Crucify Yourselves On Candy Canes Worthless Bloviators-Cum-Reps and -Sens

THE MISAPPROPRIATION OF LITTLE WHITE LIES CAN MAIM AND EVEN KILL~ Jonathan Swift

It is so complicated to obey instructions to live your life here: 

Nowhere.  

I mean, I really do try to take full instructions that demand, "You!  Fail To Exist Now!"  

Here in the Big Duh, otherwise known as "the international city" (more like the interim-national excuse for a place to be alive), big shot forces expect you to obey their chintzy, crappy, stupid, ideological, superficial, idiotic ideas of who you are, according to them, supposed to be.  

Those monkeys should follow this order: Crucify yourselves.  Do it like it was done before cuz it was kewl.  

Sick of them.  They're so goddamned dumb it bears repeating: Do it like it was done before cuz it was kewl.  

Of course, they're already the ones who not only usher up from the sticks, but they live on sticks too.  How they do that without injuring the body part they actually are eludes me.  

Rump political movements always seek to takeover a formerly responsible political party.  But there is nothing political about issuing edicts from high society.  That's only an end-around what is responsible, legal, honorable, and loyal to the very same "morality" they all broadcast as if it was golden.  

It is not moral to over-control people who have talent until they are desperate to leave the scene of the Big Duh crime bosses,.  

It is not moral to demand an independent individual to turn right at risk of life and limb.  

It is not moral to lord oneself over those who have the talent you do not have.  

It is not moral to interfere with someone else's creative processes.  

Their reaction? 

"We already know everything there is to know!" 

Right-e-oh.  Need a translation?  

"Our instincts are 'smorter' than the other half of being alive!"  Wait.  What is that other side? 

Knowing that one's instincts are animalistic, unreflective, often part of the Grand Illusion if anything--at least without some knowledge of the world around you.  But go on instinct like Bonobo Chimps they will.  There is no understanding how savages and troglodytes come to believe that superiority comes from accumulation.  

The other day, though I didn't read the actual New York Times commentary by David Brooks due to the "dictatorship of the unruly pay-wall", I did hear rumors of Brooks' silly attitude: Red state subjects are somehow smarter than blue state citizens.  

Laugh out loud moment?  Is that prohibited as well?  

Reject-O-Rama in process, snake oil salesmen.  

I'm not really about dumbfuck fools who need a combo platter of "documentation + high drama".  Those childish insects aren't worth my time.  Not that I won't speak to them.  Especially not if I'm intent upon wearing the very best clothing when I go out for a walk.  

Which I don't.  It's fun to have it all tossed at you like John The Baptist's head on a silver platter.  High hoes!  Silver!  

"Yew don' go r wayz yew dun git drown'd!"  

Screw that.  That's childish.  And no, the grand wizardry of "renaissance" and "sentinel" and "a return of enslaved idiocy" is not for real.  It's a little game the exhausted and nihilistic play as they loom inside their oversized bat caves where nothing but statuary may exist.  

So much false pride.  So much vanity.  So much arrogance.  So much hubris.  So much of that "the devil may care" attitude that--look!--those #winners are outdoing even Satan himself.  

Which might be a goal if one is maybe five years old.  

I live my life as I please.  I like turning left.  That's a 1,000 year old family tradition, perhaps one bred in the bone.  So what?  Kill us all because you cannot achieve the sublime without a luxury orgasm or ketamine?  

Show us your own Epstein files, Big Duh.  

I remember getting stone drunk with a couple of chicks I found at 8.0 bar one night while homeless.  Apparently, I was the cutest thing that ever walked the earth to two alkies.  I enjoyed the drinks they plied upon me.  Then, at the Capital Grill, in the Crescent, the girls both went dancing in a "change partners" kind of way.  

Epstein files for adults.  But maybe Epstein's angle was "so much better".  You know, like the time Melania told the world "be best!".  She was telling the human race to go screw off.  

When she wore that I Don't Care duster, tan and black, she was announcingL HEY!  I'M A LEADING LADY IN THE DC SWING SCENE.  

Flies on the wall indicate that it's apparently unbalanced and unfair for her not to rip that secrecy of hers into the light of day.  

Honestly, hippies in the Sixties were at least honest about the Great Big Secret, Profumo Scandals, Kennedy's dalliances with Hollywood whores, all the talk-talk-talk about getting a rise from the waist right there in the old Big Duh relic, the Stoneleigh P.  

Odd.  when I keyed in "Stoneleigh", the online suggestion presented me an alternative: 

Stonehenge.  

Oh yeah.  Let's look at the sunset through a triad of heavy rock.  Try Kenny G on acid with a flanger on his sax.  Sexy time.  While noshing on Russian sturgeon eggs.  And quail, rich food, famous in El Salvador and Nicaragua.  

Whoa, buddy!  Big time.  Impressive, eh?  And we "groundlings" know exactly what some of those goops want: They think a neo-Nazi superstate would be just bingo-dingo.  They seem to think the history of WW II was one of razor-sharp efficiency.  They don't seem to even know that the Wehrmacht was typically so methed-up that soldiers sometimes marched 20+ miles a day; some collapsed and died--all for sturgeon eaters and steak bars.  

Mostly, those goobers don't seem to get it that the German government, based on corruption, which often leads to right-wing military governments, Germany's being with the add-on of bigotry, racism, and "oh so special".  

Got crushed by both the Red Army at Stalingrad, and later, at D-Day, and earlier, in Italy, earlier yet in North Africa, when Montgomery stopped Rommel cold at El Alamein.  Stopped dead in a tank trap.  Later, Patton developed offensive armor techniques taken straight from Hannibal and Scipo.  Nazis never knew what hit them.  

Meanwhile, in Berlin, it was a Keystone Cops situation: all the underlings groping for favor from a speed-inebriated shickelgruber (shit-eater), carpet-chewer, incestuous pederast who had his own niece killed after he got tired of screwing her--all so she wouldn't tell.  What about those Epstein files?  

Remember the two drunk girls in the Quadrangle?  Stepping out with big-booted bozos.  Some about as graceful as two-legged goat men.  I chose not to dance with the fairy folk.  

Ha!  I should of flown a sign: DANCE WITH A TRAMP, INC.  Funny when leadheaded drunks want to make it with a bum, eh? 

Texas is all death all the time.  Forget about "Remember the Alamo".  Think of the old Alamo Hotel on Singleton, just past the Lew Sterritt Justice Center.  Some running buddies went there.  It had a bad reputation.  Muggings, Break-ins.  Male and female rapists.  Horrific.  Others took to the Cole Manor--up Harry Hines, long the working girl and working man drag show of whores.  Running buddies, apparently too ignorant to work, laughingly called the place The Coal Miner--for the butt saloons and hopeful cups of the male variety.  What about them Rangers?  

Most artists and literary journeymen abandon the Big Duh because--oh, look, the "big plans" are top secret, and no one wants a real poet to know what's going on behind that dumb-as-dirt "secret code".  Unsophisticated women in concho belts and Santa Fe skirts and peasant dresses--so stylish as they supervised local art galleries, unbeknownst to them that, indeed, most were merely tolerated, all of them girlfriends of Jethro Bodine.  

Our supervisors.  For what?  The bomb factory in Garland?  High military secrets everyone already knew about?  Welcome to the land of the STEM-dependent.  The STEM?  In the lap.  Rise and Fall of the Third Reich.  

I think that some of those reactionary weirdos, if confronted by either a Mod of 1962 Britain or one of the Mod's rivals and sometimes allies, the Teddy Boys; if in a closed cage boxing match, Texas' "Captains of Industry" would fall to the dirt like a "raging bull" fooled by a matador with a bright velvet cape in the ring in Hemingway's Spain.  Lure bull, wave bright red "commie flag", bull snorts, gets mad, charges, and then the silver sword sweeps through the satiny red carpet, and then everyone goes to Denny's to eat skirt steak.  

I hear Jesus is waiting for them at the corner booth.  They'll all order Grand Slams, and yup, even the Martians would approve from the insides of their ever-silver space suits.  Biz.  Bidness.  Das Kapital of the Inner Ring of silver.  

Hilarious.  They already know all, just like Carnac The Magnificent--hold the sealed letter to the forehead, pause ponderously, and bingo!  The answer is always one big joke.  Viva Las Vegas, three-piece suited Elvi.  

EE-Yoh....

So seriously.  

It's easy to see that them-thar cowboys and cattle-call ladies are intent upon keeping "them intylectuals" outta their town.  Why not Buffalo Bob from Captain Kangaroo?  Isn't he smarter than, say, Kierkegaard or Nietzche?  

Daddy used to tell me about two mythological characters; one he made up out of whole cloth.  Trying to help me remain unintimidated, he invented "Gordie The Irishman".  Strong.  Big-armed.  Superior in every way.  As a four-year-old, Daddy'd have me jumping up and down in the bed because, yes, he was attentive to how I felt.  Or how about the Little Dutch Boy?  Had his finger in the dike.  Saved the Netherlands, according to legend.  Then the Trinity River levee breaks and downtown's under water, even though there's a nifty park down in the flood plane somewhere. . . . .

Or the Margaret Hunt Hill Bridge.  Lovely.  Calatrava.  Graceful, but unworkable.  For years, the City of Dallas prohibited auto traffic across the expensive embellishment of what remains today as a vast ditch full of weeds, varmints, and maybe some of the folks who knew my running buddies when I was at rock bottom.  

Fantastic tale: Hippie, one of my homelessness running buddies, shared a story about two homeless drunks who stole an old car, drove it down the levee to hide in the bushes and then drink, drink, drink.  Everclear.  Hot liquid.  

The drunks passed out in the bottoms.  Then came the flood.  When the two awakened, both were dead.  

Yep.  Homeless jokes would shock the lively out of the old biddies.  

"Yeah, wanna fight?  Let's fight in an open grave, and then steal your body!" 

Nowadays, Fair Park is under siege.  Apparently, some folks from a little village that isn't even paying City of Dallas taxes wants total control of the wonderful, 1936 Art Deco park.  Why?  

It's got a plaza.  Even some guys with resumes.  

Wanna stone lay?  You know where to go.  Wanna remember the Alamo?  Hit Oak Lawn.  While the Village Station is no longer there, there is a techno bar even straights like to know as a danceable spot.  The hot ladies go there under the assumption all the men are gay.  That's why some straights go there: 

Change my life!  Who needs conversion therapy? 

I remember once that I met a true Dallas intellectual.  Her house?  About a block away from an old Mexican restaurant, Chicos, in a literal urban desert not frequented even by artists--no studio warehouses available.  A man at the Prego Pasta House invited my mother, myself, and my stepfather there to have a sort of Independence Day afternoon soiree.  

You see an ugly, wood-paneled house, walk in, and yup yup yup, you're stunned by two floor to ceiling walls of books.  Subject?  World War II, World War I, and much much more.  I was shy.  Being just out of homelessness a couple of years, I felt like the outcast all the movers and shakers have longed for me to become.  But my family and the owner of all the books sat at a fairly unimpressive dining room table, and you know what?  

We talked American history.  

Outrageous!  Who knew a person of knowledge lived in a "hidey hole" in an urban wasteland a punt, a pass, and a kick from Love Field?  

This side of my time at the Dallas Public Library's excellent Humanities Division, where I learned how to research, and in part, how to select the best poetry to take home and read, a place where some awfully powerful figures in the intellectual world did all kinds of work for all kinds of interests, that woman's party inspired me.  I could, I believe; I could become the person of my choice.  

Always weird when one defies the "best laid plans".  While I did study military history--Clauswitz, Mao, Che, and Giap.  How'd the Afghan guerrilla's hold down US troops for years?  

Ask Crazy Horse.  He knew.  He invented guerrilla warfare--at least the North American version.  Other harbingers of guerrilla war?  Think the Gauls.  Those nasty bog-dwellers were the very first to practically destroy Rome.  And they did it by using reeds with which to breathe, jump out of bogs, and scare the bejesus out of conventional warriors who liked shiny silver baubles.  My father?  A Gaul.  My mother?  A Norman.  I guess it takes secrecy and calumny to put down a good family. . . 

So yeah.  Someone wants me to "go West"--as in Die Now.  Who knows why?  Do I not represent lapdog poets who practice the American version of Victorianism way off in the 21st Century?  Effete?  Think of some of the Metaphysical Poets of old England.  Some were crusty curmudgeons, mannerless, but ultimately far more creative than some motivational speaker who thinks dope is sacred.  

Think of it, overweight fat cats dining on the very best as thousands of "groundlings" go out and kill for them.  All on the barroom TV set.  

Spectator University?  That's where "Where's Waldo" lives.  It can be found on any map.  

Over the years, I learned a few suspicious things about arcane subjects.  Some find the supposed afterlife part of a normal existence.  The remainders?  They have to jack it all up somehow.  As vehicles, they've gotta find a way to "shock the monkey".  

As a young teenager, deeply interested in MLK and the Civil Rights Movement, I puzzled over the name of a fantastic and new British band, Pink Floyd.  Later, as an adult, I curiously learned from an old, original Dallas family, that slaves who got whipped hard were called "rawlings" because they'd be flayed until pink--like a rare steak.  Hence, well, could it be Pink Floyd is a sort of Cockney slang for getting "Floyed Pink"?  

Top secrets.  Like the city's last Confederate holdout on Abbot, borderline into Highland Park.  Every morning the old lady would strut outside the house and raise the Confederate battle flag up a long silver flagpole.  

Now, when I look at the borderline of my complex, what do I see?  The ragged old rag called the Texas flag blew away, leaving what I'm calling a stripper pole.  Look at the thing when it's naked as a jaybird on crack?  Oh yeah.  Mister Kool Aid says so.  

Finally, this is not to say the Big Duh hasn't assimilated millions of good people.  As long as they crouch, the superficial reading clubs won't try to gnaw on most of us--at least as long as we remain "disappeared".  

Open aperture, drink falsely.