Mortaljive: The Rest is Silence

There is no still point in all the Universe, and that is the rock upon which I stand

Thursday, October 27, 2005

Karl Rove In New Gilbert & Sullivan Opera

The Pissants of Pennsylvania Avenue.

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Aunt Clara Withdraws Supreme Court Bid

Read all about it at Correntewire.

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Monday, October 17, 2005

Judy Miller to Star in New Avenger Series?

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New York (AP) Noted New York Times journalist and sometime note-taker Judy Miller has agreed to write, star, direct and produce a new version of the beloved British import "The Avengers" anonymous sources who are still talking to Miller have reported. One source, who asked to be doused with gasoline and lit on fire if Miller came within "200 paces" of him, said the recently much-maligned sack-of-shit game-playing war-shilling, duplicitious Dick Cheney-fellating, butt-plugging Lady Macbeth with-blood-all-over-her-hands-bitch she-hole has a "deal in faith" with an un-named Network. "She's very excited about this career change," said the ghost of a dead Iraqi child who appeared floating briefly above the sidewalk in front of the New York Times building. "She has left her mark on so many lives, it is time for her to move on," continued the ectoplasmic vapors of what was once a living and breathing little girl who had been reassured her destruction was an inescapable part of "messy" war. A second ghost, that of an American GI who died fighting The War Based Upon Lies and Profiteering, nodded his head and vanished into thin air.

After contacting the "un-named" Network it was established that Ms. Miller was not, in fact, "engaged in any discussions or development deals" with a production company, much less an actual Network. There have been rumors of her being hired as a spokesperson for a Texas-based septic tank company, but those rumors have not been confirmed. Additional reportings of Miller walking around Rockefeller Plaza while screaming "What do I have to do to get arrested in this town?" have been met with many citizens of the Big People offering ideas of how she could not only be arrested again but also how to stuff her in a mason jar and stick her on a prairie fence next to bullet-riddled tin cans. Who would have thought so many New Yorkers would be so Prairie Conscious?

Who indeed!

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Image from here.

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Sunday, October 16, 2005

Bill & Judy Show

Check out this unauthorized transcript of a conversation between Bill Keller and Judy Miller over at Correntewire.

I'll be glad you did.

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Tuesday, October 11, 2005

JIVESTER ON A CORRENTEWIRE

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I will be posting more often at Correntewire than here in my Golden Room of Blather. There are a number of engaging and stimulating writers over at Correntewire, and the site has many features to utilize (I may learn how to use them myself someday).

What will show up here at Mortaljive? I don't know. Maybe Buddha on a bike, or Zeus with a chainsaw. As a jivester I dance where others walk, bark where others moo, and spin where others kneel. I am still learning how to be a human being: how to be this one particular human being that eats and sleeps and laughs and aches and smiles and is pissed off and amused and horny and hungry and tired. I have old demons (non-union) that retreat only to reappear, fresh doubts and all-you-can-eat angst, but I am no different than every other critter whose whiskers twitch as the hunter-owl flies above. The days of mercury poisoning, deforrestation, blinkered spirituality, hurricane parades, melting ice caps and rising salty waters are upon us, even as the Corporate Suits stuff their mouths with all the gold they can eat: this is the truth. To itemize the bad news of a world in peril is a style I am ill-suited for: not wonky enough, I suppose. I come in North by Northwest, and for me to ride the winds otherwise would be folly.

That the world will end someday is inevitable: that this inevitability is being sped up by ghastly, cretinous liars and thieves is galling, and I shall oppose these earth devouring hogs with all my sinews and marrow and battery acids. So what do I do? I take prose against a sea of assholes, and by pretending, end them. La, la...

How our Earthly Dramas will play out is a mystery--will this Republic of the United States stand down the Corporate Beast, who, like Yahweh in his wrath at Job could not feel what it is to be a Human Being (Jung thought that this strange chapter in the ongoing construction of the Middle Eastern God precipitated the coming of the Christ, because until God became Man He could not feel compassion or empathy and was therefore morally inferior to Job, who was hardwired to feel so much--things the old Gods never had to feel. This old God had to be born again, but on earth, not in Heaven.). The Corporate Beast is the perfect wall to die by degrees behind; it uses Religion as stucco patch to hold firm the ever crumbling edifice. God is dead in America: they kill it everyday, hallelujah. Tat tvam asi.

However, vestigial Volcanic Deities, pollution, thieves, killers, profiteers and liars shall not go easily, but go they will, like everything else before and everything that has yet to be. Imagine the tears of a god facing dissolution! No fair, cries the god! No fair!

So, I ramble on. See you around.

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Monday, October 10, 2005

14th CENTURY BLUES

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Best you run for cover
Best you run and hide
Jesus is a coming
He'll bring His Genocide
They locked the doors to the castle
They melted down the key
They made themselves a broadsword
And sliced up liberty

Down in the dungeon
They pay God's dues
Down in the dungeon
14th century blues

Here comes the Holy Man
Who says God is love
Here comes the Holy Man
He wants your son
Doesn't everyone?
Medieval fun, son
They all want some
Your boy best run

Down in the dungeon
They pay God's dues
Down in the dungeon
14th century blues

God is a coming down
To meet and greet us
God don't like it
When you play with your penis
What is this, Venus?
I don't think so
God made your body
Fashioned from the mud
God has a dirty mind
And he washes it with blood
Your blood, son
Your blood

Down in the dungeon
They pay God's dues
Down in the dungeon
14th century blues

Best you run for cover
Best you run and hide
Jesus is a coming
He'll bring His Genocide
They locked the doors to the castle
They melted down the key
They made themselves a broadsword
And sliced up liberty

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The image above is of what has been said to have been a ritual slaying of a middle eastern deity around 2,000 years ago. So long and thanks for all the fish! Warning: the link is very nearly a non-sequiter. Probably is, really.

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I think these lyrics (ahem, 14th Century Blues) first appeared as my response to a posting at Jesus' General. Seems logical to me.

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Fundies have been quiet today. Too quiet.

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Friday, October 07, 2005

CORPORATE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES' SECRET HANDSHAKE REVEALED!

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The Official Corporate House of Representatives' Secret Handshake (see above) is often performed while one or both participating members sing "You Make Me Feel So Young":

You make me feel so young
You make me feel like spring has sprung
Every time I see you grin
I’m such a happy individual

The moment that you speak
I want to go and play hide-and-seek
I want to go and bounce the moon
Just like a toy balloon

You and I, are just like a couple of tots
Running across the meadow
Picking up lots of forget-me-nots

You make me feel so young
You make me feel there are songs to be sung
Bells to be rung, and a wonderful fling to be flung

And even when I’m old and gray
I’m gonna feel the way I do today
’cause you make me feel so young



Writer(s): Myrow/Gordon

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Image from here.

People who enjoy sausage and/or how bills are passed in Congress should put hot coals up the House of Representatives' collective ass and see if either comes out.

No, I'm not bitter, I'm zesty!

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Update: Shame, shame, shame...Damn these assholes past the provinces of god.

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Wednesday, October 05, 2005

CAN PAUL AND FRANK COME OUT TO PLAY? or MY NUTS HURT!

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I remember back when the world was young, when a graying lad such as myself might blissfully be scanning about the Internets for something to read, and then presto!: finding myself scrolling down the Most E-mailed page of the NY Times and soon be grazing over the occasionally tasty morsel of evil liberal thought. What egalitarian days they were!

Alas, the recent introduction of a Earl Scheib-esque price tag of $49.95 to read their columnists precludes me from dropping by the Times to look at Real Estate ads touting the former Dutch outpost, so I stay away. Krugman, I miss you man, and I prefer you in the written to the oral, but so be it...Mommy and Daddy won't let you come out and play with us street brats anymore. You and Frank Rich were a great battery, but the rest of your weak-hitting, no-field staff left much to be desired. Brooks' head has been cresting forward for a few years now as he seeks to replace his feet with his mouth, Tierny is only writer-esque, MoDo is fun when she pays attention to the sauce but remains fiercely arbitrary. I find Hebert has both a heart and a head and yet is still boring. Oh, well. Not everyone is for everyone. Yet I digress...

Without the major league pundits available for free, the rankings of "Most Read" NY Times stories are rather like college football rankings without USC, Texas, Virginia Tech, Florida State and Georgia (currently the top five in the AP rankings). Also no Alabama, Notre Dame, Ohio State...you get the idea. Without the heavyweights, the leading, most-e-mailed NY Times story today was about bicycle-seat-caused erectile dysfuntion Serious Riders, Your Bicycle Seat May Affect Your Love Life, followed by an article about Harriet Miers' evangelical conversion coinciding with her joining the Republican Party, a movie review of Nick Park's latest Wallace & Gromit offering (I'm a fan), and then MoDo makes a dent at #4--like a tony whale breaching through a glass ceiling, she made her mark as the Pay For Play Star of the Day (Thomas Friedman drones on about something in the #16 position--no other first tier columnist is listed). It's as though the Times is its own parallel universe: I can't help but feel that the mood at the Gray Lady is disjointed, for where is the heart of the paper if it has been told to leave the soul alone. Odd stuff.

It's a long season, but not that long, and neighborhoods change. Our last game of stickball could be today, tomorrow, who knows? I hope Paul and Frank can come out and play again some day without pissing off Mom and Dad. We'll see. In the meantime, be careful riding your bike: if the pricks in SUVs don't get you, your stressed out scrotum might.

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PRESIDENT BUSH PAYS SCOTTIE A SURPRISE VISIT

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(AP) During a morning briefing with White House beat reporters, Scott McClellan was literally shoved aside by an invigorated and breathless President Bush who grabbed the microphone and said "Hello, Mikey" then looked up and glared at reporters, asking "Who are you?" Following behind him in a tattered skirt and holding a half-filled fluted champagne glass, Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice stumbled, righted herself, then sat down on the floor and released a series of finely carbonated belches. Noticing the heel of her shoe was broken, Condi placed the stem in her mouth and tried to smoke it.

President Bush responded by breaking into an impromptu rendition of "Gumby" with his own lyrics: "She can walk into any ditch with her phony pal Peekachu, if you have a heart than Condi will rip it out of you!" Steadying himself at the podium, President Bush took off his pointy party hat, straightened his tie and appeared momentarily to be organizing his Press Secretary's notes. After a brief pause to sniff his fingers, the 43rd President of the United States began tossing each piece of note paper in the air while proclaiming "Bullshit, bullshit--oh, this one is charcoal-filtered bullshit" until he was escorted away by Secret Service, who, to their credit, did not release so much as one guffaw.

In a statement released shortly after these events, the White House has announced that yet another bartender has been given a "...really, really big medal," and has assured the nation that Condi "has a stinky man-hole."

Harriet Miers, who played Alice on the Brady Bunch, just shrugged the whole thing off and continued folding laundry.

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Image from here.

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Monday, October 03, 2005

INDICTABLE BOY

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Well, he went down to Houston in his Sunday best
Indictable boy, they all said
And he rubbed Corporate Money all over his chest
Indictable boy, they all said
Well, he’s just an indictable boy

He took in donations, put him in a quandry
Indictable boy, they all said
He stood there buck naked doing a lot of laundry
Indictable boy, they all said
Well, he’s just an indictable boy

He took Roy Blunt out for a little trip
Indictable boy, they all said
And he taught him how to crack a majority whip
Indictable boy, they all said
Well, he’s just an indictable boy

After ten long years they let him back in the House
Indictable boy, they all said
He lit a bug bomb and then ran like a mouse
Indictable boy, they all said
Well, he’s just an indictable boy

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THANK YOU WARREN ZEVON

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Sunday, October 02, 2005

THE BAD MAGICIAN SAVES WHAT HE CAN

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The Bad Magician forgets where he puts things. He even forgets the things themselves. A memory comes in anyway.

A package of waves arrive from an old beach: The Bad Magician remembered the way the drowned man was carried ashore, gray and blue was his skin, his body bent, hard like stone, a woman screaming in the sand. A crowd gathered and the man perfected dying: a back broken, a lung submerged in salt water, the horrible shock when clear sky and warm air painted borders describing the defeat of our blood, our ways. The Bad Magician remembers: He turns the memory into the President's flesh, which jerks against his will. The surf floods in, and we ride the curl.

In the East: Coffee is served on the President's face in the Amputee Wing of the White House. Iraqi children, stubbornly dead and hollow, bring him toast and beer, dragging their feet in wagons behind them. The President presses a button on his neck and fills his throat with sand. 'I must get out of me,' thinks the President. He looks at the ceiling: the Pacific Ocean surges in convex waves, cascading upwards, then down. The President turns to me. I cannot help him now.

"I am the President!" says the President. His eyes twitch, watering, weeping portals on the sea. A wave knocks him down. Laura smiles from the beach. Where is the father? The father is gone.

America carries the broken President onto the shore and lowers him onto his towel, a confederate rag of Old Alliances. Lifeguard Karl dissipates into thin air, a Tempest vapor. Norquist looks up from his bathtub and cries. Cheney falls out of the medicine chest: he cashes checks and eats a doctor. "I am the President," repeats the President. A crowd surrounds him, winks at him, "You're doing a heck of a job there, Bushie."

What happened to the man on the beach? Sometimes, we curl up like dead things, and rocks become our home.

The Bad Magician calls the Coroner and sends him to America. "Check out the Lincoln Memorial," says The Bad Magician.

The rest is silence.

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Saturday, October 01, 2005

The Dark Side of Faith

From the Los Angeles Times, Saturday, October 1st, 2005, Rosa Brooks writes regarding a study performed by evolutionary scientist Gregory S. Paul:

He found that the most religious democracies exhibited substantially higher degrees of social dysfunction than societies with larger percentages of atheists and agnostics. Of the nations studied, the U.S. — which has by far the largest percentage of people who take the Bible literally and express absolute belief in God (and the lowest percentage of atheists and agnostics) — also has by far the highest levels of homicide, abortion, teen pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases.

Read the article. They who truly believe know not what they do.

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