Colossus 2013

Revising the monument:

Not like the noble works of Western fame,

Of conquering race astride from land to land,

Here at bloodied, graffitied gates now stands,
A twerking harlot, some father’s shame, to proclaim:

U S for Sale! Comprehensive Plan!
"Yo World; may your spawn slander, reprimand,

My breed, whose bequest, nonetheless, they'll have,
Keep," mumble her collagened lips, "your fit. Pour:

Your benighted, needy, your just plain bored!

Your aggrieved, those eager to settle scores,
Bloodied hands fleeing their criminal wars,

Bring misogyny, polygamy, crime,
Bring Hate, Greed, 'Vibrancy'; power is  mine!

Hit my cell at the door, for a good time..."

People are going to have to think less about themselves and think more about me, Fareed Zakaria...

Fareed Zakaria was born into an elite Indian Muslim family and made his way into the global elite via Harvard and Yale. He's edited Foreign Affairs, Newsweek and Newsweek International; now he's a host on CNN. As you can imagine, this expertise and background have given him unique insight into the inexplicable horror of the Boston Marathon bombing by two young Muslim men whose family was welcomed into United States as refugees when they were children. Mr. Zakaria has had a whole week to apply his keen intellect and experience to the problem. What has he discerned? That we haven't done enough to "embrace" Muslims, and should take Europe, with its much larger, more hostile and separate Muslim communities, for our model:

Over the past two decades...European countries have recognized the dangers created by their indifference and have sought to integrate Muslim migrants. Governments at all levels have engaged with Islamic communities, taking steps to include Muslims in mainstream society but also to nurture a more modern, European version of Islam. In effect, many governments are now dealing with Islam as they have other religions, creating Islamic councils, providing funding for cultural activities, representation in public forums and being mindful of religious practices and holidays.

Note the use of "integrate" in place of "assimilate". This is a long-time trend that has been gaining steam as assimilation has failed due to the sheer number of newcomers, our regnant system of identity politics and the progressive elite's assault on the concept itself. Assimilation of immigrants is now considered either too ambitious or just so, I don't know, last millennium in its backwardness.

Of course I'm forgetting the most important question following the bombings. How does this affect the prospects of Fareed Zakaria and his progeny? Without a separate community (and the threat of violence and general social degradation coming therefrom) Zakaria cannot claim to be our diviner of intention, and his rougher poor relations ("Muslim leaders") cannot appropriate the role of intermediaries. All this talk of "fear" in the elite media--the average American wouldn't know he was in its throes if the Washington Post didn't tell him--is just wishful thinking. Your fear is desired, necessary even, and will be presumed whether you like it or not. The lad(ies) doth protest too much. This is all  leaving aside that Zakaria is nearly as alien to the average Muslim immigrant as Barack Obama is to the urban black.

Fareed goes on to reassure us that if we legitimize separate Muslim communities as such and deal with them through a new generation of Muslim political leaders, occasionally somebody will rat out the terrorists before they strike:

The lesson from Europe appears to be: Embrace Muslim communities. That’s a conclusion U.S. law enforcement agencies would confirm. The better the relationship with local Muslim groups, the more likely they are to provide useful information about potential jihadis.
An attack — apparently inspired but also perhaps directed by al-Qaeda — was foiled recently in Canada for just this reason. An imam in Toronto noticed one of his congregants behaving strangely and reported the behavior to the police, who followed up and arrested the man before he could execute his plan. Before briefing reporters on their collaboration, Canada’s top counterterrorism authorities invited Toronto’s Islamic leaders to a meeting and thanked them for their help. “But for the Muslim community’s intervention, we may not have had the success,” said the official, according to one lawyer invited to the meeting.

Of course a moratorium on immigration from Muslim countries is inconceivable. What would become of Fareed's CNN gig then?
Wait a minute, I think I've seen this bit before:

Resourceful Satirical Magazine Finds Americans Not Stereotyping, Ridicules Them For Their Ignorance

Via Steve Sailer, here's The Onion engaging in accidental self-parody:

Majority of Americans Not Informed Enough To Stereotype Chechens

The peoples' calm tolerance goes into the media's Narrate-o-Matic and voila, out it comes as popular "ignorance." The average American just can't win--must be why the elites think he's such a loser.

 Of course the real irony here is this failed bit acknowledges a certain amount of information is necessary for "stereotyping"; likewise the ongoing media campaign of obscurantism surrounding Boston (of which this piece is a part) reveals tolerance often requires a certain amount of ignorance. But that's getting way too complicated for the typically all-knowing twenty-something a couple of years out of Harvard. Easier (and safer) to just to fire away at the usual targets, because as you know, anyone who runs is a vc...

 

T-Shirt Slogan

Works for any number of disciplines.

From the Untethered Newswire

October 31, 2021, Stamford CT (UNS)

In an incident experts are calling unprecedented, a veteran daytime talk-show host died today when his soul fled his body.
"At approximately 12:59 this afternoon Maury Povich died of multiple complications resulting from the catastrophic, sudden detachment of his soul from his physical body,” a spokesperson at Stamford General Hospital read from a prepared statement hours later.

Povich, 76, collapsed during the taping of his television program Maury, which has been running in one form or another since 1991. In the recording of his final, incomplete show, disseminated on the Internet within minutes of his death, Povich appears to become disoriented, massaging his chest before taking a seat on the edge of the stage and waving off a concerned assistant. Then he loosens his tie and, smiling pensively, says, "you know I've done about a thousand of these paternity tests by now..."
At that point (warning: disturbing content at 10:58) his voice becomes unintelligible as he appears to physically implode. To the horror of his crew and the confusion of audience members, Povich collapsed in a gelatinous heap, unrecognizable as human, within seconds.

The studio audience reacted violently, as some bolted for the exits, some laughed at what they, perhaps, took to be a stunt, and others jockeyed to photograph or prod Povich's remains. At one point a man, who had just learned he is the father of three children, can be seen trying to cut away a piece of the former host for a souvenir. Stamford police took several hours to contain the chaos, making several arrests.

Loquatious DeVonne, 36, a participant on the program, was nearby when it happened.
"His voice got all weird and blubbery, like he was underwater or something. Then he just went all like a big rubber baby, you know, that was all hollow inside. I was like damn!"

Dr. Hal Ashborne of the Institute for Scientific Theology, after examining the tape, said the incident is vindication for the religious belief in the existence of a soul as the "core element of the human person." Dr. Ashborne played and analyzed the recording for reporters.
"Right here, just as he begins to collapse in on himself, we can clearly discern the implosion beginning in the chest, proving a longtime, nearly universal human intuition wrongly discredited by science--that of a soul extant as a physical reality within the human breast. And then here, precisely at 10:59:06, you can actually see Mr. Povich's soul leaving his body."

Ms. DeVonne and others could not confirm the soul's departure from their eyewitness accounts.
"All I know is it got real smelly up in there right when he fall down and he kind of made this loud fart sound." She said.

In an historic news conference scheduled for tomorrow, several of the world's top scientists and theologians reportedly will join to assert the death has demonstrated conclusively the existence of the soul as a "physical and ontological reality."
"I know. I couldn't believe it either." Richard Dawkins, celebrity atheist, said, shaking his head. "But what other explanation is there?"

The debate over the nature of the soul has only just begun, however, according to Dr. Samuel Mitchell, head of Connecticut University's theology department.
"The question remains as to the disposition of that soul. The soul is known to depart the body following death, not to precipitate or cause death. What became of it? Was it destroyed? And if it was, then has the existence of the soul really been proven? The soul is supposed to be immortal and immutable. Or is it subject, with enough time and effort, to degradation the same way a biological entity is? The question remains: can a man lose his soul?"

Dr. Mitchell reassured those concerned about meeting a similar fate. Povich was an extraordinary case, he said.
"One thing is clear. After years of intense, unremitting assault upon the seat of his own humanity with utter disregard for its well-being, Povich has unintentionally proved the existence of the soul, providing us here with the first recorded image of it. But it required concerted effort over a lifetime. It's unlikely there are very many people capable of scaring their soul from their own body, even if they tried."

Mitchell suggested the death of Jerry Springer, another veteran daytime talk-show host, may have to be reexamined in light of today's event. According to a police inquiry, Springer was killed in 2017 when a stage-light fell on him during a staple of his show, his "final thoughts" on the day's program. Yet several in the studio audience insisted they saw a lightning-like electric current passing from somewhere overhead and through Mr. Springer, who was reduced to ash in seconds. Controversy has surrounded that incident and was exacerbated when the recording of the program turned up missing. Mitchell isn't prepared to link the two deaths, but insists the degree and nature of Springer's injuries have not been adequately explained and should be reevaluated.
"This was no lighting accident."

Bulk Mailer

A message from the Southern Poverty Law Center:



"Racists are everywhere...People denying the existence of racism may be racist themselves."

Infernal Refugee Rag

I've got a little time left and nothing to lose. You have too much of both. Everything you do is contingent on your future; I have none. You must take care; I will take advantage. You pay your tithe in hypocrisy. You're invested. I'm busted. But I won't go away. I'm that crank with the uncertain means of income. I'm your village atheist. I won't humor your gods, and I'm ten feet tall. I am familiar and unsettling, something you've heard of but have never seen. I'm always there, in the back, glowering, moving through the dim edge of the mass. My features are never clear to you, always in shadow...

You have bought in, like everyone else, to get by; you have incurred an unexpected debt. I am here to collect. No more payment in the counterfeit that is your condescension--I'll break your legs. We had a trust, you and I. You declared it invalid, and me contemptible; I am the perpetual loser. But what happens when the game is up? I am of the psychic barrens left behind by your rapacious bacchanal. Those wastes are always with me. You don't know shit. I want to bring them to you. You pass me on the street, looking away in distaste; I grab you by the collar, pin you up against the wall; listen here you bastards...

The old neighborhood rises up around us; I am momentarily overcome; you try to break free but I have the strength of the manic and I hold you by the neck at arms length, your legs squirming in air, with one hand while wiping my averted eyes with the other...

You owe me an explanation. I am your incorrigible white trash, your embarrassing relations, your loud neighbors overhead going at it, fighting, fucking, going mad. Trust your instinct; don't come up to complain. I will be gone soon enough. Then you'll miss me. You haven't met my understudy. Just wait...

Yes, wait here a while. I'm just getting started.

An Uncanny Recognition

From The Onion:

NEW YORK—According to media analysts, the nation's TV commentators and political pundits have proved uncannily accurate when describing the deeply disturbed inner thoughts of accused Arizona gunman Jared Loughner. "It's strange, but when it comes to getting inside the mind of this human being who seems to possess no empathy, sense of morality, or hold on reality, and who is motivated only by personal animus and self-glorification, the nation's major political pundits have been amazingly adept," said Horizon Media analyst Bob Cullen, who has studied extensive tape of commentators on all major TV news programs and found their remarks on "what the killer is thinking" to be consistently thorough and detailed across the board. "It's almost as though they have some way of knowing, firsthand, exactly what this demented and highly dangerous individual with the eyes of millions upon him is going through." Researchers at Horizon Media also reported that a number of prominent TV pundits appeared to be mimicking the exact same chilling gleam in Loughner's eye for what they could only speculate was "dramatic effect."

Shooting the Blue State Bar Bull

"No, I didn't see the speech. What did he say?"

"It was exhilarating. I'm still tingling."

"What did he say?"

"He was in rare form. Dignity. Poise. Handsome."

"Nonsense. He looks like Stan Laurel's mulatto love child. What did he say?"

"His inflection, his tempo. Just perfect."

"What did he say?"

"His is a rare eloquence. He struck just the right note of conciliation while still expressing the anger of black America without all the, without all the anger."

"There's a neat trick. But I thought he was addressing some controversy or other."

"Yeah, the Clintons played the race card. Just reprehensible. I'm sickened."

"What's this? The same Hillary the Great as you've characterized her BO?"

"BO?"

"Before Obama. Everything changes AO. It's a whole new paradigm. An exciting time."

"Yes, it's amazing how much of an impact he's had already. To think that some would deny him the presidency! I swear, if we fail to elect this man for the first time in my life I will be truly ashamed of my country."

"I was being facetious."

"I know. He's already bringing us together."

"What I meant was--hey, Alex, you work here too? Set me up."

"You're right; the pastor's remarks were taken entirely out of context..."

"Did I say--yes, one must place 'God damn America' in its proper context. Wide margin of nuance."

"Besides, it's not like he has to answer--"

"For the religious/political philosophy of his stated 'spiritual mentor' and key player in his rise?"

"Right!

"For twenty years of resentful racial separatist demagogy, every Sunday? What Barack condescendingly attributes to those 'raucous' negro church services?

"Exactly! It's all guilt by association."

"Yes, mentoring is such a tenuous association. Especially for a politician."

"You said it! Alex, get this guy another."

"Thanks, but I was being--"

Barack addresses these questions from a whole new perspective."

"What's the persepctive?"

"I mean, this guy understands race as and you and I simply cannot."

"Why is that exactly? I mean he's had neither the typical white nor typical black American experience. That's fine, but why is it this alone constitutes insight? If his history is so unique isn't also true that he doesn't quite share the experience of most Americans, black or white? I mean, why is it necessarily a positive? Because he says so in a hundred equally meaningless ways? Is this insight a genetic birthright? Because after the perfunctory bragging about his mixed parentage, all I hear are platitudes."

"Yes, yes. That's what I'm saying. He understands."

"I see. 'I have understood you, America.' What exactly is his understanding?"

" Exactly. Barack understands. It's a rare thing among politicians."

"Are you fu--? What the hell does he understand? Why can't I hear it like everybody else? Where is this understanding everyone keeps talking about? What's wrong with me?"

"You see, as a black man he's experienced first-hand the oppression of his white ancestors. It's a very unique perspective."

"Yes. Imagine an indulgently guilty white liberal getting to actually be black. It must be exquisite. Continual bliss. To be able to resolve this angst in its glorious reversal, to indulge in the romance of oppression not as an outsider but as its subject--as both, in supreme sanctimony, over and over! But it is kind of weird when his white half condescends toward his black half. I think if it was me I'd call it a wash and get on with business. But I'm not the ambitious sort.
"None of that for Barack; no grace, no generosity. No leaving anything on the table. Just a meticulous, thorough wringing out of any and all possible political advantage from this circumstance--and then some. He lays claim to all he surveys. He claims a unique perspective on all human suffering with those artlessly exhaustive rhetorical sweeps of his, those godawful geography name-checks. It's a kind of greed. 'From the family crossing the Rio Grande to the Hillbillies in Appalachia', he's feeling you. Something to go with his response to the Wright controversy which, if I'm reading him correctly, is 'if it offends, I condemn'; call it 'if you're sore, I'm you're recourse.' If you've got a claim on the collective guilt of white America, Barack Obama is your man. Barack wants his cut. Isn't it a little presumptuous of this guy that he thinks he can coopt the very idea of collective guilt and lord it over the nation?"

"Yes. He's already overcome so much."

"He shall overcome."

"Exactly! I mean, here is a guy who's taken the pain of being a black man in America, all that pain and suffering, he's made that sacrifice."

"Christ-like."

"Can I use that?"

"Oh. By all means. But what pain? What suffering?"

"Duh. He's bla-ack."

"Hey, now you're talking. And white--don't forget! He's half-white!"

"Now you see! And white. He's had to endure the oppression and daily humiliation of the black American, while carrying on his shoulders the tremendous guilt of white America. These are the yin and yang of the American racial dynamic. And he contains them entirely within himself."

"But it seems he gets all the credit for the suffering and none of the guilt for it. They're not equal at all."

"Of course not. You're backsliding now. The suffering is the thing. Dude, it's in Hamlet. You see, because the guilt is complicity in the suffering, for someone on the receiving end of the suffering, because for him it must be borne, the white guilt is just more suffering!"

"My head hurts. But the guilt is conceptual. It's not really suffering."

"No; it's the most purifying suffering there is, because it's conceptual. Because it takes place entirely within, uncompromised by physical reality, it has no bounds. This is not the suffering of the body! This is the suffering of the soul. You and I simply aren't capable of this level of it. You say he's 'ambitious.' This is precisely why it is he and why it is now. He has made that journey, from white to black. He's mounting that cross gladly. His is the suffering of the nation."

"I get it. He is us."

"Exactly. You're almost there."

"Where, damn it, where?"

"To the mountaintop, finally. Barack Obama is the ultimate gesture, the act of penitence, the laying down of arms, the ritual abasement, the apology, all embodied in one man. Imagine that guilt-free future. Can you see it? The mountaintop. This man alone is uniquely positioned to simultaneously absolve white shame and restore the dignity of black America. And it has to be embodied in one man, one, yes, Christ-like figure who contains multitudes within and is endowed with the transcendence of celebrity. He is us, yes! And we owe it to ourselves. But he can't do it if for us if we don't raise him up to the heights from which he will need to operate. No one will now doubt the word of America. But we must act; we must make that gesture. One cannot stand by when he's called upon to atone for the greatest sin, the original sin, of his nation."

"Hallelujah! I see! How could I have been so blind? Thanks Alex, but I won't be having that drink after all. I've found religion."

Newswire

Washington (UNS) -- A popular conservative website today released what it claims are passages edited out of the first draft submission of Barack Obama's best-selling memoir, Dreams From My Father. Outraged Obama supporters contend the story is a fraud seeking to arouse racist sentiment.
"These are forgeries in the mold of the Protocols of the Elders of Zion, and they're blatantly racist, perpetuating sexual stereotypes about black men in an attempt to stoke racial anxieties toward a man who could become the nation's first black president." Senior advisor David Pouffe said today.

Among the material posted on the Dredge Report this morning was an explicit account of a sexual encounter between a young Obama and a fellow student at Columbia University:

As our heaving forms labored to produce the kinetic energy of two opposites interacting, two counterpoints alternately coming together and apart as if unsure of their relation to one another, simultaneously at war and in congress, the tempo increasing and our sexual pleasure quickening, she suddenly called out:
"Yes! Faster! Harder! More! More!"
It was then that it struck me. It would always be thus; this expectation of more, this taking for granted of subservience, arising in habit ingrained by generations of the casual indulgence of privileged status. I would forever be driven forward, compelled on, faster, harder... More, black man. More.

I looked at Demarcus, across the pale expanse of privileged skin separating us. Our eyes met in silent, weary understanding. Now it was as if the gentle rocking of our heads was no longer merely the result of our exertions, but mutual nodding in grim assent to the harrowing recognition of a reality too evident, too total, too painful and humiliating to speak aloud, in the silent communication of a profound pain that began in the holds of the slave ships. No matter how hard we worked to "fit in", no matter what we did or how well we did it, we would never find respite. Even here with two of us in harness, it simply would not do. For some the bar would always be set a little higher; from some a little more would be demanded. This compulsion would always be there, driving us on in the silent company of the many enslaved and oppressed to come before, this expectation that we were to spend ourselves in subjugation and service.

In my mind's eye I saw them, legions of nameless black men, bending over their work in the field, being driven beneath the lash. Here I was now bent over this work, driven, still, beneath this lash. Only now the actual whip was no longer required, the promise of violence so long established that it needed no overt threat. So deeply instilled was the system of privilege that it determined every interaction between the races. Now the whiplash came in the insensitive, blithely ignorant comment, in the nervous look, in the discretely tightened grip on the purse, in the drawing of the child closer, in the taxi cab speeding past and in the callous enthusiasm demanding more. Faster. Harder. More.

I would always be expected to "satisfy", to perform a task on someone else's behalf, to be an object of amusement, even here a mere sexual beast of burden...

Citing an "anonymous source still working for the book's publisher", the website alleges the passage from which the above excerpt was taken was cut before going to press due not to its subject matter but a need to trim the first-time author's manuscript by an additional ten thousand words. Senator Obama's campaign was unavailable for comment.

The Bland Inquisitor

INTERIOR, AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, TWILIGHT

An anonymous PRISONER is seated on a plain wooden chair facing the VP's desk. He is haggard, gaunt, filthy. A dark puddle of something is at his feet. His wrists are chained to his ankles with unnecessarily heavy chains. He is leaning forward, listing to the side, as if he will fall forward any moment, looking at the VP from under a drooping brow. The VP is speaking.

VP
...loyalty. Principle. Fortitude. I'm talking about ethics. These are the things with which you should have concerned yourself. This business about deferring to the Constitution, the law...

he pauses to check his disgust

...the will of the people. This is not integrity; this is cowardice. It's a dodge. The conceit of the rule of law is a luxury for the effete. For those who couldn't protect an anthill from a kid with a magnifying glass. That is, those among them who actually believe their nonsense. As for the rest, you just watch what becomes of their Constitution once they get a hold of it. No, you've thrown your lot in with cowards and traitors.

You say you've lost your stomach for it; now you want to obey the law. The law is for traffic cops. When you get to this level, no one charged with defending the nation, no one standing on that wall, gets to play the virgin.
The law is a beautiful, comforting--and above all useful--illusion. Always has been. That's not the same as saying it's meaningless. On the contrary. It's precisely because I want to preserve it that I do what I do. I break it where it needs it, to preserve it where I can. I do what I have to do. The people have no idea.
You want out? I thought you knew. No one gets out.

PRISONER
His hoarse voice is barely more than a whisper, his words lisped through swollen lips
I can keef my mouf shut.

the VP silences him with a raised hand

VP
Even if you were telling the truth, I don't care. You're of no use to me. Except as an example. Letting you go now is out of the question, as you know. But your example will help greatly. You can rest knowing that you gave one last invaluable service to your Vice--to your country. But let's have no more talk about the law, about the Constitution.

PRISONER
But if that's what the people want...

VP
Do they? You disappoint me. I thought you understood human nature. The common man? The citizen? The common man is a cowering, superstitious, gluttonous fool who gladly chooses to live in a fantasy world. You think he wants liberty? Freedom? If he ever came upon true freedom and got a look at what it requires of him he would--he does--run to cower in the shelter of power's embrace.

What he really wants is power; knowing he can't wield it, he settles for power working on his behalf, always; always out there crushing someone else, somewhere unseen, some other insignificant fool to whom he has no relation, for whom he has no care; power grinding away out of sight like a factory that continually produces safety and plenty--free of charge. And that's what we do. It's a beautiful thing. It's a tremendous act of kindness.

The common man just wants to be left alone. That's the full extent of his understanding of freedom. We have a deal, an arrangement, the common man and I, and he knows it. He doesn't want to see the tremendous effort and sacrifice I make on his behalf; he doesn't want to know. I--we are like God. We create the world as it exists in the collective mind. It is the most sacred trust there is. You think we could do this constrained by the law?

You see, we haven't any choice in the matter. The law, the Constitution, morality itself; all of this is an illusion. A fantasy. Now you, and your newfound friends, want us to give the illusion a try--because you have fooled yourself into believing it. This is madness. And you wonder at my contempt.

The people want to be left alone to fuck and eat themselves into a stupor. For the love of God man look around you. And I'm here to oblige them. It's only when the common man starts to fear; it's only when he thinks that power will fail that he starts to pay attention, that he starts to bleat away about rights and the law. And, contrary to the fantasy world you have thrown your lot in with, that's when what peace and liberty we have managed are threatened.
Believe me, the last thing any of us want is for the "people" to act. For us to give the Law an honest try. God help us then. This will all look like a paintball game if it comes to that. But it isn't going to come to that.

We dirty our hands on the common man's behalf. We take up the burden he gets to pretend isn't there. We toil in the dark, doing his dirty work. And this is the thanks we get. Don't fucking talk to me about the law. I'll have your ass sent to--well, never mind where. Trust me, you haven't seen anything. Count yourself lucky you haven't any remaining useful information. But the betrayal.

Why not give it a try you say. You forget that as long as there exist out there those who will sacrifice the law for power, and they will always be there because they are every one of us, that subjugating yourself to the law means subjugating yourself to them. People don't know how lucky they are that it's us at the lever; we who are willing to allow them their measure of freedom and the plausible fiction of the "law."

PRISONER
I took an oaf--oath--to defth, to defend--

VP
If you want to keep what's left of your tongue you'll stop moving it. Constitution? Let me tell you about the Constitution. The dirty little secret of the Constitution is that it cannot survive without someone like me contravening it. You want a constitution? Well, you can have part of one, but you can't have all of one. Listen to me. It isn't possible. A complete constitution will not last five minutes in the real world. We won't last five minutes adhering to some bullshit constitution. Fuck the Constitution.

The Constitution is powerless to protect the nation. Hell, the Constitution can't even defend itself. The Constitution is a conceit. You fell for that bullshit. Unfortunate. But if you think I'm going to leave the nation defenseless so that I can preen before it as a defender of the Constitution. I defend lives, not paper. Jesus.

PRISONER
Your time is up. All of this will be rolled back. The next administration...

the VP interrupts him with laughter, a low, thumping caw in the chest, steadily rising in volume

...they'll turn it all back, you'll see; we can't go on like this, we have to try and make it all work like it's supposed to...

the VP, still laughing, reaches inside his collar, grabbing hold of something; as he pulls his hand back out his face contorts, going lifeless. His laugh is muffled as he pulls away a rubbery mask, revealing the face beneath. It is a woman's face; we know it; it is the FRONTRUNNER. The laugh is now her familiar cackle; she stands, pulling away the remnants of the mask, her laughter growing louder.

CLOSE SHOT, PRISONER
He is horrified, trying to speak.

CLOSE SHOT, THE MASK OF THE VP
It is grimacing up at us from the ground through black, hollow eyes.

LOW ANGLE SHOT, THE FRONTRUNNER
She is towering over our view, shadows cast on her face from low angle light intensifying her sinister expression, laughing away like a madwoman.

FADE

Hollywood Acts

November 4, 2007

Hollywood CA (UNS) -- At a news conference today a group of activist filmmakers unveiled a plan to use cutting-edge technology to eventually rid all Hollywood films of nooses, a symbol of lynching in the Jim Crow South.

"The campaign of intimidation sweeping the nation involving the use of nooses, a symbol of lynching in the Jim Crow South, means denial of the racism inherent in our society is no longer an option. We believe Hollywood needs to be in the forefront on this issue. Doing nothing constitutes the violation of the civil rights of each and every African American, as well as other traditional targets of terror and oppression. It is time for the battle against racism, homophobia and sexism to join technology in the Twenty-First Century." Saveermis Andrist, president of the organization behind the effort, Filmmakers Against Racism and Sexism in Entertainment (FARSE), said in a prepared statement. Ms. Andrist is a screenwriter/director/novelist/performance and recording artist.

A video presentation demonstrating some of the possibilities included scenes featuring nooses, a symbol of lynching in the Jim Crow South, alternately transformed into a wreath of lillies, a thick gold chain, and a Hawaiian lei. The presentation had to be cut short due to technical difficulties.

"Film is all about the suspension of disbelief." Ms. Andrist said in reply to observations that some of the effects were incongruous or unrealistic. "We're merely asking people to suspend their disbelief a little further, for a good cause. In fact audiences will be able to rediscover these films all over again, as striking examples of a potential future, free of hate and intolerance. But more importantly, future generations will not be exposed at all to them."

Ms. Andrist rejected that the project would constitute a violation of freedom of artistic expression.

"We cannot sacrifice tolerance to the myth of artistic freedom. Freedom of artistic expression does not mean freedom of artistic repression. Artists are no more free than common people to terrorize people of color and other oppressed groups. Freedom of speech does not include the right to shout fire in a crowded theatre, and these images constitute shouting fire in our homes, in our places of work, in hand-held devices, wherever they might appear. They continually shout hatred at people of color. They shout fire in our conscience."

She brushed aside skepticism about the legal barriers to altering what is still an untold number of films.
"Intellectual property rights can't be allowed to trump civil rights. The safety and well-being of the oppressed is nobody's property. We feel that existing civil rights and hate crimes laws already constitute a broad mandate to act. All that remains is to consolidate them through either court order or legislation specifically empowering us to use the process wherever these heinous images are found. This is no time for quibbling over legality. If we wait for the current wave of hate to pass, we will have missed a golden opportunity to end it once and for all. This is bigger than individual filmmakers or entities, and we shouldn't allow a right to terrorize and oppress masquerading as freedom of expression to curtail the true right of millions to live without fear."

When asked if this meant the banning or confiscation of original, unedited copies of films in various formats, she said she didn't anticipate it would come to that. "We feel that through entirely voluntary measures attrition will eventually eliminate the majority of these instruments of hate, requiring a minimum of legal enforcement."

She also said she anticipated this project would be the first phase in a broader effort, with the working title Hollywood United for Humanity's Advancement (HUHA), that would eventually rid cinema, television and video games of all symbols of racism, sexism and homophobia.

Asked if any of her own work might eventually be affected, Ms. Andrist explained that she hasn't yet produced any.

In the Bunker with Barney, Laura, and Me

I will not withdraw even if Laura and Barney are the only ones supporting me.
George W. Bush

The following diary fragments were found by rebel forces of the breakaway American states near the ruins of President George W. Bush’s secret bunker at the close of the Second Civil War in May of 2008. The author is unknown, signing only his initials, “D.D.”

Various explanations abound for D.D.’s identity; all speculative, some wildly fanciful, such as the legend that he was an obscure “blogger” (a phrase for professional and dilletante writers, political activists, exhibitionists, and others who used the Internet for self-publishing before the UNITUS Act of 2020 solidified the Second Republic's absolute control over the media, ushering in the Long Repression of the mid-21st Century).
By this account, after abandoning his early opposition to the Administration D.D. became a fervent supporter in its last days and somehow, with the zeal and determination of a convert, managed to insinuate himself into the upper echelons of the Administration just as it descended into confusion and madness.

All indications are that his role was that of a domestic servant. The diary makes obvious the other residents considered him an insignificant dullard. This likely explains why they were unguarded in his presence, allowing this invaluable document of the bizarre death throes of the Bush Regime.

April 5
I think the stress is starting to take its toll on the president. Earlier today I went to clean his quarters; I was surprised to find him standing before a full length mirror, practicing his oratorical hand gestures and muttering under his breath.

I gaped in shock. Hearing the sound of a muffled cough, I looked to see the first lady sitting across the room watching, sullenly taking long drags from a cigarette. She smashed it out violently in an over-full ashtray and, turning to withdraw another, caught sight of me. I pretended I’d just walked in, saying:
"Mr. President? I found that copy of Rebel in Chief we've been looking for."
He didn't seem to hear, but when he caught sight of me in the mirror he said:
"How long you been in the service, son?"

Before I could reply he returned to his muttering, delivering a one-liner and mustering a sickly version of his familiar chuckle. It was frightening, seeing him like that. I hurried out, feeling the first lady's eyes on the back of my neck. I’m beginning to suspect that things aren’t going as well as the President says.

April 9
Today Rove caught me, again, as I tried sneaking past his quarters.
“D____. Would you come here for a moment please?” He said in that unctuous voice he uses when he wants something. I braced myself and went in; I was appalled to find that awful green silk bath robe—all he’s worn for days now—was left open, revealing what had to be a thong. He was covered in oil and reddened from lying in his tanning bed.
“I wonder if you might help me; I need to apply this lotion and I can’t quite reach…”
“I have to feed Barney.” I stammered. "Mrs. Bush—I mean the first lady—will kill me if I don’t—"
“Women.” He said, shaking his head, advancing on me. “Why do we bother? Well, the dog can wait. Barney I mean, not Laura." He gave that creepy little laugh he uses when he thinks he's said something clever. "You won’t tell that I said that, will you? Our little secret?” He said the last part in a low, conspiratorial tone. As he came near I backed away, bumping into the wall; I slid sideways until I fell out the open door.

“Gotta feed the dog.” I said nervously over my shoulder as I hustled away. “Gotta feed Barney.”
“Okay then, maybe later.” He said casually, pretending not to notice my discomfort. Damn that guy’s persistent.

April 12
As I was passing the conference room this morning the president called me in.
“D____. C’mere. Check this out.” He said cheerfully. I allowed myself the hope that he was going to say we'd be leaving the bunker soon. “Have I shown you this?”
He had been leaning over a scale model of a city. He stepped back and smiled proudly, spreading his arms in presentation.

“What is it sir?” I said, disguising my disappointment. The room was a shambles; everything had been hastily cast to the walls to make room for the model's well-lit preeminence in the center of the squalor.

“It’s Baghdad.”
“Oh, of course.” I said, still feigning.
“See, here’s the airport; here’s the road to the airport; see the cars? Everything’s safe and secure. See the people? They’re voting.”
“What’s that sir?” I was sorry the moment I asked, but the futuristic structure on the outskirts of the city was out of place, cobbled together with what appeared to be the modified parts of a child’s toy.
“That’s the Bush Freedom and Liberty Mosque.” He said, his enthusiasm quickening. “It's going to be open to Muslims and Shiites alike. Let me show you—“

“George!” The First Lady called sharply from behind me. The look of a chastened boy came over the President’s face. I instinctively came to attention. I shifted to the side and, careful not to make eye contact, excused myself with a mumble.

I hurried down the hallway before stopping in my tracks. Rove’s door was open; a muted, down-tempo R&B beat and the scent of marijuana emanated from his room. I turned about on my heel. Too late.
“D____!” It was the Vice President. “Get in here.” He motioned at me from the other end of the hallway.
I had to pass Rove’s open door to reach the V.P.'s quarters. I looked deliberately ahead; out of the corner of my eye Rove's leer taunted me through the dim resolution of the black-light. Worse; I thought I saw Bolton’s white moustache glowing in the darkened recess behind him, over a constellation of glinting studs that would have to be one of his leather get-ups. They would be at it for a while. Great. Another shitty night's sleep hiding in the pantry.

“C’mon. Double-time!” The V.P. barked impatiently, going back inside.
When I came in I saw General Pace and General Casey standing at attention before a folding table covered in maps.
“See this idiot?” The Vice President said, pulling me into the room with what felt like a claw. The two stared straight ahead. “Look at him!” He thundered. The two sheepishly complied. There was an awkward, embarrassing moment as we stared dumbly at one another. The room was colder than ever. The steam from our breath pawed at the air between us like ghostly forelimbs.

“This moron can do a better job than you two!” He gave me a rough shake. “In fact, he’s about to replace you incompetent bozos! What do you think of that?” Pace began to speak, then thought better.
“Go ahead, Miss, let’s hear what you have to say.” The V.P. growled.
“I—we’ll try harder sir; we just need another six months to turn this thing around.” Pace’s voice quavered on the verge of one of his legendary crying jags.
“Get the hell out of here.” The Vice President said without looking at me, shoving me back out the door.
I'm starting to wonder what I've gotten myself into.

April 15
When I went to clean the conference room today I found Ledeen bent over the Baghdad model; using one of Goldberg's Star Trek toys he was pretending to strafe and bomb the city, spraying the streets with spittle as he mimicked the sound of bombs and gunfire, punctuating here and there with the anguished cries of the wounded. I managed to slip back out before he saw me.

April 19
I sneaked out into the garden today, against the V.P.’s orders, just to escape the relentless drone of the ventilation system. It was shrouded in silence and a cool mist; an incredibly peaceful contrast to what was going on inside. It was so still for a moment I swore the war wasn’t real.
The impulse to flight welled up, terrifyingly. Then I heard something: barely perceptible, but clearly the sound of a hushed, urgent voice. I followed it, my accelerated heartbeat sending a hot pulse through my temples. I thought the enemy had found us; I half-expected to find a commando whispering into a headset, setting up a raid.

Then I heard a phrase I recognized. Following the voice I came upon the president, bundled against the chill and reclining in a lounge chair. He was facing away, revealing his profile. He was speaking just above his breath, reciting the programmed phrases that had been the boilerplate of his speeches to the nation, in a maniacal, urgent tone. He spat the words out as if to purge himself of them. Occasionally he would punctuate a sentence with an exaggeration of one of his stock facial expressions; now gross caricatures. It was only then I realized how lost we are. Too overcome to turn away, I looked down in shame.

“Not exactly what you signed on for, is it?” He said.
It was a voice that I didn’t recognize; it was relaxed, unguarded, natural. He was looking at me over his shoulder; the mask that was the man I thought I knew was revealed in its absence. This man was more familiar somehow; he could have been anyone. He had the look of a wearied penitent resigned to fate with gratitude. I came closer so I wouldn’t have to speak up.
“No, I don’t think any of us signed on for this, sir.”
I worried he'd take my my fellow-feeling for a complaint; his look conveyed an instant, grateful understanding.

“Well, sorry anyway.” He turned away. Just as I was about to leave he said, “You know, I was almost baseball commissioner once.”
“I know.” I hesitated a moment. “You would’ve made a good commissioner, Mr. President.”
He faced me, grinning a wan thanks, before looking down into his lap, lost in thought. He caught himself and looked up, in the same old jesting bravado:
“No, I would’ve made one hell of a commissioner, D____.”
I straightened up and nodded, forcing a grin
"Yes sir. I would have liked to be there."
Turning around I nearly walked into the First Lady; I came to attention. She stilled me with a light hand on my shoulder and brought her face before my lowered gaze. Her look had softened. She had been listening to our exchange.
“Thank you, D____. For everything.”
It was the first time she addressed me by name.

“Yes ma’am.” I said, embarrassed. “I better get back inside.”
“Be careful. Dick is chewing out the guys from The Weekly Standard. You might want to steer clear of the conference room." She paused, indulged: "Of course, I think you've earned the right to see Kristol throwing himself at the VP's feet.”
"I'll pass. I saw that last time he was here."
Our eyes met for the first and last time; we smiled conspiratorially and parted.

My hand was heavy on the stairwell hatch. Gathering my strength, I looked back at Laura, pulling George’s blanket closer about his neck, stroking his hair at the temple lightly with the back of her fingers, as if to a child. From here they might as well have been at home, on an identical afternoon, he content and she beloved, some other time, some other place. Any two people. I came back down the hole.

April 20
Everyone is gathered in the conference room. It’s the V.P.’s birthday. I can hear them singing a forced and shrill Happy Birthday right now. I know exactly what he looks like: his thin, mirthless grin drawing the fearful air like a gill; I can see his beady eyes as they furtively scan back and forth with reptilian satisfaction, obscured behind the reflection in his glasses of the terrified, contorted faces of the false revelers.

Well, this is it. Now's my chance; I’m leaving the bunker.
Barney has come in; he looks miserable, wagging his tail plaintively. He seems to understand. No, I'm sure he does.
"I gotta go, pal. Take care of yourself." I tell him, surprised to hear my voice cracking with emotion as I pat him on the head. "Don't worry."

The grim, insincere singing; the dog's helpless, imploring eyes. I have no choice.
Oh alright.
Come on boy, let's go home.
D.D.

Live Blogging the Apocalypse

The following blog entries were discovered after the arrest and detention of an obscure blogger of uncertain means who was responsible for a bizarre episode of violence triggered by a stress induced onset of hallucinatory mental illness.
It seems the aforementioned blogger grew increasingly agitated and fearful as the May 1, 2006 boycott in support of illegal alien amnesty unfolded. As the day progressed he descended further into madness. The following transcript provides a chilling document of one man's attempts to endure a "day without a Mexican." Let it stand as a warning to us all.


18:54

Not much time just wanted to let you know I'm still alive excuse the lack of punctuation must be quick conserve energy--electricity could go any minute no evidence yet of massive social upheaval--it's quiet, too, too quiet--wait a moment I think I heard something I've got to go. Courage, friends.

19:00

Still no sign and you know that's always a bad sign, used reciprocating saw (somehow managed to figure it out despite no illegal immigrant help) to carve an escape hatch in ceiling so we can escape directly to roof when the fit hits the shan, if you know what I mean, does anyone out there know Morse code? Will return later, if it's safe

20:01

trying to cook for myself with my soft pale white hands, bruised and blistered from doing my own yardwork (how do they survive this superhuman physical labor? are they even mortal?) can't figure out how to get the food from the cylindrical metal thing the Capable Ones call "can" am madly beating it against the floor, no use, I think I've injured myself will return later once I've stopped this bleeding

20:24

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20:30

scattered Microsoft yuppies appearing disoriented by hunger no doubt due to the closure of area's upscale restaurants are wandering outside it's only a matter of time before a leader emerges among and organizes them for an attack on the house must find higher ground easier to defend

20:45

Have vanquished the neighbors from their home didn’t want to do it but it was either them or us and this fifty two inch plasma tv is amazing blood everywhere oh my God the horror, yet I’ve never felt so alive

21:15

have figured out how to make the Capable Ones return when they see the altar I’ve created for them and the offerings we will make they will surely take pity on us and accept our sacrifices must go have finally cornered the cat he seems to understand what is happening

21:43

I realize now that to bring back the Capable Ones I must gather together their mysterious devices and place them at the altar; the enchanted hole making staff, or “shovel”; the grass leveler, the magic spinning weed-scepter, the roaring wind maker; our housekeeper Maria’s magic garment that she uses for the ritual of the dish reclamation and her mysterious carpet broom; atop the monument I have created I place the sustenance producing “can” and waving the pelt of our sacrificed cat over and over I repeat the incantation I heard the Capables using: si se puede, si se puede, si se puede

22:43

My God what have I become?

22:59

why have you forsaken us, oh you brave masters of nature's unruly overgrowth, oh you illuminati of the gastronomic? Why such harsh retribution? please return and banish the endless toil and pain we have beasts and virgins and treasure we offer you, yes, amnistia!