September 30, 2007

Ye Olde Scribe Presents: Woodstock, 2007

Filed under: Commentary — Ye Olde Scribe @ 1:48 pm

Ye Olde Scribe’s Links to Oblivion
“Finding truth while surfing digital seawaves.”

Present a reasoned argument to a conservative — and, all at once, completely ignoring the tenet, tone and thrust of the point, they begin hallucinating a creature, only known to exist in the right-wing bestiary, known as a “moonbat” — a mythological beast that, ironically, seems to appear when a conservative is confronted with reality.

Analyzing Using Analogy for Fun
“Because just saying it plain would forego the red rubber nose.”

The little bitty car labeled, “We Still Fund the War,” drove into one of the three rings and out piled Democrats. The audience roared in laughter and each one tried to explain why they didn’t support the war. Then, once again they squeezed in.

Then a herd of clowns insulted the Ringmaster, Junior, while they kicked each other because “Please kick me” signs, also translated as “impeachment is off the table” were on their backs.

Slapstick never seemed less funny to Scribe, and more democratically terrifying as 08 approached… but the crowd loved it.

But then again, that’s why American Idol gets such high ratings.

Ye Olde Scribe’s Simple Solutions for Idiotic Problems
“So, why the *^%$# didn’t YOU think of this?”

Global warming? Pollution? Too many cow farts? Well if Junior, Dimbulb, O’Lielly, Handjob Hannity, the Savage Weiner and the rest of this polluted pond scum would SHUT UP… less methane: less of a problem! The world would surely be a ^%$# of a lot safer without them passing gas out of the wrong portal.

Finally… THE TRUTH!
Rewarding truthtellers with more digital hits than before.

“…unitary executive” is how you say “fuhrer” in modern American English.

And, from the same source…

A Brief Guide to the Aesthetics of Fascism:

–Hypnotized by symbols: Whether it be the swastika of the Nazis, the rising sun of imperial Japan or the fasces of the Italian National Fascist Party, simple, visually striking and endlessly repeated symbols are the “look” of a fascist government. Check out any Bush speaking engagement, from his “mission accomplished” speech on the deck of the USS Abraham Lincoln to the Republican National Convention, and you will see him surrounded by the Stars and Stripes. And where Nazi leaders wore swastika armbands, American fascists wear American flag pins on their lapels. Sinclair Lewis observed that, “When fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.” The symbols may be different, but if it looks like fascism, it’s probably fascism.

Damn, That’s Good
“Scribe: servicing his readers far better than Jeff Gannon, and with less hypocrisy: more morality.”

Insomuch as I suspect, that if, during a rare press conference, George W. Bush’s face were to suddenly shed its skin right on camera, live on national television, on all channels, broadcast and cable, to reveal the countenance of a Gila Monster — the elitist beltway punditry would begin to catalog the merits of his reptilian single-mindedness. Then they would proceed to an interview with an “expert” from a right-wing funded zoological think tank, “The American Institute for the Advancement of Predatory Policy,” which would assure us that: “…in an era when evil is as proliferate as flies around the stinking dumpster of the world, Americans will be kept safe by a lizard-faced leader who eats flies for breakfast.” And the general public would only be concerned because the broadcast happened to preempt the finals of American Idol.


And from the same column: same verbally well-endowed author, and the inspiration for this week’s Scribe…

The media is rife with right-wing fantasist nonsense about the “feminized” American male, when, in fact, the country has grown outright psychotic from testosterone-induced toxicity (TIT). In the 1960s, hippies were ridiculed for their naive assumptions that life on earth could be magically transformed into an egalitarian paradise of free love, good dope, waterbeds and Lava Lamps for all, if “the straights” could simply be induced to “raise their consciousness” by the engagement in and the utilization of the erotic acts, illicit substances and goofy counterculture accoutrements mentioned above. Accordingly, the current fantasy — that all US soldiers are good, righteous and brave, standing ever vigilant against all threats to the Homeland — could be regarded as a kind of Woodstock Militarism.

Woodstock, 2007

Rabid Rove, now out of the limelight, well maybe lemonlight because he’s so sour upon the normal humanoid tongue… but did Scribe even suggest Rabid was “normal?”

…took a puff, held it in as Nutty Newt approached.

“What are you smoking Rabid?”

“My own shit.”

“Wait, don’t you know that’s toxic? It’s like having children with your own sister. Eventually you make absolute morons look smart. I should know. It’s favorite a redneck Georgia thing. Some kids do cornsilk. We just don’t flush. We scoop and then smoke.”

“Hey, Nutsie, I’ve spent so many damn years doing doin it for Junior, about time I relaxed and tried it myself.”

They both laughed.

Woodstock (GA): 2007, was in full swing. (Snoopy, however, was absent, but Dimbulb was having a blast torturing Snoop the Dog’s little bird friend for fun.) Everyone was naked of morality, ethics and, of course, even the most common of common sense. The reporters covering the event were busy satisfying their corporate masters by raving about how mahhh… velous the dresses and tuxedos were. The Emperor’s New Clothes, redux; or The Emperor Has No Clothes, if you wish.

Everyone was having sex: in the bathroom stalls (Hi, Larry, are you tapping for fun, or are you just happy to see me and my big, juicy…?) and attempting to hunt down a young child for a tryst. (Thanks, Mr. Carman, for all the links.) Orgies provided by Gannon the BIG Cannon. Ann Coulter had a special booth set up for her new religious book about the biblical beginning of humankind, Hey, I have an Adam’s Apple Too!

Conservative country musicians played incessantly, their nasally whine drove the crowd further into insanity… though one could hardly imagine it possible to go from “all our marbles are lost” to “marbles, what are marbles?” Toby Keith, who had been pulling his pants down and mooning true patriots for years with that flag tatoo’d on his southern most portal, was leading the bill… now he has gone off his cheesy, BS-based, “I’m really a Democrat” tour. Which isn’t all that unusual for this party for hypocritical liars has been one hell of a long “bill” for the rest of us… ever since the Supremes stopped singing about the Constitution and decided to sniff the fumes as they helped Junior burn it. Kind of like sniffing glue only far, far worse.

(Note: Scribe just heard AP this morning describe the Supremes as 4 Liberals and 4 Conservatives; one crossover. They must be smoking something quite nasty too, or just confused that horrific fantasy with 5 fascists and 4 Con leaning moderates: including one crossdresser, no names mentioned Mr. “Pubic Hair in my drink;” pointy white hat, lilly-white redneck wannabe.)

For the soldiers who had to guard the affair there was a limited supply of water under the broiling sun. They had to deal with constant attacks, both verbal and actual, by protestors who loath fascism and occupiers, but even worse: concert goers with the morals of those who, to paraphrase the great God of satirical song: Tom Lehrer, “…practice animal husbandry until they got caught at it.”

Up on the hills surrounding the bash, and Scribe uses “bash” in the worst sense of the word, were crosses bearing the weight of all those who attempted to crash the party and tell them they were naked.


“So your boy will soon retire to Crawford, maybe?”

“MAYBE, but if he does we’ll have another empty suit, vacant head, to replace him. Nutsie, I’d like to introduce you to Fred…”

Tennessee Tuxedo pulled up in the Flintstone car screaming, “Yaba daba do me!” He was playing Rocky Top on a banjo… poorly. Just like he did everything poorly, what little he did, when he represented the great, long but quite thin, state of Tennessee. Riding in the car with him were the ghouls from Night of the Living Dead.

“Say, ‘Hi’ to my family,” Fred said, and then continued to sing like a very, VERY sick moose in heat.

Rabid laughed as Newt said…

“I can see the family resemblance.”

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