Monday, September 26, 2005

All the King's Whores and all the King's (con) Men.

Couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty back together again; It’s ripping across the landscape like a great angry sea. It’s leaking and pouring and rushing through hundreds of holes in a massive dike of ignorance that has been constructed out of block after block of pressed stinking shit around the low valley of confused sheep grazing on lies in the hope of more to follow. It’s the truth finding its way like water through every weak spot. The wall of shit was good enough for a long time. But as the wall of shit came up against more and more truth it got built higher and higher. High on the wall of shit sat the shitmeister; Mr. Turtle on a Fencepost, two-dimensional poster boy for McLuddite’s Narcolepsy Elixir; guaranteed to reinforce the denial immune system and build strong golems 12 different ways. The waters of truth built up against the shit levees and washed Humpty Dumpty off the ledge smashing him down; cut to Bush chugging a shot as word of Katrina reaches him. ‘It’s either me or Jim Beam.” Stepford Wife Laura cries. My advice George, “Take the Jim Beam.”

As carnal and stupid a man as Bushligula may be he still knows a great deal more about some things than any of us. He knows about many of the individual shit bricks in the dike of darkness that he signed off on. He can smell the methane stink as the disinfecting sunlight hits it. He knows about the progress of all those grand jury investigations. He knows about the 9/11 realities and the mountains of shit brick lies built up on top of it. There is probably a lot he doesn’t know because he isn’t being told but he knows enough to get himself a stiff drink. It’s time for that warm glow in the belly. It’s time for evil to destroy itself.

We haven’t seen Humpty McDumpty hit. We don’t know that he went down. We won’t know for awhile but he did. Maybe it’s a flash forward or some form of remote viewing into the future. Maybe it has happened in the ideal world of numbers and forces and is only precipitating downward into the material plane soon. It has happened on some level though and the rest is just follow through.

Housing bubbles are bursting on the frothing chemical water. Dollars are morphing in Euros. Jobs are blowing out the back end of the system like projectile diarrhea. Faith is gone and faith, as the stock market can tell you, is everything. Money is moving, moving like a ship on the horizon.

In the exploding hog lagoons of Halliburton the pigs are restless. No one said too much about the polluted Euphrates water being served to the troops, or the spoiled food. Hell, they even went in and sliced off a monster slab of Katrina pie. But, that’s what pigs do. Back in the back, tireless, march those elements of the justice department that can’t be hindered. Brick by brick, the shit bricks are being analyzed for composition and content. The pigs know. But what can the pigs do? The pigs keep shitting bricks and the bricks keep getting piled on to the leaking levees and the truth makes weather that whirls the atmospheric shit; formulated by the radio waves of low lying media moving into a high pressure front of hot air, television signals warm up over the bottomless pit, the smoke from chemical factories are heated up in the ovens of global warming and one shitstorm after another comes at the levees courtesy of the truth that fires and spins the lies spinning… and it’s all natural and biodegradable in the end; even if no one is left.

Under the heavy rap beat, the musical lubrication of the movement of events, under the walls of the shit levee you can hear Cardinal Woolsey holding forth about young boys swimming on pigs bladders and Lucifer falling.

It is not so much that the always unexpected fall will come to the architects of the shit levees. This is manifest destiny. This is the eternal cycle of the unfailing destiny of shit bricks and shit brick manufacturers. For them it is enough to do evil simply for the joy of doing it. Damnation is a part of their portfolio; always has been. It’s no surprise there. The surprise is in the associated fall of all the dung beetles that live in the walls of the shit bricks; the fall of the stupid and the venal, the fall of the talking heads and the florid cheeked alcoholics that have swelled beyond any capacity for balance as they packed their pockets and their stomachs and their heads with all the variants of shit that glittered like pyrite through the special lens filters they used.

Shit is a major player in the game of ‘rock, paper, scissors’ when it is played by the boys in the back and the boys waiting in all the front rooms that lead by invitation and arcane ritual through smaller and smaller corridors to the boys in the back. Near the end of the line only the snakes make it through. The pigs and the hyenas and the jackals are all smeared into and sucked into the walls of shit that line the corridors to the last room in the back. As much as the waters of truth can leak through the walls and the levees of shit, the fire of truth can burn the shit; shit is very flammable. The harder the shit is pressed together the more heat the shit generates all by itself. Shit eventually burns without the need of truth. Evil eventually dies without the necessity of good. Eventually it just gets too tiresome and confining. Paper wraps shit. Scissors get glued by shit. Paper covers shit. Shit happens.

All across the world, shit builders in many lands have seen their shit rise too high. There is so much shit that the value of the shit has dropped to where it isn’t even worth shit. The energy required to move shit and shape shit is greater than the capacity to do it. Lethargy and torpor set in, entropy sets in. Humpty Dumpty raises his glass and sways on the precipice of shit.

The Shakespearean drama of the Odyssey of Shit is one of life’s grand epic tales. It is a tale told over and over in coprophagial voices between bites. It is one of the eternal tales of the human experiment. It operates all around us at all times. Sometimes it is in genesis and sometimes it is in midstream. Sometimes it is crowing and rampant in full blown glory like dump-fires and burning tires. This is such a time as that. For the drama to have the full stinking impact required it is necessary for all of the participants to press far beyond what might have ever been countenanced in earlier, more sane moments. It is necessary for them in riotous drunkenness to dance on the edge of the shit levees as triumphant as Gollum with The Ring. It is necessary for us, for us who must needs view the dance as warning and witness that, there but for fortune go you and I.

Long, long ago each soul made for itself a character and a face for this play upon the stage. Long ago we dreamed about our costumes and our lines. Long ago we made our bargain about what we would do, what we would have, what we would be. We did this knowing of the temporary nature of it. We decided if a lifetime of wallow was worth the price of the concluding scene.

Perhaps those who have wallowed made their choice to save the rest of us by example. Perhaps they are weird, sacrificial avatars who went down so that we might rise. We do owe them a debt of gratitude, even as we calculate the pain and the suffering of their words and actions. Maybe Ann Coulter and Condoleezza Rice are modern day Joan of Arc’s who will burn at the grand auto-da-fe of flaming shit on our behalf. Maybe Dick Cheney crackling like bacon on a shit-fired charcoal grill is the sacrifice of a noble soul for the salvation of the human race. Or maybe they are only shit-golems formed by the fascination of the mind upon a world of colorful shit that glimmers like the rainbows upon an oil slick… who am I to say?

Perhaps it is but a dream of every dreamer taken to the world of their pleasure and that pleasure serving for Heaven or Hell depending on the satisfaction gained and the possibilities of the satisfaction’s increase. For herein lies the value of every dream; whether that dream continues forever on wings of expanded rapture through illuminated rooms or whether it descends into ever darker regions of shit. I am not like some and they are not like me. I do not know the meaning of this, all I know is that I am tired of the shit.

Bushligula falls and with him falls his retinue and his lackeys and all the kingdom’s residents for whom the world of shit woven was an acceptable cloth.

Visible sings: 911 was an Inside Job by Les Visible♫ Bush Family History Lesson ♫
'Bush Family History Lesson' is track no. 5 of 10 on Visible's 2002 album
'911 was an Inside Job'


911 was an Inside Job by Les Visible



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The3rdElf
The 3rd Elf