Go Dump Daddy's Ammo Boxes into the Fragrant River

If I was a white supremacist Alabaman or Arizonan worried about the inevitability of actuarial tables and the year 2040, I'd make Alabama and Arizona as unpleasant for brown people as possible.

Let me be petty: What percentage of the Mississippians directly affected by these tornadoes who hate the federal government, resent every penny of tax, believe Obama is Chairman Maobama if not the motherfucking antichrist, will expect - demand - federal assistance?

I won't listen to Rush Limbaugh (who's nothing more than a whore's whore), but I listen to Michael Savage (who's a whore too, but more his own whore), and so should you. He's not only a better professional provocateur - his rants sound authentic - he services that percentage of Americans who literally daydream of patriotic violence and patriotic martyrdom.

 

I understand why regular Savage listeners feel their world slipping away and I'm small enough to take delight. I remember our time in Deale, when we had our friends Henry and Donna to the marina house for a weekend, being told the minute they drove out of the parking lot by four cracker boat owners that if I ever let that nigger and his white skank race traitor bitch back they'd lynch my ass too. I told them to fuck off; my tires were slashed that night.

It's obvious with my constant cracker this christer that I'm a stone bigot, but I've never said I was tolerant. I try to be intolerant to everyone, but I'm not large enough, I'm weak, I haven't a reservoir of endless hate, I haven't endless time to hate, I need to focus what hate I can summon on a few select targets - Arcade Fire, Raymond Carver, Terry Fucking Vaughn - that don't affect the quality of anyone's life but my own, and on a few large targets that affect the quality of my selfish insignificant life as a happily complicit home-owning, tax-paying, law-abiding, bloody-handed cog in capital's race to ingest everything, and motherfucking crackers nostalgic for 1920's Alabama and motherfucking christers jonesing for white jeebus, well, it's delicious to hate them, it's delicious to demonize them, it's delicious to organize to keep them out of our schools, out of our state houses, to keep their hands off our wives' and daughters' uteruses, to keep them as marginalized and mocked and furious and ugly as possible.

And yes, I know crackers are funded and encouraged to be ugly to keep rubes like me busy hating them rather than hating what needs hating more, to keep me nostalgic for an America that will never be. I'm working to make my hate more copious, more all encompassing.

• You cannot man the barricades with a mouth full of cheetos.
• It's not the sex fraud. Its never the sex fraud.
• Free Market means welfare for the wealthy.
• American kleptocracy.
• Capitalism. (Do read the comments.)
• Disinformation campaign.
• Winners and losers.
• A question that answers itself.
• Who is Barack Obama?
• On tolerance, which I lack.
• Why Seb won't live in New York.
• Things that trouble Landru.
• UPDATE! People trust the face-mullets.

• Fuck Bob Ehrlich, a man I can vote against without self-recrimination.
• Metro! If the train had been in Arizona, the guy whose neck was trapped would have been asked for his papers.
• Maryland prison populations (Hi RJ! regular reader and Major Poobah in state corrections!)
• Don't stop and ask for directions on Whiskey Bottom Rd. If you do, and you're Hispanic, and this was Arizona, make sure to have your papers with you.
• Catoctin Aqueduct! Babs was there!
• East Diamond Avenue!
• UPDATE! Not only can concussions crimp one's soccer career, they can keep one from running in the Kentucky Derby.
• UPDATE! Hah, I don't know if Planet got it first, but she was the first to personally HEH! the joke.

• Dissidence as entertainment.
• Bomb news and burrito burps.
• UPDATE! Don't forget Overgrown Path.
• The Last Art Rock Band?
• I like The National enough to enjoy on the radio but not enough to buy it, though the song at the bottom is another one of dozens of my five favorite songs ever.

A REACTIONARY TALE

Linh Dinh

I was a caring husband. I bought socks for my family.

My swarthy wife liked to wear these thick woolen socks that came
up to her milky thighs.

I had a lover also. People could see me walking around each
evening carrying a walking stick.

My most vivid memory, looking back, is of a pink froth bubbling
out of my infant's mouth.

Not everything was going so well: one morning, malnourished
soldiers marched down our tiny street, bringing good news.

When good news arrives by mail, the cuckoo sang, tear up the
envelope. When good news arrives by e-mail, destroy the
computer.

When an old friend came by to reclaim an old wound, I said to 
    my
oldest son: Go dump daddy's ammo boxes into the fragrant river.

To reduce drag, some of my neighbors were diving headfirst into a
shallow lake.

We were rich and then we were poor. A small dog or maybe a 
    cat
now pulls our family wagon.