. The youngest are teenagers. The Canadian authorities claim these cells are a new phenomenon in Canada. They say these dudes are the same kind of natural-born citizens who pulled off the London subway and bus bombings. These are Muslims, yes (Canada profiles Muslims), but they are kids who barely know where Afghanistan is, and only know Iraq off a map, but they are beginning to sympathize with their Muslim brethren in Pakistan and Bangledesh and when they were arrested, they all had weapons taped to their legs and were carrying amunition. The Canadians say they started going after these kids when they intercepted some encrypted messages they were sending over the Internet; jihadic messages saying they wanted to bomb sites in Canada, especially around the Capitol in Ottawa and some of the skyscrapers of Toronto. The also said some of these dudes were being spied on by our own crack FBI; two Amurican kids are involved with this group, it seems. More and more now the Amurican newscasts are saying the US authorities knew all along about this and they, in fact, told the Canadians about this cell and the US authorities were on top of it before the Canadians. Don't you just love what lying sons of bitches we Amuricans are?

New York City folks see now why the Homeland Insecurity maven old drunk-looking Michael Chertoff (he's a tired, worn-out, old pompous-looking ass; he reminds me of the old Gay actor Clifton Webb) reduced anti-terrorist funds to NYC; they're needed in Canada looks like. So Hell let the guard down in New York City; no icons, folks, sorry; the jihadists want icons to blow up, like the Taliban blew the Buddha statues up in Afghanistan. Where's the largest Buddha statue in the U.S.?

Crazy mucked up world Georgie Porgie and his Rootin' Tootin' New World Order Crusaders have given us isn't it? Remember, Paul Wolf O'witz is head of the World Bank. Afghanistan is a timebomb. The Taliban are coming back strong. Iraq's president is now cursing out the U.S. I mean, he's pissed that the Pentagon gave the O.K. to the gyrenes blowing away grandmas, toddlers, babies, and even pregnant women in that Baghdad sururb. Just like the Pentagon said the brakes gave out on that vehicle that ran down those Afghanis and started all the rioting over there. More and more the Iraqis are mooning us, wanting us out of their country; they don't want our brand of freedom--you know, that freedom that's on the march Georgie Porgie is willing to kill for generations to come to keep it marchin'. Praise the Lard.


If the work of the city is the remaking or translating of man into a more suitable form than his nomadic ancestors achieved, then might not our current translation of our entire lives into the spiritual form of information seem to make of the entire globe, and of the human family, a single consciousness? Marshall has the last word.

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler
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The Daily Growler Quote of the Day
"A side interest, though it was a deep one, had led me in 1884 to obtain from Merck some of what was then the little-known alkaloid cocaine and to study its physiological action. While I was in the middle of this work, an opportunity arose for making a journey to visit my fiancee, from whom I had been parted for two years. I hastily wound up my investigation of cocaine and contented myself in my book on the subject with prophesying that further uses for it would soon be found. I suggested, however, to my friend Konigstein, the ophthalmologist, that he should investigate the question of how far the anaesthetizing properties of cocaine were applicable in diseases of the eye. When I returned from my holiday I found that not he, but another of my friends, Carl Koller..., whom I'd also spoken to about cocaine, had made the decisive experiments upon animals' eyes and had demonstrated them at the Ophthalmological Congress at Heidelberg. Koller is therefore rightly regarded as the discoverer of local anaesthesia by cocaine, which has become so important in minor surgery; but I bore my fiancee no grudge for her interruption of my work." Sigmund Freud, An Autobiographical Study , The Norton Library, 1963.

Gossip

Condi and Georgie Porgie Doing the Double-Back Beast?
Do you believe that? That's the gossip I just heard on Randi "Roaring" Rhodes radio show this afternoon. [I think it's June 2nd, though I've fallen two days behind with the Daily part of The Daily Growler, though I'm here whatever day it is.] Now let's see, here's the nitty-gritty (let's connect the dots). It seems Pickles has moved out of the Big White House and into the fashionable Mayflower Hotel in the District of Corruption. Now would you pick Condi as the babe Little "President" Horny is sticking his thumb into to get his plum out of her Christmas pie? Nasty boy. If this be true, and I believe everything Randi Rhodes says--she got it from some magazine writer, then why hasn't it made the headlines anywhere? Hillary's cutting Bill off was headlines in the New York Times. I've heard since Georgie Porgie was appointed "president" that is hitting the sauce again and a real prickheaded bastard to work with. Could be on the nostril candy, too, again; who the hell knows? Well, I know who knows: Pickles.

Here's the story as Randi Rhodes told it: It seems Condi and Georgie Porgie were at a party given by some New York Times keiko-muckity-mucks (what a dolce vita these goons have!), you know, the Salzbergers were there. And at this party (don't they have sound clips of this? I think I've heard this goof) Condi let slip and called Georgie Porgie her husband and afterwards "they" said she was terribly embarrassed and that Pickles was pissed beyond repair. Oooooh-GAH! Gossip. Don't'cha just love it?

Feelin' Good in New York City
Osama bin Ladin must have told Homeland Insecurity that he has no reason to blow up anything in New York City or Washington, District of Corruption (Unka Dick is still keeping his private bunker dusted off just in case bin Ladin is lying this time) anymore, so the Homewrecker boys cut NYC's and Washington's Homeland Insecurity funds. Why? you might ask. Well, Homeland Insecurity says it's because neither of these cities has any "icons" (their word) worth blowing up--I hear bin Ladin laughing it up over this one with his CIA buddies in his Pakistan apartment complex--the roar you hear is his dialysis machine. "That stupid donkey ass Georgie Porgie, my half-brother, believed me when I said there were no more icons in New York City to blow up for me--hot damn, don't you love these fools--I mean, NYC is home of the United Nations, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, and remember, the stupid dick Amuricans have forgotten what my Plan B was if the attack on the WTC had of gone awry--you guys remember, you came up with it [he speaking to the CIA agents drinking mint coffee with him]. It was to crash the planes onto Fifth Avenue, the street my brother Prince Bandar Bush's elegant apartment is on...er-ah, why, I think I, too, have a mansion on that street, don't I, my dear friend from Dubai?"

So New Yorkers are layin' back and takin' it easy after this big relieving announcement. No more orange alerts for New Yorkers and now never a red alert. YOUR SAFE NEW YORKERS and it's thanks to our own top-quality-run Homeland Insecurity under that skunk-looking weirdo Michael Chertoff. Hot damn, fire all the extra cops and stop their stupid diaster training sessions everyday where they race a stream of 18 or 19 cruisers all hopped up with Police Chief chrome and their multilights all flashing different dullish bright colors and their sirens squealing like a pig squeals right before the pig butcher slits its throat race up and down the big avenues before they end up back down at New York City's Police Headquarters Building, which looks like the Green Zone in Baghdad it is so well fortified down there. Yep, well fire a bunch of cops and firemen now--Mayor Bloomingidiotberg will start talking girlishly quaint about how pissed he is at his own crooked MF'in' party for kicking him a swift boat of a boot right smack-dab in his well-heeled ass by cutting 40 million from the big Homeland Insecurity windfall of fresh-printed U.S. worthless dollars that they are used to having fiscally yearly in the till; yeah, the till they all have their greedy little paws dipped into. Just think what you, We the People, could do with 1% of 40 million bucks. Oh, but no, I'm sorry, everybody's gettin' rich off this wonderfully thickly providenced scare tactics slush fund. FEMA (Federal Emergency Muck the Fuck Up Agency) is now spreading the horrid rumors that the East Coast is gonna get blasted this hurricane season and, by the way, they are not going to be able to handle it again, you know, like they did in New Orleans under the leadership of Michael "You're doin' a heck of a job, Brownie" Horse-Show-High-Arsed-Jockey Brown, and now under the leadership of that very scary looking Michael Chernoff. What storm blew him all the way to the top of that FEMA slush pile of money for the grabbin'?" Yeah, I'll bet old Chernoff has a full set of skeletons in his multimillion dollar mansion's closets.

Is Condi Rice Hot?
She's weird looking to me. I can see where a politician might dig her. She's skinny, long and lean, like politicians like their "girls." She's gotta kind'a weird truck-driverish-looking face to me, but I'm being vicious. She might have nice legs and feet. Certainly her feet are shoed with the best her stolen money can buy. She's better looking than Pickles maybe, who's a little too dumpy for my and GW's taste. I can see him wanting a black "gal," too. Who the hell knows? I just hope the rumor is true. Maybe they'll find some video footage of them going at it. Like the video camera old stupidass Frank Gifford, Kathie Lee's ancient husband--a football player made good by marrying a rich Jewish girl who claims she's a Christian--performed in front of while he was boffing Susan Johnson ("Oh, I love your big tits. 34-40 and hike, hike."

The politician in me, I must admit, loves 'em tall and lanky like Condi, too, though I wouldn't pick her as my mistress were I the appointed "president." Condi also walks a little bit like a man. She could be like Dinah Shore was supposed to be; but saying that is being vicious, too, though I love being vicious. Old Slick Willie Clinton didn't have very good taste in hussies either, did he? Remember the honker on that Paula creature he whipped it out in front of in that Arkansas hotel room? Or that really creepy Gin-for-breakfast, lunch, and supper-Ginifer babe--the cheesy Arkie blonde he used to bang in Dallas hotels on political trips to Texas. Yee Haw! Stay out of them hotels, now boys; you know they got cameras everywhere in them sin holes.

Nothing creative coming out of me today, just some lusty and pompous hyena-laughing at the inanities being put up in headlines while in Iraq and Afghanistan we are beginning to get our asses smeared, both bloodily and politically. Iraq's "president" cussed out the U.S. Military today over the more-and-more massacres of men, women, and especially pregnant women ("Hell, it looked like a weapon of mass destruction to me. I didn't see the baby till I saw her blasted-open belly and the little bastard was hanging out all shitty and shit), and children and helpless old people. Way over 100 Iraqis have died this week; 20 or 30 citizens and soldiers have died in Afghanistan this week. They are still rioting all over Afghanistan over the brakeless Bradley or Hummer that killed what 5 or 6 in that "accident" over there. No mention of any of this in the news. Plenty a heartthrobbing glory mentioning of foolish Kimberly Dozier, girl embedded war reporter, almost getting blown in half in the car bombing in Baghdad that decimated her cameraman and soundman. She's in Germany getting the best treatment an army debriefing hospital can give you while her crew is going right straight back home in body bags. I can't keep up with the deaths. We've almost equalled the number killed by the 9/11 miracle attack by the 14 drunk-the-night-before Saudi sillies who took over 3 big airliners using only box cutters and killed 3300 people in the WTC attacks. After the death tolls in Afghanistan and Iraq get up around the number of dead left in New Orleans by Hurricane Katrina, around 7,000, Hot-damn, then we gonna have ourselves a "nice little war." God, what F-ing fools are leading us to Hell in a handbasket.

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler
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The Daily Growler House Pianist took thegrowlingwolf to dinner at Virgil's in New York City last night. The Wolf Man was seen acting very flabbergasted as the good heart-clogging goodies started coming, first the frozen Margaritas, then the massive snake-like-sex-knotted platter of onion rings and another platter of some top-dog-style baking powder biscuits accompanied by a butter and syrup mixture. Then the Wolf Man ordered a chicken-fried steak with sides of greens and beans--it's a barbecue joint and yet because he was once from Texas, he feels chicken-fried steaks are a reminder of his dear-departed mother and he fondly remembers her cookin' up them chicken fried steaks in her ancient Old West iron skillet she was so proud of in that old home lone prairie kitchen. Nostalgia. The steak was excellent, Wolfie reported stentoriously, as he packed it away in hungry-wolf gulps, which he then washed down with yet another frozen Margharita. The meal was topped off with a slab of key lime pie and a big mug of black coffee. The waitress was also very nice and very sexy and parts of her anatomy were enjoyed by both these rather lecherous older men (that's really disgusting to us). The Daily Growler House Pianist returned with the Wolf Man to his penthouse den of inequity where they woke up the dead by listening to a rousing version of Charles Ives's Fourth Symphony. The Daily Growler House Pianist brought along the score, too, and a good time was had by all. The boys were soused by 2 am when the pianist finally hit the road. The commodity of intoxication? A decanter of Brown and Foreman's Old Forrester's Birthday Batch of bourbon whiskey made in 1995 in honor of Old Brother Brown's birthday. Sales promotion gimmick, but the bourbon was good, oaky, chocolatey, vanilla-y, and spicey. Half the bottle now rests contented on the Wolf Man's penthouse parquet-linoleum floor where it was abandoned by the two Sons of Inebriation as each went his own way into that sleep that Jack Kerouac, a stone drunk, called that world of "beermare" hell in the head, and Dylan Thomas said was the reason he didn't mind dying as he lay dying in St. Vincent's Hospital in NYC's emergency room after falling down deadass drunk in the White Horse Tavern over on Hudson in the Village.

NOTE: Back in the archives of The Daily Growler is Dinah Shore's recipe for chicken-fried steak. It's a doosy of a homespun recipe from the Hills of Tennessee; give it a try.

The Daily Growler restaurantrover--WOOF WOOF