Global War and Hunger Porn on the way to Fat City

Dog Poet Transmitting.......

May your noses always be filled with joyful smells.

You vicious, heartless, selfish, feckless fools. You, who have voluntarily surrendered your humanity to an organized gang of satanic psychopaths. Was it for gain? Was it the bad end of a compromise gone wrong? Was it out of fear, after having come into a position, of losing the position and then you assume the position? Were you up for it anyway, you who bring the unwilling world to the doorstep of global war? You who are arranging the tableau, like a dinner table for the damned, ferrying ships bound for salvage, to be evidence in yet another false flag, waving blood red above the burning bodies of the duped and deluded who went into combat for bankers. The pens move and the weapons fire. Iran has done nothing to you. Their restraint has been admirable. In the mountains, ordinary human beings are skiing. They are walking through the pistachio orchards. They are dreaming their individual dreams, within the parameters of the collective dream. They are people like you and I. They have children, families and friends. They are not making war. We are.

The most powerful agency for calculated death and destruction is the fundamentalist, Christian right. Their sanctimonious, demagogic preachers, whip them into a lather of self righteous hate, manipulated and inspired by the very ones who committed the crimes that others are blamed for. These millions of deceived lemmings, march off the metaphorical cliffs of their own ignorance; titanic edifices of tamasic stone. They kneel before their crucified God and then proceed to crucify entire nations for the crime of being different. They are the ones who make it all possible, who cannot comprehend the meaning of the words they read from the book they claim to be infallible. Like rats in a maze, searching for the cheese, which bears no resemblance to the genuine article. There is no maze. These are the same people who would crucify the man again if he showed up today. These are the people from Big Hair Country. They came here to be led astray, while being informed that they should not be led astray. They came here to be selfish and indifferent, while reading about charity and good works. The only time they are inspired to do the right thing is when they can be observed, or champing at the bit to tell everyone about it.

Their missionaries go off to Africa, where they paint sugar water under the eyes of starving children, so that the flies will land there during the photo op. They are the merchants of Hunger Porn. They get hard looking at the centerfold. They dream of and wish for disasters so that they might weep crocodile tears. They're soap actors under the camera eyes of their cartoon associates. They're good decent people, just ask them. They are dumber than a retarded rock and proud, boy are they proud of themselves. Tell them the truth and watch their eyes catch on fire. Scratch the thin veneer of facsimile smiles and watch them bear their teeth, uh huh, Jesus is just alright with me.

Jesus is like a bad relative that you have to lock in the basement when company comes over. You can't let the real Jesus into the living room. It's a given that he will piss in the punchbowl, or you might be bobbing for road apples. It's a given that he would kick everybody's ass for twisting the timeless beauty of the awakened heart, into an ugly nightmare for anyone who isn't dressed up to celebrate the fruits of a poisoned mind. No, you'd have to lock him up, the same way you've locked him out. It wouldn't take long for what you say he says and what he actually says to develop into a free for all, where everyone runs around punching themselves in the face and taking a grim satisfaction at having gotten some good licks in; never, ever catching on to whose ass is being kicked and by whom.

There's nothing quite like the righteous fundie. There's no limit to the possibilities of disassociated and dissonant cogitation. There he stands on the doorstep, pointing toward the highway for the young girl with the child in her arms. There he stands, expounding on the welfare families and needy people who ought to go out and get a job like the one he has. It's obvious they are in that situation because they don't love Jesus. They love Jesus though and Jesus loves them, even if he does have to sleep in the basement or out in the garage.

In about six weeks we come to Dead Man's Curve, on the thruway of time and circumstance. Seemingly intelligent people have rationalized it as necessity. They have no choice, do they? Iran is all that remains of The Middle East in any independent way. They destroyed Libya and one of the modern wonders of the age, along with the most solidly constructed 'people first' system in the area. They bombed Afghanistan back into the stone age, which was no great distance to traverse. They beat the living shit out of Iraq and then, ah what the hell, they poisoned all of the unborn generations as well.

Look at it from their point of view, after having destroyed the domestic economies and looting everything in reach, there really is no alternative besides a world war. It's the one thing that will take people's attention off of their other crimes. They did it all. They're no slouch when it comes to 24 hour criminal focus. They're so bent they can roll from place to place. They sat around with their glasses of scotch and they tossed around the big ideas. Then they drafted the blueprints. Then they signed off on the construction and there it sits, stinking to high heaven. They went from PNAC to 9/11. Then they went to war but not before they went into official mourning, so as to jack up the outrage, like a monster truck. How did these special people get into the position where they could do all of these things? They are part and parcel of a particularly heinous symbiosis. One faction prints the money. The other faction receives it. If you don't go along with the program, you don't get any money. It's as simple as that and it's as serious as a heart attack.

They got sky box seats at the dream coliseum. What they see is what they see, from the position they are in. The perspective is what it is and it's colored by invisible gases that tailor the perceptions to end game result. The hired help moves around them, giving them the certain assurance that all is right with the world and that they are central to whatever is taking place. There's a special kind of thrill in sending other men off to die and to kill all sorts of people just cause they told them to. You and I are denied this form of rare delight. Oh, it could have been ours had we not gotten sidetracked by something.

At the end of any particular age, where technology has outpaced morality, you always get the religious wars. You get that caveman mentality taking place in a Star Trek environment. You get the disconnected video game effect, of bodies smoking and burning on a screen somewhere. You get nuclear technicians who don't anticipate pipes freezing in the winter, during a meltdown. You get millions of people with headphones on, isolating their contact from their fellows. You get riots in department stores, during seasonal periods celebrating the joy of giving. You get the tiniest religion in the world, dictating to one of the largest religions in the world about what you can call your religious holidays and what you can and cannot celebrate, while they promote theirs without a second thought and then laugh at you in the bargain. They have been the motive force behind every conflict in recent memory and somehow that's okay because of all the retarded rocks and Jesus in the basement.

It's predictable. It's pro forma. It's a definite guarantee that very soon, very bad shit is going to be very, very apparent. In the meanwhile, approaching weeks, days and minutes, our gifted craftsmen are setting the stage, placing all of the pieces and strategizing all of the strategies, into a fail proof, fool proof, fait accompli with no damage to themselves. They've crunched the numbers and locked 'what if' in the basement with Jesus. However, history and certainly recent history, has shown us that all the planning in the world, doesn't mean anything when the people doing the planning aren't right in the head. This is one of the classic realities that accommodates evil in its unwitting suicide.

Thomas Cole, is a painter from the Hudson River School. He did a four part set of paintings called, “The Voyage of Life”. Great art is one of the chief defenders of faith in times of darkness. It reminds us of the dignity, beauty and possibilities of the inspired soul. It reminds us that things pass through us. They don't originate with us. Great art is proof of an invisible presence. Great art moves us and changes us by our exposure to it. It especially reminds us of what we have been and what we can be. It is a testimony to the struggles and triumphs of the human spirit, while surrounded by the wreckage of temporary defeats.


End Transmission.......

Sunday's radio show is now available for download and so are a couple of others you might have missed for not having been made accessible at the radio blog. Just scroll down to the bottom and check the dates. I'll get that together in the course of my inconsistency.

To Choodle into the Armageddon Sunset.

Dog Poet Transmitting.......

May your noses always be cold and wet.

As they crank up the inevitable engines of war in search of deeper darkness, the brainwashing continues apace; not that it's all that hard to wash a fundie's brain, since that system already functions like sending a tank top to the dry cleaners.

The flavor of the month is about to change, well, it did change, sort of, last week or so. Anyway, what Red Adelson wants, Red Adelson gets, until he changes his mind. We've got revolving front runners, kind of like if a bunch of meth-infused 6th graders started to go nuts on a merry go round; or would that be Ritalin deprived? I don't quite get how Romney's wife makes 6.2 million off of around ten million- except for the “possibly much more” comment, when Uncle Mitt only makes 3 million off of 37 million at Goldman's Nut Sacks.

So the deal is, keep flipping the front runners so that the Obama Bo Bama Banana Dana, Murder and Poverty Express can “keep on choodlin” into the Armageddon Sunset. He'll be accompanied by disclaimers which state he doesn't support Israel, which should keep his support relatively high among those who believe the crap on the surface, when even the surface says that is a lie. Anyway, any fool knows there isn't going to be any election. Then again, there hasn't been an election in a long, long time.

Some people get upset about senior citizens eating cat and dog food. I guess they haven't seen all the creative things that Haitian families can do with mud. Given that some houses are made of adobe, you could almost make an argument for Haitians living in gingerbread houses; metaphorically speaking. Meanwhile, hundreds of millions in Clinton-Bushligula and other unsavory financial holding tanks of interest gathering donations, bobbing like Mylar balloons over the bed of a terminal cancer patient, endlessly circle the starved and blasted landscape below. Exactly why do these funds from so many sources still remain unavailable after so many years? Why did all that money that went to rebuild Iraq either disappear or remain locked up in Rothschild war profiteering battle field banks? Gee, you have to ask?

Well, it's fairly obvious that we need a row of inhabited lampposts, in a modern day flashback to Spartacus and the boys, along the golden roads to Rome redux; blow me once, shame on me. Oh well. “We who are about to die salute you”. That should be, “We who intend to live refute you” but the script girl spent the previous night in a hot-tub, jacked down on Quaaludes. The speed of stupidity equals ignorance squared by inert mass to the tenth power.

Onward we trudge through the mud and the blood and the bullshit and high waders aren't the solution. A kayak might work but then there's all those things that live below the mire line. The good and bad news is that anything will burn if the fire is hot enough. Can I get witless? Darling, you are.

Word has it that they are erecting a statue in the West Village, of Harris Milstead snacking on poodle shit. That's what the American wet dream is all about. When your mind is a Petri dish, this is the kind of thing modern art aficionados lose their lunch over. Harris will probably be snacking on that too, if it happens and the whole thing will be art; managed and ministered by the usual suspects who handle art the way they handle dead gerbils in the aftermath and possibly in the afterlife as well. I suspect in that latter case the gerbils are no longer dead and have been reverse Bonzaied.

Johnny can't read anymore but he can definitely jerk off. Contrary to folk wisdom it does not make hair grow on the palms of your hand. It does make it grow backwards inside your head though, until a trap door spider takes up residence, giving a whole new meaning to, “feed your head”. Of course, if this was just a movie it would probably be funny but it's real life. Real life calls for real solutions, like creating a nationwide energy retrieval system from wiring the bouncing legs of all those teenage girls text messaging the universe. No wonder the aliens never land. Would you come here if you had a flying saucer? I didn't think so.

There's going to be so much food for the moon soon that the moon is going to turn pink from Pepto Bismol overdosing. It's just like what happens if you drink a couple of quarts of carrot juice every day. The people who can afford that deserve to turn orange. Then they can move to Denver and become celebrities. Yes, shit for brains is finally home on the range, where the deer and the antelope are going to be on barbecue standby for that big refrigerator grill, replicating all across the wide prairie; abandoned urban lots, woodland clearings, road side pullovers and under the over passes. Dead in the flood drains is the new under over.

Meanwhile, Porky Pig's extended family is running the show. Of course, Porky's been supplementing his daily crack allowance with oxycodone and he's got one rabid silver back gorilla of a habit on his bacon location. This has, quite 'frankly' made him less sensitive and sympathetic to the needs of others. I guess you can say that goes for the whole extended family of porcine, reptilian hybrids, tending the massive flocks of “Idiocracy” rejects. The mental health graph of public well being now only goes from neurotic to batshit crazy, with 'insane' being the median. There's a drive by pharmacy in your future, coming to the corner block of your street, real soon. Well, there would be if you had a future.

Of course, it's not all bad and worse. There is some good and better. It's hiding in foothills and abandoned mountain ranges, in places where the minerals have already been sucked dry. It's deep in jungles and on islands with no beaches and there are islands of consciousness too, connected by invisible webs of resonance that span the globe and vibrate into the hearts and minds of those who might well have read a book in the last year or two. It's out there and in there but not necessarily in the first place you show up, to see if it matches up, with whatever demonstrations you put into place to get it to reveal intrinsic nature.

No and yes, there are good things seeking to be born into a world, where the children of what has yet to make an appearance, will dance on the mountaintops for joy in a new morning of rebooted time, where innocence is celebrated and broken hearts are made whole by the adhesive of a resurgent love but... later for that. Right now we must, perforce, look into the gaping maw of demagogues and deviants who have ridden the high speed trains of collective, insensate puerility and rampaging appetite to doomsday's break. We are on the plains of apocalyptic resolution, where countless legions of Teletubbies march into the teeth of the cosmic, thresher combine. You won't have to ask again why the sky is blue. Barney the Dinosaur is waving that construction flag into the single lane bypass. Ronald McDonald is at the other end. You got to go slow during this unfortunate bottleneck but there's a sense that, somehow, this indicates one last opportunity to simply stop the car, get out and pick your way over the plastic barriers and then through the rebar forest until you can climb the kudzu hill and make it into the woods, if the snipers don't get you first.

I always thought when we got to Brave New World, there would at least be a ready source of Soma but I suspect that's par for the course. Brave New World without Soma is a ripoff, to say the least. I guess you all know that Aldous Huxley got shot up with LSD on his death bed and allegedly said, “Now I see”? Of course, the same got attributed to Sam Kinnison as well, when those drunken idiots in a pickup truck crashed into him and then got out and started moaning about the damage to their truck. Actually, what Sam said was, "I don't want to die.  I don't want to die." then he said "But why?  'Okay, okay, okay." then again, Sam wasn't wearing a seat belt. Nietzsche also was reputed to have said something to the effect of, “Now I see”. I'm guessing there are many other examples and variants. What do you think you will say, given the importance of the moment?

Hmmmm... well, we have indeed come to the end of another transmission and I'll see you at the next one if there is one. Meanwhile, keep in mind that things are not what they appear, nor are they generally what you hear. Everything happens for a reason, even if you don't know what that reason is.

End Transmission.......

There will be a radio show Sunday night at 7:30 Central. See the masthead of this blog for location.