Elections: the Quadrennial Bonus for Propagandists

Elections:  the Quadrennial Bonus for Propagandists

What are we, fucking cowards?  Here in Chapel Hill,

where sophomores are winning “Woman of the Year,”

and Friday peaceniks stand without fear, where the

occupy movement found a journalist given a broken

arm, and non-violent protesters were met with machine

guns, we also find some over-Foxxed nut kill three due

to religion, not, oh not a parking place. Some Isis-style

Rand-McNally has plotted us by now, and whoopee it’s

Spring, Summer, Spring, ,Summer: drought time once

again.  Daisies thrive, we’re all alive, and cowards. How

so?  Because we’ll sit back and vote for Hillary, ignoring

her sick track record as Senator, and, God forbid, Secretary

of State. The “Clarence Thomas switch” is in: they make a

mountain out of her emails, just as Clarence was pointed

out to be a philandering harasser.  This allows the media,

thus us, to paint her as a liberal or progressive, when her

votes, overly militaristic responses and speaking fees scream

otherwise.  The last progressive in the White House was

Richard Nixon, and he got his alright: Chuck Colson, et al

took him down for ending inflation and the Vietnam War.


Which one is the bomb?

Which one is the bomb?


That day when Di and Dodi died, apocolypse prayers

were read.  Not in hopes that it would never come true

but in the belief that population control is best observed

from safe castles in Scotland while the religious split

deepens via CNN, Fox, fundamentalists all:  each mosque

now jihadist, each church raising coffers, a la Falwell, for

the CIA, large jets, troup and arms logistics, as a large

multi-theater war persists with nary a peep of descent.

A small yellow desert-flower, maybe five inches high, with a

half-inch diametered blossom shakes in the wind caused by

seventeen tanks rolling by.  A hand shoots up, it’s a 14-year-

old girl volunteering to blow up a cafe, and herself.  The

beautiful, quiet, consistent hum of a drone belies its

mission: to bomb the house of a suspected terrorist.

Parchment, hand-made when the artists pulls soggy fiber

up thorugh water, accepts ink that seals the fate of grunts,

jarheads, bell-bottoms, and flyboys who have already been

in harm’s way for 13 years now. We’re approaching Crusade-level

madness, yet the protests, if any, don’t get covered: TV war scenes

staged to replicate PC-Games as kiddie-propaganda becomes reality.

This is Not the Time

This is not the time for Mr. Blake, or Keatsian love ditties, romantic puffery, academic poems that continue the careers of faded thinkers, nor siree Bob, this is the time for plain talk, purely polemic, purely in the face. Our kids have no Dylan to turn to, (please live forever Billy Bragg, Michael Moore) no anti anti anti beat crowd to Kerouac down the road with, no siree, those folks don’t get the time of day anymore. The biggest protest now is to buy a ton of handbags, a la Paris Hilton, and bankrupt daddy BEFORE you hit college. So, here goes, one place at a time: Argentina: first JP Morgan and Fleet Bank purchase the central bank, then they talk the IMF into austerity measures so the Peso and Dollar can eventually trade one for one, thus saving their stupid loans. this causes up to 70% unemployment, just in time for a new trade agreement, and yankee-sponsored “jobs” that pay about 1 dollar (peso?) per hour, with good floating north on oil-fed boats, and importat tariff free. This lowers the value of our own labor just to the point of revolution, but not past it. Sudan: Ah, another genocide, but who gives a fuck, it’s only Muslims, oh, I mean, only Africans, uh, oh, I mean, well, there’s overpopulation now anyway. Columbia: 17 years of bombing and spraying, and still those pesky campesinos won’t get off the land so we can drill for oil. Damn them! Afghanistan: UNOCAL needed a pipeline to the Caspian, and by golly we delivered. Iraq: We won’t leave until the very last drop of oil has been stolen, after all we have to balance the books at Halliburton somehow. New Orleans: Quick, oh, uh, not so quick, let’s call Halliburton and see if they can convert the lower Ninth Ward into high-rises for the rich. East Timor, let’s see, start a revolution because they are growing a far-too educated middle class that is becoming restless, blame the thing on more radical Muslims, step in and have them kill each other, then go back to the Nike days of cheap labor. US of A: cover lies with more lies, blame it on Scooter and/or Karl, thus saving the leaker, who pretty much had to be Cheney. Tell me, why isn’t Novak in Jail? If he helped the prosecutor, then the prosecutor let him off, why isn’t the prosecutor in jail? Are any of you apathetic drug addicts taking notes, or doesn’t any of this matter, as long as you have your comfy life to settle into? There’s nobody even to be pissed off at this shit anymore. Why isn’t everyone upset? Never thought the propaganda wing could have done such a plu-perfect job of it. DAMN.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2005. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Christina Ricci and Ice Age Show; Weaver Street at 15

Weaver Street at 15 (March ’04)

Dark-rimmed Carrboronians use muscular
hands to lift and twirl hair in a rain-soaked
morning that leaves moms and kids bewildered.
Over organic oatmeal, Mexican scrambled eggs,
home fries and humus, conversations fly from
clear-cut developments, to eight shades of green,
to upcoming Reiki sessions. Which parts of today
will be remembered tomorrow to tell red-heads
surrounded by admirers, or lost friends waving to
your inner landscape? What about his latest bout
of ego-fusion: cacophonous mumblings accented
by the hysterical giggle of eureka-struck feminists.
Arch-backed stretching maneuvers surface to
draw your eye away from a stunning new arrival.
She gets up, snickering, as soon as the pony-tailed
Latin Studies T. A. approaches the last chair.
Outside the eating end of Weaver Street Market
our red-head now walks a young Siberian Husky.
The post-graduate table fills up, and one last
“wow” of approval wafts back amid “ciao” and
“buh-byes.” A budding socialist smiles, confident.

T.A. = Teaching Assistant.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2002, 2004. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.