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March 17, 2015

Stephen “Lying Liar” Colbert
666 White Hope Lane
Notso Pleasantville Anymore-isit, New York, U. S. of A-Hole

Dear Mr. Liar ColdBeer

Every day for nine years you made H.L. Mencken look like Upton Sinclair. But what have you done for me lately?

I want to congratulate you on your recent career ending, um, End. Or whatever. Crap. I had something awesomely sarcastic for that in the shower, but I just speed pounded two full “hefty-man” breakfasts at the drive-through hamburger chain while shotgun slugging a pony keg of unregulated caffeine energy drink and everything just went white and buzzy. I need the healthy morning pick-me-up because I am so exhausted from having to survive these terrible hours before Armageddon finally frickin' sets in, kills my hippie dipstick neighbors with OBola plague and makes the 340 dollars in Glenn Beck endorsed Gold Coins I have hidden in my sump a millionaire’s ransom. Who’s gonna be the big man then Jackhole?

Anyway, it must be nice to be such an accomplished lying liar and failed Patriot.

(Seriously, it must be awesome. I bet you even have some neighbor kid who cleans the wrappers and energy drink cans out of your car every month. Damn, that would be nice. Do you have an unpaid socialist student loan leech of an intern buy you a thousand government run Powerball lottery tickets every Week? I would.)

My point here is that I am grateful your show has come and gone. The American Dream has never been more nightmarish than when we were trying to fall asleep at night while watching your cavalcade of dunselry. By the way, did you ever think of calling that tent show minstrel scam “The To- Night of The Long Lies Show”? Yeah, no, you didn’t - maybe that’s why they finally fired you Collarbone.

Anywhoo. You promised me a wasteland sir, for nine long years, and all I got was this slow churning recovery. Your show belongs in the dustbin of failed histrionics. You promised things Mister. Ecumenical and economical collapse was guaranteed by you and your minions. Gay fascism, chemtrails, Islamo-communism, gunlessnesss, camps, bank re-defaults, stock market re-collapse, un-employment re-surging, real estate un-recovery, and the list goes on. Christ man, you and Romney promised that the Obamination would give nuclear weapons to Iran and instead he is on the verge of taking them away for at least another decade! (Good thing sensible minds in the congress intervened to keep peace from breaking out there of all places.) We have cheap oil and that appears to be actually physically killing Putin.

Unemployment is suddenly so low it’s starting to be a drag on the economy because it’s forcing wages higher. Further, since gas is so low, we can spend the extra wages on cheap American products like razors that only work once and giant energy drinks. It's like we have Guns and Butter. And iPhones. And more butter. Appleguns and Applebutter and a chicken in every iPot on 24 hours notice from the Amazon people. 98% percent of the people in America now have health insurance coverage for ebola, measles, cardiac arrest and cancer All of which have 3 or 5 or 7 times the survival rates they had in 2000.  There hasn't been an election day national terror threat alert in almost seven years. Don’t even get me started about the Stock Market. I bet the real "truthiness" Mr. Tea Party is that your money occupies a lot more of Wall Street than your mouth ever did.  We are six years into your "Obam-u-nism will collapse the country" reign of error and the only strike that has stunned the economy was December 2014 Apple call options with a "strike price" anywhere south of 120 a share.

Stephen, that ringing in your ears is reality calling to try and establish a "rapport" with your outdated conservative masters. You guys weren't "just a little bit wrong" when you constantly proclaimed Barack Obama would be the biggest leadership failure since, well since George Bush. Dude, The Vinyl Record Album market is flooding back, Harper Lee is publishing a prequel for "To Kill A Mockingbird" and GM has a “strong buy” rating. From Merril Lynch. This guy makes Ronald Reagan look small, Teddy Roosevelt look cowardly and Thomas Jefferson look impulsive.

How quickly we forge ahead, huh?  We paid and prayed for many doomful things because you told us we should and that these bad things would be good for us in the long run. You unified our non conformist libertarian individualism and promised a great surge of failed Democracy would finally allow us to live free, or at least die kneeling before ultra conservatism.  You said big government won’t work anymore - it’s too confusing. You told us that these whiny “a complex world requires sophisticated leadership” Odumbholes would self destruct. That they would take all of their repressive “merit-based” idea-oltory down the drain with them.

Was it all a lie man? Was none of it real, ever? Not even The Camps? Was it all just some game you played for entertainment? I took you at face value when you told us you were  The One who could lead exactly the radical new old fashioned conservative libertarian orthodoxy we needed to take our country back. Sadly, in the end you turned out to be more of an Ikeaclast than an Iconoclast. You became the Zamboni of Zampolits. It is  starting to be clear that almost all of your show's conservative "values" was just stuff Karl Rove said to make you guys all feel better when you were so obviously wrong about every single possible nuance of a small part of any little tiny bitty bit of any concern anywhere, ever. At all.  So what does that make me? Because some of us who are real nationalists believed in your message of hopelessness. Here is an example of how far over on the wrong side of history you were in your show: My family made me take them all to Disneyland a while ago. Where is the joy in that Mister “Obama is a Muslim Terrorist who will blow everything up and destroy middle class America repeatedly”?  It was thousands of dollars we could have been hoarding or spending on assault weapons for our children’s safety. To top it off, my credit score went UP afterwords. This is not how you said it would be.

Stephen, you owe true America an apology for promising them all this chaos and disasterousness. I voted for Obama specifically because you said it would ensure a total collapse that would make Republican values seem realistic again. I did it both times Sir! You told us to wait. We were willing and able to help rebuild this boring-assed unimperial country into something proudful and strongarmed. But you said no, not with them, not in collaboration with Obama types. But they never stopped believing in America, no matter how much you told us not to believe in them.  Well, you won’t fool me twice like that a second time.

I waited for things to fail because I believed in your character. Alas, you stomped America in the windbag. Where's the doom you assured us would prevail?  Where's the collapse you guaranteed? Where's the fear? You promised us that Obama would lead America off a cliff and so we abandoned America in favor of our Republican Party.  America is the Mountain itself Stephen. Was all along. And you made us stay at the bottom while the mountain had the finest hour it will have in our lifetime. We couldn't have led but we could have participated Stephen, we could have contributed to the shape of the new mountain, but you kept us from it. Because of you we'll never really see the view from the top.

Thanks for nothing, Moldberg

Sincerely,

An anonymous but not at all intellectually merit-less troll.

P.S. And now your Commywood cronies are going to let you replace Oprah, or whatever?
Well, good luck with that.

P.P.S. Will it be on the new Apple subscription service?

Discuss

Tue Oct 14, 2014 at 05:42 PM PDT

Symptoms of a Disease Un-Named

by The Ex Cowboy

The early symptoms of the disease include angry red eyes, a hot fever, a forlorn loss of belief in any staid future and sudden horrible nausea...

An open letter to the Entire American Media.

Dear Leaders of our National Media (also FOX, NBC and Huffington Post),

We understand that your legacy in the internet era is a clean, well lighted brothel of skinny-pill ads, anti Obama screed links, old faces with peeled plastic skin, bikini-and-food porn and the odd reality-show dupe eating bugs. In other words we already know that you are whores, lackeys and failed Christians. Unfortunately you have all earned new and special criticism this week. One of you bastard hives in particular.

The morning Ebola headline at HuffPo (which has already been whitewashed away) speared good readers like a stave split from that last barrel of H.L. Mencken's blood that real journalists once used for ink.

The Demon Bug will require a lot of mature discretion on the public side. A man likes to know who will be on the side of reason before a streetfight like this one. To the entire media's discredit nobody in their camp comes to mind yet. Certainly not the Huffington Post which flagrantly converted the context of a WHO comment about ongoing infection rates in Africa into a toxic red scream that implied we can expect naked bubonic vomit-zombies to infest the entire Eastern Seaboard by sundown tomorrow. Even for those people it was a hell-hot blast of fire-in-a-theater rhetoric.

 "Journalism" of late does lean to seeing who can wave a jingo torch of ignorance closest to whatever new lake of partisan gasoline greets us each day.  Even so, this was a piece of higher treachery. H. P. committed the editorial equivalent of handing out blood-soaked voodoo dolls to describe Ebola.

Second place this week probably goes to the NBC "journalist" who broke a voluntary Ebola quarantine to drive through Manhattan looking for a twenty five dollar sandwich. But we can't be surprised by that really. We expect face melting hallucinations of brain-fouled self adulation from their kind of expert reporters. Also, they might actually get the foul necked virus and we wouldn't wish that hell upon anyone.

The Fox people are slow back in third on this. They are so busy blaming President Obama for not being able to force Republicans to let the Government do anything rational that they cannot even look out a real window to see what it is they are blaming on BLACKPOTUS this week. Fox runs a staggeringly delusional and transparently propaganda-driven machine. But we expect the arsonists of anti-science to piss fire all over the halls of reason.  The bar for Fox reporters has not so much been set low as it has been buried halfway down Dante's coal speckled staircase.  

This weekend all criticism ever levied upon failed American "Journalism" has come to pass. And by pass I mean the kind of jellied-rust spew that has for two decades been causing Medecin Sans Frontiers workers to wonder if Jesus had it easy on that cross. Today, failed intellectualism has a home and it is the Lady Huffington's Tea Parlor.

They emerged running away and never looked back. They rushed to embellish, exaggerate and falsify what few strands of factual calm were available this weekend. The header stack at Huff was an eye-bugging and rat-fucking inflammation of every politically sabotaged nerve ending in America. They did it to hype a few extra clicks on prostituted junk ads that even Fapping Frat boys and abandoned GOP housewives won't click on unless by a mistake of drunkenness and misapplied palsy medicine.

We need deliberate responsible Journalism without the quotations when it comes to Ebola. Fear mongering as usual will make a real epidemic a lot worse for all of us. A real epidemic is manageable but very possible. Someone at Huffington Post should pay a public price for this mistake. The Fox army is ranting in chorus that every doctor and scientist in America should be fired right away. All because almost as many American residents died this autumn from terrible Ebola as have died playing high school football. Somebody should get fired but not any of the health care professionals that we will expect to meet us at those midnight doors when every person in America has symptoms of an undiagnosed illness that can only be caused by two things.  

One of which is just reading the news.

RFTHC

Continue Reading

Mon Jun 02, 2014 at 03:08 AM PDT

The EPA's Very Loud Spring

by The Ex Cowboy


There comes a time when deceit and defiance must be seen for what they are. At that point, a gathering danger must be directly confronted.
                                               - Dick Cheney

The most alarming of all man's assaults upon the environment is the contamination of air, earth, rivers, and sea with dangerous and even lethal materials.
                                                - Rachel Carson

The forty year anti-environmentalist crusade of former Vice President Dick Cheney is about to face a calling. Not, as most of the Arab world and liberal Hollywood irony peddlers would prefer, in a metaphoric slog up the stairs to a contemporary gallows. He has been wrong his entire career and he has waged literal and deliberate war to force his wrongness upon the world. The Cheney era is going to end starting this season in a slow global shaming on a plane unseen since Aaron Burr changed his name and got kicked out of England.

Tomorrow, June 2nd 2014, Mr Cheney will probably stand the bully pulpit to scare the children through one last news cycle in his long campaign for American oil royalism. He is going to do it by the rare instance of loosing a battle. Sadly for Mr Cheney his personal war on behalf of the tyrannical and unregulated burnfuel industry has been fought on the wrong side of moral history. In this regard tomorrow's blockbuster announcement by the EPA will instantly become a historical monument for our better destiny.

The old political climate Mr. Cheney was hired to police a few decades ago by Texas Oil has obviously changed. The storms are now fiercer, more personal, more damaging and the vitriolic winds so much hotter. Cheney and his boys can no longer endure the new weather they helped create.

It occurs to this former Wyoming Cowboy that Mr. Cheney is reminiscent of a certain 19th century Wyoming hired gun. Because he will be outlived in lore and sentiment by the renegade outliers he worked so hard to vanquish. Alas, Tom Horn, late of the Cheyenne gallows and interred since 1903 in a Boulder, Colorado Cemetery was a tough and accomplished gunsel most people have probably never heard of.  Meanwhile "The Boy Who Yawns" and the people he led to defend against Mr. Horn remain in our classrooms as fabled heroes. More on him below. But first:

In about nine hours the (United States) Environmental Protection Agency is going to stun the world by doing three things. The first one, for which the Secret Service seems to expect former Mitt Romney adviser and current Obama appointed EPA Administrator Gina Mccarthy will receive the most death threats of any sitting non-military cabinet official in U.S. history, is to embrace as policy the stupidly obvious reality that unchecked carbon emissions are very, very bad for the evolved branch of life on earth that includes human beings, rats and politicians.

The Second, a byproduct of the first, is to ensure that the re-enraged GOP handily wins both houses of Congress next fall. (At a tangent, if winning the Senate empowers the worst congress in history to reload their bongs with more bat guano it will probably give Bill-Jeff Clinton an even better chance to become the first person in American history introduced at Lincoln Center as "President-The-First-Gentleman Clinton".)  

Midnight speculation aside, this is about to become one of the loudest political seasons since Bush/Cheney used treasonous false justifications to invade the largest oil field in the Mid East. We had a little break after the re-election dust-up didn't we?

Quiet time is over.

Too bad then that Politics, like the weather, is getting harder to enjoy. Maybe we can still reverse the trend for both if we regulate the worst toxic gas emitters. In any case, it will be interesting to see Cheney try to stay involved this year. Like Tom Horn, Dick Cheney was a good rider but arrogant to a fault. Now the old rifleman might see the end of his hydro-fractured political destiny before this next hottest-summer-in-recorded-history unfolds.  

Dick will likely campaign here and there. Maybe he will even show up in tornado alley in Oklahoma this fall and stop to take a few pictures with tourists down the road from the place they kept that old Apache war chief Tom Horn chased down. The one who yawns.

The one whose name so many parachute soldiers called out as they went through the door before dawn 70 years ago come Friday to save an imperiled continent. Whose name was used as the code for killing Osama Bin Laden and ending all the threat that he represented. And if those causes seemed just and serious enough for us to kill and send our children to be killed, then how can we deny that putting a few over-designed sponges into our coal burning smokestacks to protect and defend the entire human race is any less worthy of America's trembling ability to do mighty things?  It sure seems easier and less expensive than invading Iraq was. Either time.

Well, this is a scattered note and it is so late here that it is early now. So I'll let you go with my apology for once again dipping my quill in the weird ink and asking anyone sober to read it.

Oh, but I almost forgot The Third thing:

To quote a prominent Japanese politician from the day Sarah Palin lost her wildcat bid to replace Dick Cheney as V.P.: Tomorrow the EPA will " .. show the world that The United States of America is still the country we thought it was".  

And not for nothing, but from someone who spent yesterday digging 45 and 50 million year old fossils out of the Green River Oil Shale in the shadow of one of the largest coal fired generating stations in Wyoming and the West, it is a beautiful spring out there but sometimes the big noise can be comforting when you

Ride for the High Country.

Discuss

Thu Sep 26, 2013 at 01:34 PM PDT

A Shot Across the Stern.

by The Ex Cowboy

Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit.
                                                              - Aeneas to his shipwrecked followers.   

A drowning person may cling to the rescuer and try to pull himself out of the water, submerging the rescuer in the process. Thus it is advised that the rescuer approach with a buoyant object, or from behind, even twisting the person's arm on the back to restrict movement.                                                                                   - Water Rescue Instruction

I did not take the oath I have just taken with the intention of presiding over the dissolution of the world's strongest economy.
                                                              -Ronald Reagan

Ronald Reagan saved 77 people from drowning before he was old enough to drink Tip O’Neil’s favorite Whiskey.

I met the old bastard once. We met in his small personal office that looked out over the grey-smudged Los Angeles beaches. When he noted I was a rafting guide he aimed his famous gestalt in my direction for a few minutes. He spoke about the lost art of rescue swimming without flotation aids.

He was then the embodiment of T. E. Lawrence’s fallen leaf. His eyes were frosted with years. He spoke of the water as if it was all he remembered. He had outlived an American greatness so massive it hurt my feet just to stand next to him. He spoke of the surf, out there beyond his years, like an aquanaut who had swum the shipwrecked waves with Aeneas.

It is undeniable that Dutch Reagan was well versed specifically and politically with the drowning man syndrome. When he was POTUS he ran his economic agenda as a running battle. He alternated between public strike and private compromise. He decried tax and spend socialism and then raised taxes like a drunken sailor to fund military job stimulus. He threw his enemies off the dock in other words, but he usually went in as well before drowning partisanship could drag the country under.

His vox was a terrible swift sword indeed, and the old man wielded it with Jedi acumen. He slashed blood from the livers of many rivals but he also, and famously, always stopped the attack before his enemies were so insulted that they never returned to the negotiating table. He lambasted The Congress every time the camera swung up towards his chin, but he kept the private bar stocked with Tip O’Neil’s favorite liquor.

He was, after all, from old Iowa where civility is sanctified and self-victimization is the greatest sin. He employed a very public verbal hard line. But the old man always followed his grand pronouncements with private, sober and tough but pragmatic compromise. As governor he did it with the hippies. As a candidate he did it with the Lead Hostage taker and future President of Iran. As POTUS he did it with Congress, with guys like Muammar Khaddafi and through eight long years with the Russian menace.

Did he get the best deal possible for his neo-con version of America? With the exception of his own economic advisers the Republicans all say he did very well.

So what in the great Iowa cornfield of destiny caused the entire Republican establishment to chain Ronald Reagan’s pragmatic legacy onto a gasoline soaked Viking funeral raft and send it out on the tide with a lit fuse? Because let's face it Peggy, Ted Cruz’s party is to the legacy of Ronald Reagan what Bull Connor’s was to the legacy of Abraham Lincoln.

These box-cutting maniacs have hijacked Barry Goldwater’s cockpit. Their censors have burned Bill Buckley’s massive dictionary and their bullies have stomped Theodore Roosevelt’s stick into useless powder.

Sure sure, they all want to talk the Reagan talk. But there is not a single member of today’s GOP who even pretends to walk the Reagan walkback. The lifeguard understood the complexity of the “Full Faith and Credit of The United States”. His willingness to accept political reality was his greatest strength. The unwillingness of this Republican Party to do so is their drowning weakness and they threaten to take the nation under with them.

Some day it actually might be a joy to look back on this fight surrounding health care reform, but not for any current Republicans. So they rage at night and in the day also. They replaced their great communicator with a growling chorus of phlegm and spittle. They are splashing in the wake of America’s fabled Christian moral destiny. And their only lifeguards fear the deep water. And they have become the drowning man. And there they go.

Again.

Ride for the High Country

Discuss

Tue Aug 20, 2013 at 03:22 PM PDT

The Burning Truth

by The Ex Cowboy

Tanker 10 folks. Not sure if this was tail 910 or 911. August 2013
Under Colonel Korn's rule, the only people permitted to
ask questions were those who never did.
                    ― Joseph Heller, Catch-22

And then there was Yossarian with the question that had no answer:
“Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?”
                           __Ibid

According to the United States Government there is nothing more dangerous to the country I love than my own honest thoughts.

My only honest thought this week is that I need to send a few words into the ether to hold off my muse until a real piece of writing shows up in the little window. I might as well try to clear my thoughts about the NSA storyline. Someone has to smash for the truth’s nail on this thing and it obviously won’t be a headline journalist. When America leaves the truth to folks like the (ex) Cowboy it’s our own damn fault and I offer no apology.

I had hoped to write about the VLT which stands for “big-assed aerial tanker” that saved my entire town from burning to ash for only the third or fourth time since statehood.

It roared down through the smoke from somewhere above Michael Jordan’s house until it was basket height above the sage-crusted ridge across the valley. They say it costs taxpayers $26,000.00 an hour. Luckily for the Tea Party rednecks whose houses it saved they only required eleven seconds on each run to dump something like 44 tons of “red snot” fire retardant into the teeth of that mean little fire that brewed up a few days ago.

When you first see that kind of smoke as a young man you rush out and buy a new pulaski, a shovel, a chainsaw and six hoses. But it’s a mountain thing. I am not even the only one in my bed at night who has lived in fire country since before I was one minute old. After you hear that furnace roar and feel the trembling heat of wildfire’s demonry a few times you give the hoses to the hippy garden people down valley, put the chainsaw gas into the old truck, unlock every door on the property and walk around until the first snow falls with your passport in one pocket and a constantly connected cell phone to the kid in the other one. It’s called reality prepping. Getting The Dog out is considered high fortune in these situations.

It would have been fun to rant about, but that flying jeep of a DC-10 went back to Idaho faster than Shane and the NSA story just kept sprouting dryfuel weed. The soaring white beast has already painted a dozen newer wildfires burning between here and the McCarter lady’s town with a slight diversion I am told to save that bastard Hank’s place up near Ketchum. Which is fine I say because anyone who has more Smith-Corona "Super Silent" typewriters than the (Ex) Cowboy is worth keeping in the high country.

Over the DC-10s' fading turbines I can still hear the creaking teak of headline journalism’s sinking galleon. The Rockport fire is contained but it still gets better national coverage than the NSA mess. The Big J. is dead and getting deader. When it comes to NSA reportage the four or five remaining news editors in America all dropped the tiller and allowed themselves to get blown downwind with the storm. Long live Katie Graham and WAPO by the way, but it’s clearly “any port in a storm” from here on out. Not even Al Jazeera will roll the chilled dice of what your father once sarcastically called “free speech” in order to address the real news this summer.  Do not seek the treasure, as a man once said.

It is sad to watch the “I think I can, I think I can” news writing about Mr. Edward Snowden late of the Moscow Airport and the Dell Corporation. There is not a writer in America with the stones to even pretend to want to grasp a strand of tail hair from this runaway bullfight of story.  Fun is fun but this NSA gibberish is far more serious than any of us knows how to handle.

Tell me I am wrong. Tell me that in your most private heart you don’t also understand that we have to face the Jabberwock of domestic spying now. Or we have to face it later.

So let’s at it and we’ll meet again some day. Perhaps in a government run fire and climate refugee camp near the Idaho line, perhaps at a bar in the stateless persons lounge at the Chelyabinsk airport. Because the facts as Murrow might describe them are impossibly simple:

1) The largest military/government authority in human history is monitoring or striving to monitor every individual personal private thought that every person on the planet can possibly share in any manner.

2) Under a banner of godlike oversight a small politically chosen chamber uses the fruits of this tyrannical anthropology to determine who is the (next) most dangerous threat to the political order they serve.

3) They assign murder-robots or ski-masked secret police from a conservative’s holiday banquet of nationalist jackbootery to secretly wipe from the terra any aforementioned individual.

That’s the whole nut as far as I can tell and anyone who tells you different is just selling you garden hoses to try and stop the wildfire.

All of this is happening here, now and in absolute secrecy beyond the likely extent of ethically durable oversight. We are expected to believe that this most political of conceits can be the one nexus in America that is immune to ethic-less extremism in a historically unparalleled climate of illiterate partisanship. Well, then again, we must believe it because it is defined treason to doubt it in public discourse (and they are monitoring).

And by the way can you tell me what devil this is if it is not the very devil that we created the entire United States of America to escape?

This is inevitable destiny, they will say. It is an obligate evolution of freedom by another name. As free people we can only be protected with a cage around us. It is all just some new kind of navy. Just another tall tower to Babylon erected on the outskirts of the old marble city.  

Which will do fine until you take the old Solzhenitsyn (or, God forbid, Socrates) off the high shelf when the kids are asleep. You don’t have to scan many of those sentences before you recall that there is a long list of nation states which rotted down to the boneworks because the people in power were afraid to stop spying, torturing and making laws in secret.

Call for the Jesuits then because the means will always outlast the ends. It is terribly sad to observe but the fruit of the tree of knowledge has always been juiced with blood. And it will water yet another kind of tree, because this it has always done.

And this is all it has ever done.

Ride for the High Country

Continue Reading

Regarding the Fox interview everyone is blathering about today:

I hate (and will possibly be hated for) saying this, but Fox won this unscheduled little battle hands down. Here's why:

They just converted some non-Republican Christians (those who are not very "religious" yet are quietly very faithful) to the R team for some time to come. It might not seem like very many votes swung anywhere today. But how many moderate votes does anyone need to win the White House these days?

As a result of the interview, this book is already a bestseller. Some people will even read the thing now. The book is clearly going to be perceived in many, if not most quarters as a revisionist and intentionally politicized refutation of the moral legitimacy of Jesus. What Fox just did is simultaneously present a new terror-Muslim threat against Jesus himself and set up shop on the highest ground as the only willing defenders of the lad's honor.

As a bonus the left is in danger of painting themselves as more interested in grammar than in keeping the poor fella off another cross. The (ex) Cowboy will wager that this episode becomes a machine gunned bullet point in a lot of elections to come.

Perceptions matter and in the long view this will end up being a three run homer for the perception among a small unknown number of very critical swing voters that Liberals are willing to accept awful Islamic terrorists as equals.

They Republican's didn't use Christianity to defend racism here - they used racism to defend Christ himself. And that's more than ok in many, many purple state kitchens.

It is always an election year at Fox News and the only battle that matters for them now (or should for any of us) is for the 6% swath of strangely undecided votes in the next POTUS dust-up.

I think this will turn out to be an important, even if very small, political clash and the bad guys just put a deep hook into one or two percent of the only 6% that matters.

Just a thought..

Discuss

Mon May 20, 2013 at 07:37 AM PDT

Presiding While Black

by The Ex Cowboy

“We must disenthrall ourselves from the (GOP) establishment’s anti-idea” philosophy, “The Republican establishment is just plain wrong about how it approaches politics. The Republican consulting class is just plain wrong about how it approaches politics.”
                                          - Newt Gingrich  May 11th, 2013

If America was a hijacked 9/11 plane right now the GOP would be handing out razor blades and telling you; “sit down, everything’s fine, we have this bomb”. Don’t worry though, it isn’t like that. If for no other reason than Republicans just aren’t capable being even that sophisticated anymore.

America is a 1972 Cadillac El Dorado with the top cut off burning gas like a beautiful cancer as we roll on one less cylinder than the factory intended and throwing a little oil sure, but soft on the shocks approaching 72 and 73 miles an hour as the kids in back watch us race Warren Buffet’s suddenly well loaded trains down the Mason Dixon Line of our absolute destiny.

We aren’t hijacked.

What we are is in some ways worse.

America just got up to speed again and suddenly we are being pulled over by a dimwitted local crew of deputy jingoists. An illiterate posse of high hipped gun bulls has drawled out from behind the big billboard for menthol smokes, out in the hill country where everyone smart knows that the county line is wherever Sheriff Conner’s boys say it is. There might be an old empty beercan under the seat, but this driver has been meticulous about keeping under the legal speed limit and obeying all the new standards for turn signals and merging and such.

See him smile for the hateful bystanders as he twists the big machine through a bad traffic jam of road rage animosity and potholed infrastructure. It is something the man is actually quite good at and has been for many years. His restraint and moderation has gotten him no end of crusty heat from the back seat where the calls for more weight on the gas pedal still echo. Today however is different. Today the kids can clearly see why this driver, on these roads, is faced with a tired and sad obligation to uphold some kind of shining display of perfect citizenship during every turn behind the wheel.

Many people you have never met are entirely versed in the most common ritual of unprivileged youth in America: Every hand in the car raised fingers up and flat, visible through every notch of window glass. Eyes forward, no talking, turn the light on. Police papers and travel passes at the ready. No sudden movements like sneezing or scratching your leg. Failure to follow these rules is a sure ticket to the filth chamber after a series of swiftly brutal ass kickings intended to demean even the brightest lads.

Even the President of the United States.  

So welcome to the machine, America: As you read about the next "scandal", like this drunken tumult of complaints that the tax collecting branch of the government had the temerity to investigate some proudly armed, revolution espousing anti-tax radicals, keep one thing in mind (and while you kids in the back raise your empty hands where the jackbooted sheriffs can see them from behind the car):

You just got pulled over for driving presiding, while black.  

Discuss

Killing Children, Worshiping Guns, and Burying Heroism in a Doomed Empire.

What if you knew her
and found her
dead on the ground?

                                     -Neil Young

Gun.

Cross.

Heartbeat.

Choose your icon now. Because for the rest of your morally destined life your fist can only grasp one metallic symbol of what you actually believe is most important. It is time to lay all the wages of sin on one turn of the cards.

You want to understand but no amount of politicized anger will allow you to process this fusillade of death straight from the laughing devil's hand.  You want to be comforted but no words will help. You want to be held but the media screens cannot warm your skin. You want death for anyone but the kids. Death comes for the kids. Maybe those parents were people you knew until the bolt snapped forward. Old friends, work mates, drinking buddies. They are gone now and they are gone for good.

We want to place a nationalist blame on "Them" but in this turn there is only a grey American "us". We all want to see a celebritized hero standing in the mirror, but even an elected Republican can't pray with gun hand now. Still, we fall easily back to the swaddling cloth of political tribalism.

Bide the public perceptions fade-time then. Make another wager on partisan lockstep obstruction. Tag it with a childish slogan, clothed in the tired conformity of new conservatism's immaculate self-destructive anger. But in the meantime, tell me the difference between a brimstone-and-doom preacher on an urban street corner and a Republican politician from some hell-torn gerrymanderland?  

One is an acolyte of his delusional network of self adulating heroism. One is ranting alone in the cold winds of a concrete Gomorra where hosing blood off the sidewalk is a common enough task for old women.

Groan and raise fists against the slow anguished parade of less American, less human, less Christian citizens. The enemy across the street. Your rage de vivre burns into an obsession with fantasies of death. Rally the mob "against" and light your greasy torches because you are called, you are chosen, you are the blessed activist chosen to "wake up" the sleeping liberal sheep.

March your mob down to the sewered sea of America's new conservatism and witness one last sunset across a foaming red gyre of failed moral destiny.  Line up, and proud, to the monied trough where they are once again handing out childish things by the armload. Put away reason. Put away faith. Put away the discipline of thinking about anything and replace it with a partisan belligerence of believing you are right about everything.

Well, sure sure, and there you go again Peggy. But this will be the last time for the blank verse devotionals.  Enjoy that last arrogant glass of K Street fraternization with the Reagan-boys. The dice rolled hard, as they often do just when the men who worship power were turned away. See them distracted from humanity by their frets about hoarded gold and dreams of salvaging a rotted empire. The gilded calf of Republican "faith" can no longer be hidden behind the burning crosses of your sin-to-win partisanship.

Watch the big wheel turn. In the gambling hall of heroes the only real moral prize is to see another generation of powdered bones paved into a new, low, step up the great pyramid of human moral destiny. Children's blood is no kind of mortar there. A gun is proof you are more willing to kill for your faith, than die for it.  Hold breath then, as the dark-jacketed cardmaster slides the chits across the green felt. Six, two and hold 'em. But let the devil count the cards. Because even the children of the NRA's God can only enter heaven if they die unarmed.

You can never again be equally true to a gun in your hand and a cross on your neck.

When death comes for the kids you quietly trundle off the parents where they won't be seen in daylight anymore. And exactly how many is too many? An un-nameable but undeniably self-wrought terror.

Anything but this.

Take another tower and shrug it off, because Al Qaeda has done nothing to harm America's moral watchworks compared to what your gun worshiping culture has wrought. When is it too late for self described Christians to put down your swords ?

Still, allegedly grown men fall back on the grand ole' party line. Choose to join them in a bloodsport against reason itself. Or fall to your knees in the public square. Either way, it is the last genuine moral choice you will ever make. Beg forgiveness and you can hold in your hand another trembling hand, perhaps your own in prayer, perhaps a stranger's in mourning. A simple interweaving of fingers. Let's be clear; a genuine moral life will stay bittersweet to the dregs of your fame-less days.

In the end isn't that what this entire descent into cult following extremism on the right all about? Aren't you really just lost among the throngs, desperate to reforge your identity into that of a glorified talk show circuit hero? (And why doesn't this make it the talk shows' fault ?) Well, someone has to bury the dead my friend, and no celebrity status obtains from the turning of the spade.

Easy now to lay your soul entire against a new wager. The promise of fame and power and television appearances, where the only honest prayer you'll ever make is that the party has your back when the reaper counts his due. Steal your black heart, stare into the furnace where the children's bones still glow and raise your hate fueled fist.

Lo, it will be an easy life if you choose to worship the gun. Pats on the back for your conforming rage against weaker citizens. A flag in the driveway will shield you from ever having to admit you were the opposite of the most informed contributor to any discourse. Go on, keep listening with your pretty little mouth. Know this about twenty-odd pine boxes however. None of them is long enough to contain a rifle and they are going into dirt with a cargo un-redeemed by your blue steel religion.

So here endeth the lesson:

The refugees of our generation have been chosen, the cornerstone of our generation's moral testing has been thus laid. The awful, but inescapable, moral choices we face never come in the forms that patriotic fantasy or partisan doctrine prepared us for. Think Hurricane Katrina, think four or five simultaneous Nuclear meltdowns outside Tokyo. Think Tsunami.

Idaho does not make the list this season.

There will be no painted moment of sunbeamed rays in a clearing for any of us. True faith offers no hope for heroic adulation in any of these battered lives we all live alone. Righteousness can always celebrate the fisted gun in a parade down main. The only promise rightness offers is a long march in the mud, among equal strangers, and a lonely death whose pain we cannot ever choose.

And cannot ever choose.

The devil will gladly advance you a gay reward for something vague and mumbled about the future pull of a trigger to your righteously chambered round. Celebrity and fame and every follower a brave leader in his own mind. Who wouldn't be tempted? Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party, as the man said. Raise the wager past gone, lift your gun hand high as a born-again Republican. Thrown in your every comfort for the hero's reward of a flag draped coffin, so long as it is not your own.

Any length will do.

It boils down to a hero's choice for us all. That fastest shrinking word we have ever trained ourselves, as Americans, to abuse at every layer of intellectual meaning.

Hero.

It's origins are from those French you are proud to hate. Pronounced exactly the same but spelled different, with a sublime difference of meaning. Before that from Latin, and down long-dead roads through the ages, I suppose. Try it in Jefferson's only published book, if you need a patriotic crutch.  A simple word, hidden by old women in other ages when righteous men immolated their liberal enemies on cross-shaped poles. A word, and a prayer.

A simple instruction scratched into wet clay, by 12 moral men, in an age when the sword was a tool for killing liberals and the death draped cross was a common enough roadside marker, used to show the entrance to every new political realm.

Gun. Cross. Heartbeat.

Heroes we bury, killing we worship.

Hero: Heureux.

Heureux ceux qui procurent la paix, car ils seront dit les enfants de Dieu.

Translate it yourself tough guy, my hands are shaking to much to write another word.

Discuss

Sirs, Madams and corporate lackeys,

I have just discovered that The Economist has been recurrent billing me for some time, possibly a few years, without my consent.

I used to trust you guys as The International Leading Voice of things my parents once called maturity, reason and sophisticated intellectual discourse. It is therefore with no small sadness that I must now add your publication to the infinite list of our current era's rip off merchants, advantage takers, information-age jackboots, screed promulgators and high minded street scammers.

I have NEVER successfully received a single issue from the digital subscription which I now believe was a deliberately misleading prototype. I am, further, not interested in negotiating any replacement content. I can see your cover art for free at the grocery store anyway. And that is so much more intellectual curiosity than most of my fellow Americans are capable of these days that it will have to suffice for both of our crossing paths of concern.

Yes, I did just use the word "And" to start a sentence. This use, like employing the word "couple" without the word "of" after it, is apparently accepted now by whatever editors still survive in their hidden places. Indeed, my writing transgressions are many.  Maybe if I had actually received your subscribed content, in any format, I would have been able to personally increase by 8 or 9 percent the number of Americans who can write at the third form level. Maybe together we could have staunched the bloodflowing doom as America's new media miscreants do to political writing what Disney, The Walt Company (NYSE: DIS) has done to Rock Music. Dreams die hard, anon.

In any case, I will leave it entirely up to you as to how much of my stolen money you will return.  I will trust further that the pickpocketing of my digital personhood will cease abruptly or soon enough thereafter. This kind of thing is maddening and I will accept no personal blame, other than trusting you, for how it has arisen. I do not disclaim, if your technology-rationalized thievery continues, future suits of compensation for my lost faith in humanity's greying rainbow. I understand that my voice screams unheard in the staccato wilderness of failed Internet ideas. Still I must proclaim: These gridwalling webs of intentionally hellish customer service, which have become a business-embraced global conformity, are equal to the deepest swimming pools of asphalt fire that any of your own tormented long-form poets have ever since forgotten. You then are also, as the man once said, part of that bright shining lie.

I am a writer, humble, irascible and only read by about 14 or maybe 25 people for any given essay. I have as many as 47 Twitter (Privately held) followers including many powerful vitamin marketers and United States congresspersons, (because either of them will "follow" anyone down into that deepening dry well of linguistic outrage). I am a grown man, so I don't use Facebook (NASDAQ: FB), but I can and will if it becomes necessary.  I am on two small boards and I travel the world on my own boots as often as possible in constant search for knowledge, the smile of personal experience, and any single pounded heartbeat of humanity's better lost soul. I am an American and yet I still seek footprints in the mud, so to speak, to track the forward march of our epochal slog towards a moral destiny of greater worth.

The point being that I have no effective batter bar to ram against your corporate transoms. I don't "know people" (except maybe those kids at "Anonymous", come to think of it, who also follow me on Twitter, and off it, as they do all of us). I don't mean to threaten you even if I did have some useful leverage against the devastating trend and corporate tyranny wrought by this kind of petty cash lifting. It is not my way.

I only press the matter because I do have a genuinely brilliant kid in college. She studies overseas, obviously, because by "brilliant" I do not mean "just another perfectly schooled wealthy American kid", I mean; "This One is For The Ages Fucking Brilliant", and even The Economist's senior editors can not fully process what it costs a man to have that kind of burden in the nest. Writing the truth, as you well know, has never been less profitable. Every pfennig counts, in other words, and it is for a moral need.

(I will trust you further, even as my despised rival, not to tell my other, equally loved child, currently in and out of community college, that I have so used my own progeny in a desperate grasping lunge for pathos in this matter. I do become impulsive when bureaucratically frustrated. Besides, not for nothing, but you people are supposed to be the last refuge of philosophic sophistication or something ...)

The truth is that all I can bring to this battle is my honor, my impugned dignity and a few midnight sparks of the kind of socially awkward crackpot bloggery that probably makes you high minded British bastards cringe and wet your tuxedoed knickers. Still, think of recent events in Egypt as to the internet activism potential of a single voice.  A Vox On Your House, so to speak, is my only sword of honor.

Maybe think of what we trash-witted bloggers just did to the Entire Republican Party with a little free internet and a few barrels of awful Starbucks (Nasdaq: SBUX) coffee. Think about what (the first) Martin Luther did with a bent nail and three ounces of cheap German ink...

And then, please, be dears and in the name of HRH the non gender specific Regent of your own Empire, send me my money back and cancel this failed G*% D@^^  subscription you limey, silk draped, intellect obsessed Gin tinklers!

Dollars preferred but Euros, or even a small box of high proof gold coinage will satisfy the wounds you have laid into my public and private heart. (And maybe the odd dram of long oaked Irish, just to prove your heart is really in it now lads.)

You have my relevant information. I have no subscription numbers or any of that digital pocket lint to further defend myself with. I will trust you to sort it out. After all, if The Economist can't untangle the electronic weftery of their own corporate data mills, what organization can? And where exactly does that really leave any of us?

With some vaguely warm yet fleeting illumination from corporatized civility's dying ember, across the waters and with a fractional olive branched hint of potential, though as yet un-earned, respect, I sign off.

As Regards.

(My Real Name)

I receive checks, piecemeal bullion, letters of marque or outrage and, obviously, really old whiskey shipped to:

(My Actual Address)

Sent from my really frustratingly de-humanizing iPad in America

Discuss

Maricopa is, in part, hispani-cization (sp?) of the term Hohokham which was in itself a Pima word meaning "The Cranky Old Men Who Were Here First". When asked by the conquistadores about the ancient canals along the Salt River, the Pimas simply said that the Hohokham left them behind. When asked where the Hohokham went there was never a clear answer. You may know that this (ex) Cowboy is also an (ex) Boatman who guided every river in the Gila watershed worth floating. I met a member of the Salt River Pima-Maricopa tribe when I was guiding on the Salt River many years ago who told me of a legend: Came a day when the Pimas killed all the Hohokham and ate them and put their bones into the flooding river. I personally tend to accept it - men don't often make that kind of thing up.

Watching the video out of West Phoenix last weekend I couldn't tell which one was the ancient tantrum throwing United States Senator and which one was the diaper wearing joyless old man complaining that he needed more fences around his gated community country to keep out liberals, girl scouts, the Amway people, and Hispanics. Most of John McCain's district is in Maricopa county and the place has a very long history of this kind of thing.

Today Maricopa County is known for the apparent fattest sheriff in America; the second largest nuclear power generating plant on earth (needed to power their air conditioners); something like 95,000 hectares of cheap franchise fast food, usurious check cashing and wireless businesses; the most conspicuously date rape themed University in America and a bizarre and ostentatious adherence to the "Taco Bell" school of architectural design. Not for nothing, but it also has the largest ethnic concentration camp run by white people wearing brown shirts since Hermann Goering and his boy scouts were in charge of France. Those guys were the last ultra conservative nationalists who preached the idea that work will set you free. They didn't mean it either but you still might want to ask how that is going for them so far.

It used to be good sport anytime you could stop at a news screen and watch anger fueled men who were born when the internet was called "telegrams" raise their trembling, paper-skinned knuckles at every government employee who wasn't delivering a welfare check. Now days it just seems sad. As someone who intends to be an old white American man from Arizona someday I have to wonder if we are all doomed to be as ugly-hearted as these people. Maybe there is something about Phoenix that causes people to draw their water from such a deep and joyless well. In any case, it is clear that someone should send a bag of fresh smelling puppies out to the anti-Hispanic retired guys in "Mesa", "Agua-Fria", "Marana", "El Mirage" and "Guadalupe".

Maybe it is the water. The Hispanics ran Arizona for something like 300 years, which is a lot closer to a thousand year Reich than Bull Conner and Joe Arpaio's sheriff reigns combined. The Spanish Empire or as your grandfather calls them "Hispanics", dropped Saint names in America the way Johnny dropped appleseeds. Half the modern freeways in California were surveyed as the original "Camino Real" system 200 years before George Washington's mother was born. Though the King's men didn't seem to visit the "Rio Salado" basin of Phoenix very much.

Maricopa Wells had its heyday as the stagecoach watering stop between San Antonio and San Diego. Which is a tellingly long stretch without a Sainted place name, but it makes sense in every way. The closest the Spanish came to venerating Arizona was in calling most of the roads in Arizona "El Camino Del Diablo" and you only have to turn left behind a blue haired retiree in Phoenix one time to understand that 500 years ago the Hispanic geographers had a very accurate sense of which places were better left to the devil.

In any case there seems to be a strong sentiment among McCain voters that the people who were here first deserve a higher status of citizenship. It's a tired old syllogism but as intelligent as anything else the Republicans have thought of since maybe when Charles Lindbergh tried to run for the GOP nomination with a platform of joining World War II on the German side. And I for one support rigidly codifying it. After all, your humble (ex) Cowboy was born in Phoenix on the hottest day of the year in 1966. Which puts me well ahead of both Sheriff Joe and Senator McCain, and only about 1700 years from the top of the list.

Ride for the High Country

Discuss

Mon Feb 18, 2013 at 10:09 PM PST

The Ides of February

by The Ex Cowboy

A bit of a long rambling bastard but air travel does that....

Be born anywhere,.. but under the shadow of a great creed, not under the burden of original sin, not under the doom of salvation. Go out and be born among the gypsies or thieves or among the happy workaday people who live in the sun and do not think about their souls.
        Pearl S. Buck

Last week was a strange week for anyone addicted to internet news. Which is all of us by now.  

The family and I ran south for a long weekend in Phoenix for several reasons, all of which turned out to be wrong. Internet access was sporadic, air travel actually went ok, and we all caught some kind of stomach disease, almost certainly just from watching that stricken cruise ship on airport television. They say it was psychosomatic, which might be a new thing to watch for, because it was ugly and real for many hours as we dashed between restrooms and free public wifi with the kid in tow. But it gave your humble (ex) cowboy pause to reflect on the week that was...

All through the week a slow paralyzing madness came through the screens like a wave of St. Elmo's Fire in the rain. By late Thursday we were all like frogs in a pot, asking ourselves if the water felt warmer in some way. Then everything collapsed into silence and a few of us noticed that the needle had blown clean off the wierd-shit-o-meter when no one was looking. We learned a lot about ourselves, most of it ugly and shameful and yet somehow inspiring.

We are clearly, as a race, fully dulled to the cortex and oblivious to any new form of crowd shattering violence, whether it comes from God's agent in Italy, fleets of attacking Death Stars, Earthquake Tsunamis, Dead Winter Climate Change, L.A. Cops on murder sprees or even when the entire party of Dwight Eisenhower suddenly and openly endorses domestic terror as a form of patriotic conservatism. This week merely confirmed for some of us who still live above ground that we are all internet addicts and we might as well make the best of it before the Chinese come for drinks and stay the winter, or until the planet dies.

We learned that the only truly free people on earth are apparently a marooned population of failed missile technicians and gypsy poets out near Chelyabinsk (sp?). They all have dashboard cameras it turns out, possibly because they drive with openly homicidal drunkenness or just because they know how to handle the cops. They are already lost to us again, fading in the rear view mirror of our ADD driven news cycle - which is better for everyone, especially them. Still, for a few hours late last week those crazy bastards showed us how to live.

They all witnessed, and filmed, the giant flaming deathshot of a meteoroid or an asteroid or a failed secret United States Air Force robot spy space shuttle. They filmed it from hundreds of viewpoints in perfectly edited 8 second clips with better audio than most American television shows. The camera might never lie, but that doesn't mean it has to tell the truth either, I guess. In the end, no one will admit to having the foggiest notion about what really happened out there. Russia has a long history of such things and it is a big land with many secrets yet to keep...

We learned that sometime between Wednesday night and Thursday morning The Entire Catholic Religion ceased to exist as anything more that a coven of very queerly dressed real estate tycoons.

Something like 2700 million church members stopped dead in their tracks when God's man in Europe was revealed to either have AIDS or Alzheimer's disease, or perhaps both. The only truth now is that The Vatican is no country for old men. It turns out that God's official spokesman down here on the dirt has lost his celestial immunity in many awkward ways for reasons that might never be made clear.

The Pope retired suddenly and may already be dwelling in a glass walled cage next to his own future crypt down in the basement. No one is sure if it happened because God is getting older or because the Mexican boys they send up to the gilded rooms are getting younger. In any case, the lack of global reaction is another proof of how dulled humanity has become in the new media era. The Irish at least or even the Franco-Catholic rail-working unions should have been rioting in the streets by now. They were told in a blunt press release before dawn that God and his agent in Rome had a falling out. The last would no longer speak for the first, or words to that effect.

From here on out, despite the canned media stories, where the next Pope was born is going to be a lot less critical for the survival of the Catholic Church in the future than if there is a penis attached to the Great See. There has been an elephant in the church for a long time now. After this week even the blind men have to feel it for what it is. There is a broader sweeping trend in western civilization to end the pretension that the tradition of old men and young boys wearing silk robes together, in private, pleases any God worth believing in. Even the boy scouts are looking for new slogans to sell their legacy of men-who-aren't-the-father teaching young boys all about the joys of leather, knot-craft and using friction to start fires. In any case a lot of voices will be calling for a female Pope to be named, or at least nominated. It will work to, if only they can figure out what she would wear. Well, Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc, as the man once said.

On the business side: The much vaunted "Euro" currency had everything in its favor this season, the troubles of individual Euro countries should have been the perfect platform to underscore the strengths of a unified Euro "nation". They should have, in a lesser but significant way paralleled America's high water mark of recovering markets. Last week could have been the best week for empirical European commerce since their wine industry hired a young Jewish kid in North Africa to lay out the slogan, "have a little wine for thy stomach and what ails you".

If 3% of the doom that the Republican Party claims is the fiscal reality in America under President Obama was actually true last week the Euro would have rolled through Wall Street like seven or eight body bloating Tsunamis hammering through Laird Hamilton's living room on a moonless night.

The Europeans have the remains of five or six entire national currencies to draw from while the entire American banking system couldn't lend enough money for a day of gambling at the dog track. (So much of America's M1 money supply is hoarded offshore and out of use right now that the Chinese could conquer America by invading the Bahamas.) Meanwhile some of America's most commanding national industries: Boeing Jets, Apple Computers, Budweiser Beer, the National Football League and even an entire Nimitz class Carrier Battle Group were sidelined or temporarily shut down for most of last week. Also, if anything in American digital commerce didn't get shut down or hacked in February it was only because the servers were already down.

If this perfect storm of Greenback vulnerability had happened in any other week since George Marshall went permanently insane and had to "retire", the Soviets would have had enough tanks through the Fulda Gap by Tuesday morning to alter the tectonic plates of Western Europe; Korea would have simply disappeared; either Iran or Iraq would have absorbed the other by force and China would have seized Taiwan for keeps. But this week no power changed hands at all, nothing moved across any borders that mattered. No one can look up from their screens long enough to even see the old mud walled world.

David Beckham, the 6th or 8th highest paid athlete in American and world history moved to play for Paris last week, where he will donate his entire salary to charity. But still soccer or football, or whatever they call it, didn't get any kind of ratings bump even in the absence of NFL Sunday action. The strange saga of the entirety of the L.A. cops out in force to track, corner and execute a whistle-blowing former brother of that thinnest blue line in America, like a three legged mountain lion, drew fewer television viewers in all of southern California than the average Tour de France does in Wyoming.

Nine Thousand different Island nations, give or take, were slammed by a 30 foot wall of water emanating from the Chilean trench. Most of Australia was so hot at 3am Wednesday night that gasoline evaporated from the pump-jacks before entering the vehicles. Most of the North American Ski industry started preparing to close down after one of the warmest driest seasons on record. The burgeoning droughts in Australia and North America made last years' comprehensively failed American corn crop look like something Teddy Roosevelt chopped through with a machete on his last, fatal, river trip in Brazil. Which was back when green was a color you'd see in nature and dressing like a boy scout was considered masculine. Happy Days reruns seemed to get more viewers than all of those stories combined last week

Warren Buffet spent more cash money than Apple has to buy a ketchup (or catsup) company. It will save his fast food chains something like 18/1000s of a British pfennnig on every happy meal that will be sold in Europe anytime after the Republican Party regains the White House. Which turns out to be real money and one of the biggest plays since he also bought the entire railroad industry West of the Mississippi river. That deal was coincidentally right before the Mississippi river dried up and left twenty million tons of export cargo stuck from Louisiana up river to as far as the part of Montana with no trees. So maybe tomato futures are worth a look, anon.

Just as the Catsup deal was happening, somebody on the internets pointed out that Apple is to the intellectual productivity of America today what crack cocaine was in about 1987. The whistle blew for a short time but the train lost steam fast and started rolling back down the big hill. Any time before President Obama got elected, the shock of having every single retirement account in America loose 15 or 20 % of it's assumed most stable investment in two days would have croaked the system so massively that even the Russians would not have wanted to come collect the pieces. Not last week my friend. Last week the markets yawned.

A staunch Republican hawk with and "A" rating from the NRA is being blockaded by Senator John McChairthrower as SecDef. Which makes perfect sense when you accept the reality that the Republicans of 2013 are to actual national Security what the Catholic Priesthood is to actual Heterosexuality. (The truth is that if Senator "Maverick" doesn't punch out soon, the whole jet-setting party is going nose first into an enemy held lake.)

Warren Buffet now owns all the trains, fast food, condiments, furniture, car parts, power companies, bottled beverages, candy, tools, underwear and most of the liquid banks in America that are worth talking about. He doesn't seem to own much Apple stock though.

The Pope himself appears to have been excommunicated, either because he was a Nazi or a Boy Scout troop leader, or both.  

All plant-life in Australia died, then burned, then died again of heat and drought.

Fragments of a space object, some the size of the Red October submarine, crashed through the atmosphere, but only in communist countries, or San Francisco, which is the same thing I guess. NORAD and the combined air defense industry contractors of America, which are pretty much the most expensive thing Republicans ever made liberals pay for, was caught off guard. Probably because it was not Christmas Eve, when they have historically done their best, if only, successful work. The monkey-photoshopping Ayatollahs of Iran suddenly seem like decent, honest scientists compared to America's Atari playing space defenders.

This week Muhammed Ali could have run naked, screaming satanic verses through Rockefeller Center with a depleted Uranium Baseball bat and Katie Couric would not even have flinched. Not that we expect much from our "New Media'' but it would be a lot more fun if someone other than the kids at The Onion would get back into the game with a little "journalism".

Last we showed people who pay attention just how far American journalism has fallen. Neil Sheehan, drunk in Saigon, for an hour in 1969 with only a pay phone line to Tokyo, could deliver more journalism than every internet news company in America did for all 168 hours last week. Not one single reporter noticed that the Pope was blind, deaf and dumb for the better part of a year; or that Apple hasn't actually released a new product in almost a decade; or that it is stupidly obvious that climate change is savagely upon us all; or that Warren Buffet and GM are the entire market basket we need to define the GDP; or that the Russians can afford stuff like dashboard cams (and thus might be a good place to send sales guys); or that the Republican party has broken itself on the rocks of President Obama's slow, moderate political acumen; or that not even Matt Taibbi knows where in the hell the sixty battrillion dollars we thought we were spending on missile detecting space radar secret satellite defense shields got smoked. Or who smoked it. Or if there is any left.

After 9/11 a lot of very bad things happened in America. One of the saddest yet most promising was that we cancelled pen and paper education and started jamming hot sparking wires straight into our children's cerebellums. And our own of course, until the argument became not if we should allow airplane passengers to have cancerous wifi at 32,000 feet, but if they should even bother to put a kill-switch in the cockpit.  Should we still allow an actual pilot some emergency way to fly the zooming beast with his own delirium trembling hands in case one of the massive cellphone chargers down in the hull of the airship suddenly bursts into white hot poison fire while coming in low on short final over the Salt River?

We should think about this question, and a lot more like it, because if last week was any indicator the ghost is inside the machine now. Which is fine for the rest of us. As long as we know we will have full signal internet news and porn, and frighteningly expensive music to download, and some cask strength Old Portrero Whiskey right up until the last moment of doom then we will never be alarmed that every thing that moves in America, especially in the sky, is being simultaneously controlled by the staff of a single Radio Shack store somewhere up near Elko.

We are home now, 7500 feet on a cold night and the wife and kid and dogs and cat, and even the little vole under the sink I can't seem to catch, are reunited and asleep, and I am writing this nonsense, but I don't care because it is a new week. All I really know is that I will piss off of my porch in about 90 seconds, and it will be cold enough to make me shiver when I come in, unplug the wireless ovoid and slide under the covers and I have no idea what is in second place tonight, nor do I care, because it is a hell of thing to get home before dark when you

Ride for the High Country

Discuss

Wed Feb 13, 2013 at 11:26 AM PST

An Open Letter to Ted Nugent

by The Ex Cowboy

Dear Ted,

If being against sex with underage, unconscious, drugged, tied up, unwilling, little girls, defenseless underage Girl Scouts, underage Street Prostitutes and (apparently buy one set of lyrics at least) animals; and/or having my bottom played with by other men and women in wilderness settings is “Anti-American”…

Please, I beg of you:

Consider me an enemy of The State, publish me in the roll of Un-American Hippies and you can even paint my name on the waterproof pistol target pasted on the ceiling over your bed.

Also, consider this a public referral of your lyric collection to serial sex crime investigators both locally, to you and at the National Law Enforcement level.  I would have included some here but you have taken unusual and very telling pains to preclude any public viewing of your lyrics by Americans, Un Americans and of course, the GOP led Sex Cops.

I really hate to be all Ad Hominem about it (you can have one of Stockman’s interns look that up) but you are, frankly, an angry, ranting, racist, misogynist, carpet bagging, fake frontiersman of a draft dodger. Which is in itself only a few strokes above par for the Tea Smoking GOP’s course at this point. But when You Threatened to Murder the President of the United States you crossed a line some of us who had decent fathers still hold solid. I figure you lost your privilege of public diplomatic courtesy right there and then. As far as respect goes you are a lot more like Abbie Hoffman was to Ronald Reagan than what Chuck Heston was to Cecil B. Demil at this strange and twisted moment of failed reason for the old party.  

The truth is, it doesn’t matter which partisan meat wagon you sold your celebrity endorsement to. Your disrespectful violence worshiping arrogance and partisan anti-sophistication is unequaled even by Rove’s standards. You are simply undeserving of a seat at the adult table, and any politician who holds your chair is shooting his party's electoral future in the foot... Washington would have hanged you before breakfast at Valley Forge, Lincoln would have locked you in St. Elizabeth’s and Nixon would have fed your security pass to his dog Checkers. These modern liberals over here do something far, far worse - they ignore you. At least you remain free to be venerated in your little circle of jerks.

I don’t how they do it in Detroit, but in the rural parts of Arizona, Wyoming, Colorado and Utah where I have lived my entire life, your identity as the “draft dodging poet of pedophilia” is the kind of descriptor that leads people at the feed store to look you in the eye and ask with a smile if you aren’t from around here. By which they often mean: Go away.  

In case you are interested, after I met Ronald Reagan he became one of my two writing mentors, Barry Goldwater's family taught me how to drink, my first paycheck was signed by the original "Marlboro Man" and most of what I believe about politics I plagiarize hourly from the Jesuit high school I was kicked out of. I castrated my first steer with a pocketknife and fried the little nuts for lunch right there on the iron fire when I was about 8 (and no you jack-rodded pervert there was no sexual innuendo then or now). I just want to be clear that I ride hard, eat light and sleep on the ground, as The Big Man once said. I am one of those heartland Christians who was just born the one time. I believe that the only real difference between Jesus and Mohamed (other than spelling complications) is that Mohamed enjoyed a long fruitful career in politics because he told his men to pick up their swords and start swinging, while Jesus died the worst death most of us could imagine before Newton happened, only because he told his men to put theirs down. By which I mean, if you want to personally attack my status as a "Real American" when you can muster no intelligent discourse regarding the actual issues at hand, that’s fine. But you best come at night.

I speak on behalf of Liberals and moderates and particularly the few of us turncoats who abandoned the Big Machine when money whores like yourself stomp-kicked George Herbert Walker into the hot asphalt of "thousand year campaign" sin-to-win expedience. We all want to extend our deepest condolences for any childhood fondling or abuse you may have suffered in places like the Detroit metropolitan Boy Scout troops, or wherever. I have a relative who is a nationally acclaimed counselor for childhood trauma and is also a staunch Republican. Sadly for you, she is a woman, but if you ever get honest with yourself about the perv issues and don’t know where else to turn to, drop a line. I am certainly a drunken bastard of the highest order, but I do have a heart. Let's face it, when your sexual identity shocks the Democrats, um, does that not ring a big bell for anyone on Ed Meese's old team?

You are, at best, a closet one per center “cloaked in the blanket of immense power” or whatever the movie thing said, but that should not let the “lamestream” media off the hook from reporting deeply about your true personal history. Or “journey” or whatever. The Republican Party and the NRA should acknowledge that the arts and letters fieldwork that allowed you entrance into the millionaire’s club are, even by contemporary standards, a bucket load of hot shame thrown against the windshield of Barry Goldwater’s and Nancy Reagan’s conservative morality.  

Your raving domestic terrorism stylings of dumb-on-purpose radicalism, which suddenly defines the entire GOP, is exactly what forced me to join league with these hairy legged  Liberal commie glutten-free feminists to begin with. How far I have fallen I guess:  Still, even the blackest, lesbian-est, Female Law Schooling-est, welfare smoking-est, Rap Singing-est, American Medical Associating-est, School Teaching-est, Muslim-Nazi-Commie-Atheist-est out here in the middle of what some of us delusional optimists still like to call "The American Dream" would be unwilling to print the deviant misogynistic lyrics you have been cranking out for thirty patriotic years.

Well, patriotic except for that pesky draft dodging rap which, honestly, a lot of the old hippies out here had the balls to do openly, and they still accept the beatings every time they go out in public. I admit that I have never been in the military nor have I committed treason to avoid the service, so I have to stay neutral on the subject. Perhaps you can elucidate (call the intern back, ok) your own views.  Still, thinking about it, I am surprised that you are the guest anywhere in daylight of a born again, anti-smut, pro military “Christian” Republican. Well, that NRA money makes the old Detroit Mob look like just another east coast liberal welfare scam, doesn’t it?

Anyway, Mr. Nugent, I suppose the whole point is this: Thank you for personally making Hillary Clinton the front runner something like fifteen hundred days before the GOP has to once again confront the reality that your party's pessimism-branded capitalists are the guys who keep collapsing America and these weak skinned tax-and-spend Liberals are the ones who keep picking us up and dusting off our knees.  Yours will become the face of a victorious Republican POTUS campaign about 13 years after "Free Cancerous Death in Every Pack" becomes the new slogan for Reagan's old cigarette company.

Peace, Love and, well, whatever you and the boys do up there in the compound without women and science and all that extremist Liberal shit.

Sincerely,

The (Ex) Cowboy

Partial Curriculum Vitae of Nugent, Ted

Poet Laureate of the Republican Party:

(Socrates, eat your heart out..)

Yank Me Crank me,
Change my sex,
Pussywhipped,
Going Down Hard,
Sexpot,
My Baby Likes Butter on her Gritz,
Bridge over troubled Daughters,
Thighraceous,
Lovejacker,
The Harder They Cum The Harder I Get,
If You Can’t lick ‘em – lick ‘em,
High Heels in Motion,
Thunder Thighs,
Tied up in love,
Bound and Gagged,
Tailgunner,
Jailbait,
Violent Love,
Wango Tango,
Scream Dream,
Saddle Sore,
Cruisin,
Yank Me Crank Me,  
Girl Scout Cookie

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