No Proof That’s Mueller’s Nom de’Plume
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| Notably absent from the bestseller lists |
The world’s wealthiest man had risked death and ruination, crushed rivals, murdered enemies and miscalculated very little in his rise to Russia’s dictatorship, a black box kleptocracy that transferred to him so vast a personal fortune its difference from the Russian GNP amounted to a rounding error.
Boredom now mostly afflicted Vladimir Putin, but in the Moscow dawn hours of November 9, 2016, as monitors alit with the US election results, a nearly forgotten sensation of pleasure stirred in him. The biggest prize in human history had just dropped in his lap.
Vladimir watched the new oaf-colossus President elect of America lumber onstage to a frenzied reception. His hooded sea-blue eyes glinted and he removed the translation earpiece to stay the idiot babble. Several of his translators had initially been at pains to explain that the man’s impregnable gibberish was beyond any mere language barrier. Vladimir soon understood Trump’s crystalline characteristic was greed, which he knew better than any other human frailty, save fear.
On one screen, America’s bolshevik masses wildly cheered their new leader while other screens showed the ashen faces of defeated Democrats and dumbstruck news anchors. Putin tossed back his vodka with a smirk. Not for a second did the eleventh-hour swing state tallies dropping in algorithmic precision like dominoes deem mentioning, of course. That timing was a special fuck you finesse he had personally conducted.
The wealthiest man in the world hadn’t survived decades of Kremlin churn and mastered KGB psyops and global financial politics without fully understanding American hubris. A fraud need only scale itself bigger and bolder than their pitifully unwarranted self-opinion.
Putin had made the right offer to the precisely right candidate in the perfect moment of history and needed only one final covert push. It was laughable how surgically small and obvious the push was; as laughable as this childish country’s bottomless ignorance.
Didn’t a ragtag army of Macedonian teens scatter their so-called left and decide comical undecideds by the millions with nothing but stories made up on their computers? Didn’t Americans ignore voting machine security so pathetically porous YouTube videos clocked 10-year olds hacking them as fast as one makes a sandwich? Didn’t they predictably pretend sense and decency and vote for hate? ...if they bothered voting at all.
Vladimir sat back with a second vodka and felt another strange emotion, a deep rising of secret envy released and replaced with cold revulsion for the United States of America.
Which was now his bitch.
Run With It Rachel
Brought to my attention by a veteran MSM news pro, the typewritten document is apparently quite real. WH reporters are henceforth “guests”; henceforth forbidden to report.
Ms. Maddow, for whom above said
news guy works may send me a cheque for freelance creative.
Network Host With The Most
Strikes me weird an emotionally arrested kid saddled with a fathomless fortune accrued by coding skills and freakish luck now steers the global power he unleashed like an eighteen-wheel Lamborghini hauling Russian hackers and every cherished fatal human impulse around hairpin turns and blind curves in a dark casino while sneaking snapshots of patron backsides.
Once, mass communication was three networks with worldly anchors presided over by men learned in history and journalism.
Now there’s Facebook with 3x the reach and influence, run by a billionaire quant from the dorm squirreling covert butt-nuggets like a malfunctioning android.
Woke Up Cup
Remember when Smiley Faces used to be ubiquitous?— they seemed to be everywhere, to the point they became cloying.
Kinda miss smiley faces.
The Coolest Teacher I Ever Had
Vince Butler just passed at 83. In the photo, he looks as he did when he taught me high school art, typically busy with something else, probably hanging art.
That’s Vince, ready in a twinkling to volley a withering retort to a wisecracking student or light up with a thousand-watt smile for another who’d made an astute observation. You tucked away any nod of approval he granted as a stone honor.
Vince had a lavish love for art and music and the serene dignity
of a warrior. His class was refuge from high
school’s posturings. In Vince’s
class, real equality ruled. His mantle of
authenticity was unquestioned. The only topics or concerns unheard in
Vince’s class were those tainted with ugliness or phoniness.
An A for artwork was meaningless if you were on the wrong side of Vince’s shit detector. But if you earned a place in his realm, he invited you to dispense with “Mr Butler.” I piddled myself being bestowed with that honor as a sophomore.
15 years ago, I chanced on a NY Daily News article about Pavarotti’s final Met performance, which held two paragraphs about a certain retired NJ art teacher in the audience, showering his personally crafted confetti upon the stage.
When I called Vince, he readily accepted my invitation to sister Kate’s exhibition at a NJ estate. She was also his student; a favorite. The drive out was innocuous chat, processing elapsed years and advanced age. He walked the show slowly, studying each piece with appreciative remarks about conveyed feeling and individual character.
Strolling the estate’s grounds afterward, his face broadened into a smile, taking in a perfect summer day. Burdens and years fell away; he might’ve said something, I can’t recall. I recall the ease of smiling back.
An A for artwork was meaningless if you were on the wrong side of Vince’s shit detector. But if you earned a place in his realm, he invited you to dispense with “Mr Butler.” I piddled myself being bestowed with that honor as a sophomore.
15 years ago, I chanced on a NY Daily News article about Pavarotti’s final Met performance, which held two paragraphs about a certain retired NJ art teacher in the audience, showering his personally crafted confetti upon the stage.
When I called Vince, he readily accepted my invitation to sister Kate’s exhibition at a NJ estate. She was also his student; a favorite. The drive out was innocuous chat, processing elapsed years and advanced age. He walked the show slowly, studying each piece with appreciative remarks about conveyed feeling and individual character.
Strolling the estate’s grounds afterward, his face broadened into a smile, taking in a perfect summer day. Burdens and years fell away; he might’ve said something, I can’t recall. I recall the ease of smiling back.
Nast Wept
6/10/19: NYTimes bans cartoons.
150 years ago, Thomas Nast’s cartoons did what editors, jurists and politicians couldn’t: he brought NYC’s infamously corrupt Boss Tweed regime to its knees.
The Times shows its feathers with this move. A new era of Yellow Journalism dawns.
The Screw Me State
My mom was from Missouri and you could put little past her. Those were the days before bible-thumping idjits took over and anointed every last carpet-bagging, flannel-mouthed, double-dealing fraud to run the government. Those were the days Missouri was known as the “Show Me” state.
Now they’ve got a toxic-water-sponsoring liar invading every last Missouri vagina in a holy mission to make abortion synonymous with governance.
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