Faux Faulkner Winner Rips Bush A Southern-Fried New One

Samsara. It's a bitch. What a bitch. Bombs, bombings, bombers, blood for oil, neo-con crazies in total charge, driving us deeper and deeper into moral and fiscal bankruptcy.

And yet, somehow, we find reasons to live. Lush heirloom tomatoes with funny names. The opportunity to rescue an ant in a sink. A good pond-swim, or bay-swim, or spindrift ocean dip. Jon Stewart, when available. Cilantro shrimp on the barbie. A drooling Newfie. A ginger Altoid.

A really funny Faulkner parody--that treats the Bushist fascists as inbred Yokwnapatawphans, sorta. No offence meant to the inbred.



Update--here's the story, since the link no longer works.



"The Administration and the Fury-- If William Faulkner Were Writing on the Bush White House."

By Sam Apple

Down the hall, under the chandelier, I could see them talking. They were walking toward me and Dick's face was white, and he stopped and gave a piece of paper to Rummy, and Rummy looked at the piece of paper and shook his head. He gave the paper back to Dick and Dick shook his head. They disappeared and then they were standing right next to me.

"Georgie's going to walk down to the Oval Office with me," Dick said.

"I just hope you got him all good and ready this time," Rummy said.

"Hush now," Dick said. "This aint no laughing matter. He know lot more than folks think."

Dick patted me on the back good and hard. "Come on now, Georgie," Dick said. "Never mind you, Rummy."

We walked down steps to the office. There were paintings of old people on the walls and the room was round like a circle and Condi was sitting on my desk. Her legs were crossed.

"Did you get him ready for the press conference?" Dick said.

"Dont you worry about him. He'll be ready," Condi said. Condi stood up from the desk. Her legs were long and she smelled like the Xeroxed copies of the information packets they give me each day.

"Hello Georgie," Condi said. "Did you come to see Condi?" Condi rubbed my hair and it tickled.

"Dont go messing up his hair," Dick said. "He's got a press conference in a few minutes."

Condi wiped some spit on her hand and patted down my hair. Her hand was soft and she smelled like Xerox copies coming right out of the machine. "He looks just fine," Condi said.

Fine day, isn't it, Georgie, Daddy said. Daddy was pitching horseshoes. Horseshoes flew through the air and it was hot. Jeb looked at me. Stand back or one of his horseshoes is going to hit you and knock you down real good, Jeb said. Jeb threw the horseshoe and it went right over the stick and Daddy clapped. Run and get me that horseshoe, Georgie, Daddy said. I ran and picked up the horseshoe. The metal was hot in my hands, and I held it for a little bit and then I dropped it. I picked it up. It was hot in my hands and I started running away from Daddy and Jeb. Come back with that horseshoe, Daddy said. I was running as fast as I could. Jeb run after him and get me my horseshoe before he throws another one in the river, Daddy hollered. Jeb was chasing after me fast. Come back with that horseshoe, Georgie, Jeb hollered. But I was fast and I kept running until I got to the river. Dont you dare throw that horseshoe in the river, Jeb said. I threw the horseshoe in the river. Jeb fell on the ground. Jeb kicked and cried and then I cried.

"He needs his makeup," Dick said.

"I'll do it," Condi said. She put a little brush on my cheek and it tickled and I laughed.

Rummy walked into the room. "Jesus, what's he laughing about," Rummy said.

"Dont you pay attention to him, Georgie," Dick said. "They're going to be asking you all about Social Security. You just remember what we talked about."

"He cant remember anything," Rummy said.

I started to holler. Dick's face was red and he looked at Rummy. "I told you to hush up already," Dick said. "Now look what you've gone and done."

"Go and get him Saddam's gun," Condi said. "You know how he likes to hold it."

Dick went to my desk drawer and took out Saddam's gun. He gave it to me, and it was hot in my hands. Rummy pulled the gun away.

"Do you want him carrying a gun into the press conference?" Rummy said. "Cant you think any better than he can?"

I was hollering and Dick was turning red and then white and the room was tilted.

"You give him that gun back, right this minute," Condi said. Rummy gave me Saddam's gun back and I held it my hands. It was hot like a horseshoe.

"You got the gun, now you stop that hollering," Rummy said.

Condi patted me on the back. "It sure is hot in here," she said. She fanned herself and took off her jacket. She smelled like perfume.

Dirty Dick or Dirty Bush or Dirty Mr. Mustache? - Who's the Real Traitorgate Target?,

So, let's say Rove, though in plenty hot water, is NOT the ultimate legal target in the Traitorgate investigation.

Who is?

Kinda looks like Dirty Dick Cheney and his merry band of neo-con trolls -- Hadley, Libby, Hannah, Wurmser. Dirty Bush seems totally out of the loop. Riding/falling off his bicycle, as per usual, choking on innocent snack food.

But what about. . . Bolton??

Was it Bolton who masterminded the heinous outing of clandestine CIA officer Valerie Plame? Ably assisted, down the line, by the merry band of neo-con trolls?

Was it Bolton who initially insisted on a work-up on Joe Wilson, once Wilson had started to let reporters know that the "Niger nuclear option" was total bogus crap? Did Bolton order wiretaps and intercepts on Wilson, using government funds and personnel to advance his purely political, vengeance-driven agenda?

Remember Carl Ford, Assistant Secretary for Intelligence and Research? The one who, if memory serves, is a conservative Republican, former CIA, who called Bolton a "quintessential kiss-up, kick-down sort of guy" and a "serial abuser" of underlings? After Wilson's op-ed piece is published on July 6, 2003, Richard Armitage calls Ford at home for a copy of the memo, originally written for Marc Grossman on June 10, 2003. This memo will become known as the Air Force One Memo, as it gets circulated to Powell on the plane that takes Bush and Co. to Africa. Curiously, however, the Plame name does not appear in this memo.

Why not? Where'd that name come from? Who got it? Who spread it around?

But--all creationists can clap hands together--who was the Original Cause? Who was the Intelligent (sic) Designer? Who set it all in motion?

Who had means, motive, and opportunity?

Was it Mr. Mustache?

What's Wrong With These People? Really?

The defining characteristic of the American Taliban Reichwing is: hysteria. Yes, Dr. Freud, we're talking about hysteria: shrill, rabid-foaming-at-the-mouth Freeperstyle hysteria. What's up with that? one wonders. What's wrong with these people? Really, what is wrong with them?

Note that I'm not talking actual Republicans here--if there are any left, if they, like true liberal Republicans (remember them? the sentimental dodoes of American politics?) haven't all been killed and replaced with pod people.

Equal parts panic and fury--what's driving this? Reichwingers rail against gay marriage as if the very fabric of their universe were being actively shredded by Mr. and Mr. Jeff 'n Karl; as if Mrs. and Mrs. Andrea 'n Nancy and their ilk were viciously breaking down the doors of Freeper bedrooms all across America with their bloody powersaws on a nightly basis.

Which, I opine, is not the case.

The posts, like scat, they leave behind on liberal blogs are all the same: one poster says the same damn crap as the others. Then, each poster replies to varying liberal replies with the same damn cant. Shriek! LIBRULS! Broads? Ewk! Make it so they can't divorce me! Waaa! I wanna big strong punitive Daddy figure!

[Interlude: Since when did Dirty Bush become any kind of father figure? Plunk! He falls off a segway! Plish! He falls off a bicycle! Plish, plish! He falls off another bicycle! Gork! He chokes on an innocent snack food!]

Waa! I need an authoritarian-protective Daddy figure! Waa! Don't tell ME to sign up or shut up! Waa--I'm licking envelopes for the war against the libruls! Waa! Don't call ME a Yellow Elephant! Waa! I'm scared shitless, so let's blow up some frogs! Beat up on some blogs! Shoot some dogs!

Oow! I'm scared shitless, ok, so, let's invade somewhere. Anywhere! I'm scared shitless, so let's beat up some prisoners! Make 'em cry, so I don't have to!

"Make 'em cry, so I don't have to?"?

Oh-ho. Now there's a thought.

Consummation Devoutly to be Wished: Karmically Correct Karmic Korrection for Karl

Yes, a turdblossom by any other name would smell--as sweet!

Sweeter yet than a smelly turdblossom still is the prospect of Karl Rove receiving his karmically-correct come-uppance at last.

But really, it would be just too good if Rove were the Plame leaker, and things are just never that good, or--are they?

It's good to dream, though . . . dreaming dreams of Karl in his awful treadmarked tighty-whities, duct-taped into a pretzel-shaped stress position . . . being fed two tropical fruits . . . neither of which is not JimmyJeff GannonGuckert . . . being blasted 24/7 with Celine Dion at top volume . . . & perhaps backwards . . . . until he is savaged savagely by the survivors of every surviving family member of 9/11 and the Dirty Bush War who wants to have his or her way with him . . . and is finally fed alive to the Ann Coulter . . . ah well. . . one can dream, can one not?