Mortaljive: The Rest is Silence

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

Monday, February 27, 2006

Random Act of Catness Blogging Part I



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Democratic Talking Point Oracle Appears as Vaginal Schematic


Democratic Talking Point Oracle #2

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I spent the past weekend helping out with a local Pet Adoption clinic (an absolute success, by any standard) when, shagged out from striking the tents and tables, I was approached by an apparition in the form of a Schematic Drawing of a Vagina (SDV). The SDV wavered slightly in the breeze, then bid me follow her (presumably "her") to a nearly empty Coffee House closer to the Los Angeles River. It was there, while I drank some Bolivian Fair Trade Dark Roast and she toyed with her Vinegar and Water Frappe that she relayed to me the second list of Democratic Talking Point Instructions. I was all ears. Sort of.

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I was nervous at the beginning of our chat, trying not to stare, looking for typos in her text, but she put me at ease, talking at length about how to save the country from those who would strip women of sovereignty over their own bodies. She spoke so rapidly I was barely able to come up for air. One of my neighbors saw us, but I assured him that the SDV and I were just good friends. He rolled his eyes so hard one of them popped out. Serves him right.

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SDV: What strikes me as a mistake is for Democrats to allow the discussion to continue to be framed by conservatives. "Pro-Life" is only pro-life for a fetus, not the mother, and not the grown child, who can be shipped off to kill people without so-called "Pro-Life" supporters batting an eyelid. Call them "Pro-War on Women."

MJS: Did you just bat an eyelid?

SDV: No.

MJS: Well, you batted something...

SDV: Try to concentrate here. I only have a few minutes.

MJS: Well, if it wasn't an eyelid...

SDV: Stop being childish. Do not refer to those who wish the government to control women's reproductive organs as "Right-to-Life" people. They're not. They are something else, so call them something else, not to be didactic, but to be precise. Do you understand what I'm saying by calling legislators who are working to make abortion illegal "Pro War on Women?" Describe, in graphic detail, what is meant by those who would outlaw legal, safe abortions.

MJS: Are you sure it wasn't an eyelid?

SDV: Last chance, jivester, before I make a scene. Follow me?

MJS: Yes, sorry.

SDV: Be graphic in your discussion of the issue, i.e. our wives vaginas are to be managed by the state, our daughters vaginas are to be run by the state, a doctor should just let congress stick its hands up our women. Be graphic: female citizens of the United States do not have sovereignty over their uteruses, their fallopian tubes, their vaginal canals, because each one is connected to the other.

MJS: Many people don't like explanations that take too long.

SDV: Precisely: make them take too long. If a progressive goes on the radio suggest that he or she talk about vaginas, vaginal canals, fallopian tubes, uterine wall, eggs; talk about penises and sperm and DNA and testes and so forth. The same people who are uncomfortable with their own bodies are the ones who want to run yours: get it? Make them face what they are trying to do, make them talk about it in as unfettered, non-euphemistic fashion as possible. Make them face The Elephant in the Room.

MJS: I could make a joke here.

SDV: And that's another thing: get over it. Get over the schoolyard sniggling and juvenile responses to the word "Vagina." Many people, who never march against wars but want to control women, are going to have to face the music, and you can't control the issue if it's just going to devolve into peurile joking.

MJS: Well, it is funny, I mean, the Elephant in the Room is a schematic of a vagina.

SDV: Whatever. Let's review: Progessives need to talk about abortion, about birth control, and how those who are against abortion are, by and large, also against birth control, which means they don't care about the fetus as much as they do about what a woman does with her own body.

MJS: I'm not saying you look like a...

SDV: Talk about sperm, and if we outlaw abortion, what about all that sperm that men issue that never meet an egg? Is not a half of a blastocyst also sacred? If it isn't, and it has no moral value, but an egg does, then women are actually superior in relative moral value to a man! Women should then be deciding what men can do, and cannot do, with their penises. Make the dialogue go down these weird alleys, allow it to speed along into the absurdities that follow when we treat women's reproductive organs as governable while men's organs are not subject to the same controls.

MJS: So, talk bluntly, in detail--but isn't that what anti-abortionists do when they describe late-term abortions and the violence and suffering visited upon the fetus?

SDV: Some people may not be up to speed on this, but just so you know: a woman's body is her own. If it's not, then your sister, your wife, your mother belong to the state. The images used that depict late-term abortions are powerful, but the same people who use those won't look at images of children killed in Iraq, or soldiers faces blown off, so go into that disconnect and put the two together. Remember: these people are not pro-life, they're Pro War on Women.

MJS: But many women are...

SDV: ...also opposed to legal, safe abortions, I know, I know. Many are also against birth control, or sex education for their kids. All I can tell you is this: they are part of the War on Women, whether they understand their role consciously or not. They could get on board with birth control and sex education and cut down on unwanted pregnancies, but many don't, because it's about...

MJS: (interrupting) The War on Women.

SDV: I think you got it.

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We said our good-byes (I started to give her a kiss but thought better of it). I walked home, repeating over and over to myself what anti-abortionists are really about: The War on Women. The War on Women. The War on Women. The War on Women.

Ain't no snark big enough to make me forget that sentence: The War on Women.

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This Democratic Talking Point story was inspired by a posting from Fired Up Missouri. The article was lost to me, but check out the site, and get fired up.

Schematic image of a Vagina sans any prurient, lust-inducing human quality is from here.

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Crossposted at Correntewire.

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Friday, February 17, 2006

President Resting After Awkward Lunch With VP



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(Jivester News, Lmtd.) President George W. Bush's condition was officially listed as "nervous" today, just after having had lunch with the Vice President of the United States. Doctors for the President have advised him to lay low for awhile, further advising him not to answer any phone he might hear ringing--not even that big red one on his desk.

Sources close to the President, but not so close as to be hit with buckshot by the VP, relayed details of the President's lunch with Vice President Dick Cheney. The Two Giant Heads met at an un-named bistro near Georgetown early Friday afternoon. Press Secretary Scott McClellan, who was making kissy faces and giving raspberries to members of the White House Press Corps just before the cameras came on, stated that the President and the Vice President "...had lunch to get caught up on what's been going on with each other, "how's it hangin'," that sort of thing." McClellan, after accusing one reporter of being a runway model pretty boy fluff monkey, went on to note that the Secret Service scoured the restaurant prior to the two dining. He noted that the SS "...did a routine Sweep de Corleone of the bathroom before Bush and Cheney frisked each other, then both were frisked by the other's Secret Service agents, then they frisked the Secret Service agents, then Cheney frisked himself, but the President declined to frisk himself fearing he might enjoy the self-frisking." Scott McClellan, in a jaunty sort of mood during the Press Conference, ended his statement period, then turned and shook his ass at the cameras and said "Ooh, la, la."

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Jivester News performed a series of interviews with those closest to the President (up to two feet away) and those not as close but reasonably close to the Vice President (fifty yards away). Based upon those interviews I have been able to cobble together a description of the lunch enjoyed by Bush and Cheney. The events went like this:

After a brief prayer by the waiter in which he asked Queztacoatl to please grant him a long life, Bush and Cheney finally sat down opposite each other, each man eyeing the other one as they descended their buttocks onto the chairs at a cozy little two top in the back part of the main room.

Lunch began innocently enough: George asked if Dick had gotten any more grief about stealing blood from the White House lab, how's his sneer holding up, did anyone say anything about his wearing the thong underwear when going out to get his morning paper in the driveway--the usual stuff. It was when the waiter suddenly appeared, and how Dick wheeled his body quickly to bark his order, that the tone of the lunch became increasingly tense.

"Don't sneak up on me like that!" snarled Dick at the waiter, his right hand making visible "trigger pull" movements.

"(unintelligible--some of it sounded like a bowel movement)" replied the waiter.

Cheney turned back to face the President. "George, you ever try the wounded pheasant?"

"No, Dick, I haven't. Doesn't it have to be dead to..." asked the President, trailing off at the last as a thought trotted up to the front of his mind before going "poof" and vanishing forever.

The Vice President replied, "Of, don't be such a pussy, George. It doesn't have to be dead to eat it, for Crissakes! Look at sushi: that's live, people eat that. Am I right, George?"

George squinted and replied, "I don't think sushi is alive. I think sushi is double-d-dead, Dick."

Cheney lowered his head, but not by bending his neck forward. He lowered his head by pushing a valve at the base of his skull which released a sub-cranial hydraulic jack mechanism, causing the VP's head to jut forward and then slowly climb down as his articulated rigging system fully deployed. His face stopped just short of the table top, corrected its descent by climbing another foot in altitude, and then hovered momentarily before thrusting forward into the chin of the President. Again, Cheney's head made a positional correction, pulled back about four inches, raised up to eye level with Bush and then crashed forward, with Cheney's entire upper torso smacking the table while his head swept back and forth across the tabletop, knocking the plates, salt and pepper shaker, the little porcelain boat of Sweet 'n Lows and the silverware onto the parquet floor. "Gargghh," said the Vice President, "...garghh gizzsh."

Five minutes later Dick and George were sitting at a new table and laughing about the whole thing.

"So, Dick," said the President, changing the mood of their luncheon, "you finally shot a human being."

"It's important to have dreams, George. I missed my opportunity to shoot humans--I had other priorities, deeper, very important priorities back in the 60s. Well, let me tell you something...come closer."

"Don't do that rockem sockem robot thing with your head again," George countered, coloring his request with that cute little 'you're freakin' me out' voice he sometimes uses when someone has an hydraulic attachment at the base of their skull and then juts their head out at him like an alien from the Planet John Deere.

Cheney sighed, then whispered "What I want to say is this..."

It was then that the waiter, wearing a bright orange vest and bearing two salads, foccacia bread (with balsamic plasma for dipping) came up to the executive diners, two steps behind and one step to the left of the Vice President. Cheney spun in his chair, spied a fly just over the waiter's head, and deftly threw his steak knife at the fly, barely missing it by two and a half feet as the steak knife lodged in the throat of the waiter. The orange vest remained spotless for about ten or fifteen seconds until blood began to run onto it from the waiter's neck wound.

George stared at Dick with his mouth the most open it had been since a college era sorority stunt in Durango. Cheney looked back at George and spoke: "You ride with him to the hospital. I haven't eaten yet."

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Artwork from here.

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Thursday, February 16, 2006

JESUS, THE GOD BABY GUY!

Neil Shakespeare has been on a VP Bender of late: he has an entire series of collages and text that pay special attention to the single most fucked-up symbol of arrogant, chickenhawk depravity the blessed west has known. Scroll around and check out his entire series. Heck, bring the kids!

His posting of Baby Jesus on an orbiting bit of hardware brought Science and God to me on a radiant platter: if NASA had been around at the time of Herod and Jeshve...the mind reels.

I wrote some lyrics, sang them, went to bed. Love to all.

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JESUS, THE GOD-BABY GUY

Satellite Jesus
Does what he pleases
Flies in the ether at night
He's bound for glory
His life is a story
That turns all the darkness to light

Orbiting Jesus
The better to see us
And judge our behaviors anon
He's got his eye out
For all those who dare doubt
And think that his story's a con

(chorus)
Pray, pray to the Baby
Who flies so high in the sky
Pray, pray to the deific babe
Who floats in the place where we die
Ask him for favors
Tell him we're neighbors
Ask him for bottles of wine
Though he's a baby
He can whup our whole navy
He's Jesus, the God-baby guy!

(piano solo or somesuch here)

Galactic saviors
Perform some behaviors
That leave us to questioning why
If miracles matter
And reason's in tatters
It seems that our God's really high

There out in space-time
No reason and no rhyme
God's in a vacuum: no sound
Orbits will spell doom
Forget about volume
Your God just goes round and round

(chorus)
Pray, pray to the Baby
Who flies so high in the sky
Pray, pray to the deific babe
Who floats in the place where we die
Ask him for favors
Tell him we're neighbors
Ask him for bottles of wine
Though he's a baby
He can whup our whole navy
He's Jesus, the God-baby guy!

Satellite Jesus
Does what he pleases
Flies in the ether at night
He's bound for glory
His life is a story
That turns all the darkness to light

Orbiting Jesus
The better to see us
And judge our behaviors anon
He's got his eye out
For all those who dare doubt
And think that his story's a con

(chorus)
Pray, pray to the Baby
Who flies so high in the sky
Pray, pray to the deific babe
Who floats in the place where we die
Ask him for favors
Tell him we're neighbors
Ask him for bottles of wine
Though he's a baby
He can whup our whole navy
He's Jesus, the God-baby guy!

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Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Operating Without Any Decent Restraint


Vice President's Staff Awaits Cheney's Return to His Caspar, Wyoming Compound

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(Jivester News, Lmtd.) Following on the heels of his shooting a man while hunting, aides to Vice President Dick Cheney have announced to members of the Press Corps "You ain't seen nothin' yet, folks." Decklyn Hobasher, who is in charge of reloading Cheney's stints (the day shift), told the assembled journalists, "Mr. Cheney...he's out there operating without any decent restraint, totally beyond the pale of any acceptable human conduct." I decided to go to the home of our Vice-President, up-river if you will, and find his heart of darkness.

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CASPAR, WYOMING, FEBRUARY 14, 2006

The Compound Perimeter at Cheney's ranch style home has, of late, taken on a kind of ghoulish charm, as the trellis at the entry is festooned with the bones of his proclaimed enemies, and skulls dot the charming foot path up to the main house. Torches illuminate the lower walls, and wild boars feed on the carcasses of his vanquished opponents. In a nod to Valentine's Day, a man's face has been dipped in chocolate and shoved into a heart-shaped box on the front porch, his nearby torso bearing a t-shirt that states "EVERYBODY DIES." Cheney's not your momma's VP, no sir. I went to the compound to gain an audience with this extremely private, thoughtful man, but was careful to not upset him. I brought him a bottle of Glenfiddich and a ten pound sack of crushed kittens, to let him know I was not a threat. I rang the doorbell: a gun fired in the foyer. Lynne Cheney answered the front door, rolled her eyes, and spoke: "Today may not be good, dear. He's having one of his spells."

"Goddamnit, woman!" the Vice President bellowed from inside, shaving cream visible on the base of his neck as he wielded a large razor in his right hand. He had just shaved his head. On the stereo I heard playing the fourth movement of Rimsky-Korsakov's "Sheherazade" at a decibel so loud one of my legs broke in two. Limping to the bench, I sat as Cheney raced outside, screaming "You hear that? You hear that? You hear that violin? That's music! What did Hannibal Lector listen to? The Goldberg Variations? Can you believe that? The Goldberg Variations! What a pansy! What a goddamn fucking pansy!"

Cheney was still wearing the same blood-stained orange vest he sported at the Armstrong Ranch outside of Corpus Christi, Texas. I glanced at his bloodied vest for the smallest fraction of time, but Cheney saw me do it. I'll tell you one thing, Cheney doesn't miss much. "Like the vest, do you, jivester? Got a little blood on it, I'm afraid. Yeah, a little blood..." he continued, and then trailed off. He lifted his head for just a second before he wheeled and lumbered back in the house: "Some day this war's gonna end" he yelled back over his shoulder. "Yee-haw!"

I pulled my body around to the side of the house, where I could see Dick and Lynne cleaning up in the kitchen. I quieted my breathing long enough to hear him speak: "We must kill them. We must incinerate them. Pig after pig. Cow after cow. Village after village. Army after army." Lynne just smiled while he talked. I think the secret to the Republican Party's success is its women's ability to serve alongside evil without ever cracking their facades. They are truly blessed, those Republicans.

I fashioned a splint out of a bloodied bayonet, and for what seemed like an eternity I hobbled back to the porch, carefully skirting the dozens of corpses that dotted his otherwise unremarkable front yard. I found Dick hunched over on the porch swing, running his hands over his sweaty (and now bald) pate. He spoke slowly, as if each word were a burden: "You have no right to judge me. It's impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what horror means. Horror. Horror has a face... and you must make a friend of horror. Horror and moral terror are your friends. If they are not then they are enemies to be feared. They are truly enemies." I nodded in the affirmative, but he did not look up.

"You have to have men who are moral... and at the same time who are able to utilize their primordial instincts to kill without feeling... without passion... without judgment... without judgment. Because it's judgment that defeats us," he said. He finally looked up, straight at me, and added, "Are you an assassin?"

I answered, the way I knew I must if I was to survive: "I'm a soldier."

Cheney knew the script well: "You're neither. You're an errand boy, sent by grocery clerks, to collect a bill." And then he laughed. It was a good, strong belly laugh, a "Five Deferment Guffaw." And then he stared straight ahead again as he held a hot curling iron up to his mouth, causing the flesh of his lips to smoke. He screamed in agony, turned to me and said, just before passing out: "I'd get out of here if I were you." He lurched forward and began to twitch violently, a kind of massive seizure. I was going to tell Lynne about Dick's antics but then remembered his advice. She'd find him soon enough.

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On the drive home I had an epiphany as I thought: These people, these war mongers, they weren't mad at the Francis Ford Coppola's of the world, at least not for the reasons one might expect. They were not upset at liberals for depicting the horrors of violence and the madness of war. They were upset that everybody wasn't dead yet.


Dick Cheney After Helping Lynne With the Dishes

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Special thanks to John Milius and F. F. Coppola for the Kurtz quotes from the film Apocalypse Now.

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Five Deferment Shooter With A Gun


Dick Cheney, Just Before Turning and Firing at a Stage Hand

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JC General has worked out a theory regarding a magic BB, Dick Cheney, and that poor old man down in Texas.

I wrote another song about our Veep. Hope you like it!

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FIVE DEFERMENT SHOOTER WITH A GUN

We got a five deferment shooter with a gun
A five deferment drinker out for fun
A five deferment shooter
Boy, there ain't nothing that's cuter
Than a five deferment shooter with a gun!

We got a five deferment chickenhawk deluxe
A five deferment trigger pullin’ putz
A five deferment shooter
Boy, there ain't nothing that's cuter
Than a five deferment chickenhawk deluxe!

(chorus)
Duck, everybody, better duck!
Hit the ground ‘a running
Or your shit is out of luck
Better duck and better dive
Be glad you're still alive
Duck, everybody, better duck!

A five deferment millionaire drives up
A five deferment manly patriot
A five deferment shooter
Boy, there ain’t nothing that’s cuter
Than a five deferment manly patriot!

This old guy, he passed on Vietnam
Seems he had himself some other plan
When he got himself ready
He would shoot with aim most steady
He would shoot for fun but not in Vietnam

(chorus)
Duck, everybody, better duck!
Hit the ground ‘a running
Or your shit is out of luck
Better duck and better dive
Be glad you're still alive
Duck, everybody, better duck!

We got a five deferment shooter with a gun
A five deferment drinker out for fun
A five deferment shooter
Boy, there ain't nothing that's cuter
Than a five deferment shooter with a gun!

We got a five deferment chickenhawk deluxe
A five deferment trigger pullin’ putz
A five deferment shooter
Boy, there ain't nothing that's cuter
Than a five deferment chickenhawk deluxe!

(chorus)
Duck, everybody, better duck!
Hit the ground ‘a running
Or your shit is out of luck
Better duck and better dive
Be glad you're still alive
Duck, everybody, better duck!

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Image of Dick Cheney holding a long weapon from here.

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I may be posting here more in the near future. It is a quiet place, but it is my own.

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