Fauxcahontas

pretendian

There are so many things to dislike about this woman. It is truly a challenge to figure out where to begin. I could recite the laundry list of concerns, but there is one set of facts that do a pretty damned good job of encapsulating them all. It is something which cuts directly to the issue of her character as a person. As one might infer from the title of this article, I am of course referring to her now infamous assertion of Cherokee ancestry.

Though I have some rather strong opinions to the contrary, it is a generally held consensus that Harvard is a top notch institute of higher learning. If we are to base this on nothing more than a dollar equation then the idea has at least some credence. Otherwise how does one account for the exorbitant price tag attached to obtaining the pedigree? One could attend four years at Harvard and learn nothing, but for the right price they will bestow a piece of paper that says you have arrived: you are now among the elites.

Sometimes the value of that paper commands a price over and above money. In Elizabeth Warren’s case that price was high indeed. So desperate was she to obtain that pedigree, she willingly sacrificed any shred of integrity she ever possessed by an absurd attempt at cultural appropriation. Back then this was not the mortal sin that it is today, but let’s be completely clear that there is a huge distinction to be made. We are not talking about something petty. You know, like exploiting another race’s identity in your choice of Halloween costumes. What Lizzy pulled, without even the aid of a costume, was an assertion of racial identity (for which she had NO legitimate claim) for the sole purpose of obtaining preferred treatment in entry to an esteemed university. In one of the most bizarre manifestations of affirmative action Harvard actually cosigned this ruse.

So what we should question is this: was her motivation rooted in some insecurities surrounding her qualification that needed that additional edge? Or was it all just about that ancestor of virtue signalling, social posing? These are the only reasonable conclusions that one might draw from this and whether one or the other, neither are desirable traits in leadership. I’ve always had a sense that I had seen this kind of play somewhere before. And then I remembered this:

Go ahead and watch that and try to tell me with a straight face that the two are not the same.

Joe, we hardly knew you

GotGreen

Disclaimer:  the following is not editorial sponsored by the Ale 81 Inn. It is an independent consultation provided to the Biden 2020 Campaign by our field correspondent, Mr. Ford Wenty


 

Good day America. I am Ford Wenty and today I would like to address you not as the humble field correspondent of the Ale 81 Inn. As you can see above they’ve already thrown me under the bus. That’s fine. I get it. It’s just business. No, today I address all of you, but I address the Biden campaign specifically. Not as correspondent, not as news. Today I will do what the fraudcast networks do: I will act as a political consultant. The difference of course being that I bother to make the distinction.

Alright, let’s get right down to it, shall we? Joe….ah! Where do I start. Your campaign is a living, breathing dumpster fire. It’s ugly. Not Michael Dukakis kind of ugly. No, this is something more akin to watching a troupe of dwarfs with diarrhea performing a waltz on stilts. It’s bad Joe, there’s no sugar coating it, okay?

Since we’re only speaking in the frankest of terms I have a few things I want to make clear to you and to America at large. First of all, in the annals of congressional history you will always rank as the most beloved dumbass. You have been the consummate politician: you’ve never held a real job, you’ll say anything and often at the wrong time. Your favorite sandwich is known to all: your own size twelve shoe, uncooked with just a dash of contrition.  You’ve had us all fooled that you’re that old style Irish Catholic. Turns out Father Morey disagrees. Joe you embody all of the stale, moribund rot that your party has served for the past fifty years. In any other set of circumstances you would be the PERFECT nominee. Just the kind of poodle that a globalist establishment could love. But I’ll tell you what, Kemo Sabe. Some of the most successful species on this planet eat their own. The DNC is no exception.

Hell, we’ve all known for years that you were that creepy, touchy kind of guy. As long as you were a useful tool that was just O-Kay. They’ve already trotted that one out on you Joe. You’ve handled it deftly, but you think they are going to let it go? We know the donor class got their money behind you early because out of a field of twenty lunatics you were, if not a safe bet, the only thing close to it. But now you’re toxic, Joe. You and that brat kid of yours. They won’t throw you under the bus for any of that Ukraine or China business. They don’t want anybody looking any closer at that. No, they’ll choose from a host of other things with which to sink you. Lord knows you’ve given them a wealth of material.

So here is how it all shakes out, old Joe. You only have two options left. You can hang it up and slither back to Scranton, lick your wounds and try to forget, or….

It’s the fourth quarter Joe. There are no time outs, you’re 75 yards from the end zone, time is running out. Close your eyes Joe. Imagine you are Aaron Rogers, heaving that miraculous hail mary touchdown pass. It’s come to that Joe. You let AOC and her tribe throw in with Crazy Bernie. Let them go on about the Green New Deal. You can blow it away with your own New GREEN Deal: Biden 2020 for National Marijuana Legalization. It’s really the only play you have left Joe. You have my permission to use the image above to help launch the campaign. And if you need other assistance, please do not hesitate to call someone else.

 

 

 

 

Agent Mueller’s last ride

InkedFord Wenty profile image_LI

A Doom and Reprisal report from Ale 81 Inn Field Correspondent, Ford Wenty



 

The gavel bangs and the background chatter subsides. Ben Stein takes the dais and utters those iconic words: “Mueller?……..Mueller?”

Agent Mueller is home sick today. At least that’s the cover story. Agent Mueller’s day off. The befuddled man you see in the spotlight of these hearings is a chimera, a composite sock puppet with the ghost of J. Edgar reaching up it’s ass to pull the strings. The addition of the basement server defense lawyer at the 11th hour was just to provide additional cover, a helping hand should he trip over the official script. Whilst this charade proceeds the real Agent Mueller runs amok, somewhere in the Nevada desert.

The last confirmed sighting of the real Agent Mueller had him peddling psilocybin and CBD oils at Burning Man. He was in drag, a Hanoi Jane send up of sorts I am given to understand. There may be photos, but absent this I can assure that I have obtained this information from unimpeachable sources. A quarter century ago he may have stood out as an oddity, even at a freak show like Burning Man. In today’s America he blended right in with the rest of the crowd.

On 22 April 2018 I published my first report on Agent Mueller and his activities in this very journal, a piece entitled The Unvarnished Truth about the Mueller Investigation: Beware when Axolotls Frolic. At that time I shared this observation about Agent Mueller:

You know on paper when you look at Agent Mueller’s resume you might get the idea that you’re dealing with a boy scout. The kind of guy you’d want to think of as the straight arrow. Solid. But he’s a stellar example of that Annakin Skywalker to Darth Vader transformation that occurs in Washington DC. Like a black hole in space it is a death spiral, a crushing force de-atomizing even the most gargantuan blocks of matter that dare to fall within it’s orbit. It is a portal, a cosmic wormhole to an alternate reality of Orwellian proportions. All matter is transformed, reassembled into something that still resembles it’s former self, but is forever changed, corrupted. This is true for intentions as well. The best of intentions are lost within this maelstrom, replaced by a dogged determination to preserve the agency or bureau or whatever department of that alternate reality they have been absorbed into. The mission forgotten, it just becomes another job.

Today we can confidently say that these words apply not only to Agent Mueller and his protege, St. James the Pious, but to current FBI director Christopher Wray as well. It is an institutional rot; not a new phenomenon. And there is ample evidence that this has been the nature of the Bureau from it’s inception. At the conclusion of that piece I gave my assurance to our readers that I would remain on this story until it reached it’s sad and ugly end. We’re not quite all the way to the end yet, but I believe that it is time to render the final word on Agent Mueller.

I was at first incredulous at the intel which directed me back to the desert where our paths had last crossed. Once on the ground, following those threads to their end I knew when my quarry was near. I could smell the fear in the air, nearly palpable.  Mueller has taken flight in these wastes as Ahab upon the seas, not in pursuit; rather as the pursued. He is stalked by the ghost of the Great White Gangster. The specter of Whitey Bolger and darker spirits plague his every step. He could have escaped all of this, of course, but the Bureau needed that last hurrah to undo the damage committed by his successor. 

In Beware when Axolotls frolic I reported the abrupt and bloody end of St. James and it was indeed true. I have long known that the James Comey seen on book tours and on film, twitter or any other medium, is in fact a hulking Golem with James Comey skin stretched across it’s mocking imitation of life.  Whatever Mueller’s personal disappointment in his once star pupil, it was predetermined that Comey should be destined for Sainthood. Anything less would reflect ill upon that most sacred of institutions, the Bureau, and by extension all of it’s servants past, present and future. In some lab, buried deep within the rock of West Virginia, the U.S. government has gone all Frank Herbert with the remnants of the original. Like the legendary soldier, Duncan Idaho in faithful service of House Atreides, St. James the Pious has been genetically replicated in ghola form that he may too continue in faithful service of the house of Fidelity, Bravery and Integrity. Don’t be surprised if one of these abominations does not appear on CNN or MSNBC.

Months after the infamous hearings I finally caught up with Agent Mueller at a dusty diner on the outskirts of Tonopah, NV. At the southern edge of town on the Veteran’s Memorial Highway (US 95) he had taken a temporary refuge in one of the back booths of the diner. He was out of the drag get up now, though he still favored the look of the faded Army fatigue jacket. He seemed to be mumbling to himself and swatting at flies, which may have been real or imaginary. There were undoubtedly flies present in the establishment.

From a position at the register I could view the length of the diner. There appeared to be a lone grill cook in the pass through window and one disinterested waitress enjoying a cigarette. I stole a moment of eye contact with the waitress, a querying look to seek permission to seat myself. She set her cigarette aside and rasped out a “sit anywhere you like, sweetheart”, followed by “Coffee?” I told her sure, I’d take a cup. 

“Listen sweetheart,  if it’s okay by you I’ll just take that cup from ya right here. I’m gonna go back and visit Captain Flyswatter.” I wasn’t positive, but she seemed to suppress a bit of a chuckle. I seemed affirmed in this suspicion when she cast a sarcastic sneer in his direction.

“Izzat ‘is name? For real? He’s been coming in here like this, ever so many weeks for months now. You know him?”  She paused for a moment to steady a steaming cup of coffee squarely onto a saucer. She couldn’t hide the tremor as she extended it to me, recovering to steady it with her left hand. A subtle glance at the top of that hand revealed the discreet tracks embedded in the fleshy web between her fingers.

“We were casual acquaintances once. Some concerned associates asked me to check up on him.” I handed her three dollars as I took the saucer. Taking it she shrugged and returned to her cigarette. She had clearly reached her quota of fucks given for the day.

Agent Mueller showed no evident sign that he had even taken notice of my entry. He was engaged with an entirely different plane of existence. It was at this precise moment that I began to form a theory. Agent Mueller had, for lo these many months, been migrating between the signposts where his reality and our own still manage to intersect. An addendum to this theory also suggests that the number of these locations is rapidly dwindling. This would account for his frequency at this diner. Or, perhaps, he just really enjoyed the food and service the establishment has to offer. None of us may ever know for certain.

After moving the dozen or so steps required I slouched down, sideways into the booth behind him. “You’re a tough man to track down Agent Mueller.” It seemed as good an introduction as any. There was a lapse and then a sudden, single word in reply.

“Pilate.”

What I heard was the word “pilot”. Did he mean that was why he was hard to track down?

“You have a pilot or you are a pilot?”

“Pontius Pilate.”

This was from way out in left field. What did he mean?

“What about Pontius Pilate?”

“They used to call me Agent Mueller. I am Pontius Pilate now.”

Ooo-Kay! I knew this would get weird. I just didn’t know how weird, or how fast. He didn’t seem inclined to volunteer more and I wasn’t sure that I should yet pry too hard. I might learn more about this delusion if I simply played along.

“Well Pilate, have you eaten? I’ve got this coffee here and I was thinking about trying some corned beef hash. Care to join me?”

“Do I know you?”

“Of course! It’s Harris! From The Post, sir. Don’t you remember?”

“Harris, Harris……Oh, yes…of course! I remember now!”

“So, uh… how about that breakfast?”

“My hands are clean, Harris. You know that don’t you?”  For the first time he made eye contact. His eyes had a look somewhere between dread fear and a crazed fervor. He thrust his hands before my face, angrily. “Look at these hands, Harris! You see any blood on these hands?”

“Not a speck. Clean as a whistle.”

“God damn right they are. I’ll have dry toast and jelly.”

I returned to the counter where the waitress had been minutes before.  I should come up with a name for the girl, don’t you think? Referring to her as just “the waitress” is a bit dehumanizing. Maybe Julie the Junkie? Yeah, that’ll work. Or just Julie. Anyway, I placed the order with Julie and told her that I would dine at Captain Flyswatter’s booth, if she would be so kind as to deliver when ready. A surly grunt sufficed for a reply.

I rejoined Mueller/Pilate at his seat. “Pilate? Would you mind terribly if I were to join you here? The food should arrive soon.”

“Eh? Oh…Harris, it’s you. Yes, certainly. Sit down.”

Under the false appearance of representing the press one might ordinarily preface this sit down with the advisement of being strictly “off the record”. This was not necessary with Agent Mueller, for you see he is perfectly at ease in speaking with the press. I should qualify this by saying the “right” people in the press. Especially at the Post. And the Times, of course. Can’t forget that sinking ship. As long as her prow remains above the waterline everyone still salutes. I digress…

Mueller had been adamant that there was no blood on his hands. I’d had a short time to reflect on this and was able to draw the Pilate analogy clearly enough. This led to one other inevitable conclusion. If Mueller was Pilate then logically this would cast Trump as Christ? Now if I were really Harris from the Post, what would I say?

“Ahem. Uh…sir? Has anyone suggested to you that your mantle as Pilate perhaps implies that Trump is Christ? That’s a little off script, don’t you think?”

“Hah! How’s that, son? You think they’re still not going to crucify him?”

I played along, in character. “Well of course, yes. But how? You’ve washed your hands, now who carries out the sentence?”

“No longer my concern Harris.”

He was really adhering to character. Did he truly believe that he was Pontius Pilate? Perhaps he really did. Or perhaps it was just a manifestation of the true motivations of the man. It made positively zero difference whether the subject was Trump, Jesus of Nazareth or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. You could slap a fried bologna sandwich up on that cross and Agent Mueller would do his duty. And like Pontius Pilate it was simply an administrative function, fidelity to Rome and his patron, Caesar. With Bravery and Integrity sent swirling into the sewage line years before Agent Mueller has only Fidelity to cling to: Fidelity to the Bureau and it’s mission. Despite all of the good press and dedicated image building in film and television, the true mission of the FBI has always remained that of it’s longest reigning and renowned Director, Mr. Hoover. That is to be the American NKVD, a Soviet style political police with sweeping federal powers. Mueller wielded that club better than most of J. Edgar’s successors.

Every lie, every leak, every unscrupulous act is no accident and all with malice aforethought. Saint James learned everything he knew at the knee of Agent Mueller. He carried on in his footsteps capably until he made one fatal error. Jimmy let it become all about him. He forgot the cardinal rule: if you want the Bureau to look out for you, you have to look out for the Bureau. Mueller was right to shoot him in the head. Had I been in his shoes I’d have done the same. Agent Mueller needed to tie up loose ends. He needed Comey’s silence, but could not afford for him to disappear entirely. Fronting the report that bears his name was just a further gathering of loose ends. Andy and his crew did the best they could with what they had to work with and Mueller presided over it all as a desperate rearguard action for his beloved Bureau. He bought them time, but was it enough?

In the unlikely event that any indictments are handed down the ghola Comey will be paraded before the cameras and sacrificed on that great altar of convenience. And none will be the wiser. The Deep State is real, my friends. It’s not a swamp, rather it is a barren heath, overgrown with weeds. Like one giant thistle, many agencies comprise it’s parts, but the FBI is the taproot of it all. Even if none of these bad actors see a day in prison, the American people deserve to be told the truth. Prison is too good for these people. That would be the result of the legal process, which as we all know has fuck all to do with justice. Justice would entail these people meeting an end like Mussolini.

 

Ford Wenty report end

420

 

 

 

 

All I wanted was a Pepsi!

Within the past week we posted a poem, Institutionalized. I’m going to do something here that I typically would not. The themes depicted in this site’s poetry are usually presented in an oblique fashion, especially in free verse. It is my belief that the power of this medium resides in two factors: brevity and flexibility of reader interpretation. I will in this instance offer the actual intent of the message as it resided in the author’s head at the time of composition.

The poem plays with the varied meanings of the word institution. There is, of course, the “institution” as celebrated in song by The Beatles ( Revolution: ” you tell me it’s the institution”). That is the institution as the amalgamation of our many “institutions” of education, media, church and state, etc. Then there is also the institution as in the sanitarium or mental hospital. This conjures the image of bars, barriers and yes, even cages. An individual may literally be placed (against their will) within one of these institutions for any number of reasons. This poem observes that our compulsory insertion into those broader institutions is likewise a form of detention, a means of protecting us from ourselves.

There may be those of a certain age in our audience who recognize this title as one being shared by a post-punk anthem performed by the band Suicidal Tendencies (viewed at this link https://youtu.be/aYItTxqTc38). Upon hearing this one is almost immediately struck by the timelessness of the message contained. It laments the eternal disconnect between teens and their parents, and by extension all of the varied adult institutions of which they may be members. Poor Mike. He hasn’t figured out all of the answers, he’s still working it out. Fortunately for him he hasn’t yet been fully indoctrinated. He still has an eye to see all of the hypocrisy that resides in those institutions. His only crime is that he has not accepted the institution, and thus does he face the prospect of being placed in an institution. All he really wanted was a Pepsi.

Well, you may be all grown up now, but have things actually changed? Don’t be too quick to answer that. In 2016 America decided all it wanted was a Pepsi, but the institution decided NO! That is not in your best interest! They banded together to tell us that “We” (meaning they) have decided to do what is in your best interest. To which I must echo young Michael’s query: “Wait! We decided? How can you decide what my best interest is?” We’ve followed all your rules, we’ve played along with all of your games and you can’t follow the rules yourself? (I went to your schools, your churches, your institutional learning centers, and I’m crazy?) The white coats are everywhere, waiting with their hypodermic needles to inoculate you from the truth: the USA has become one giant nuthouse.

You are grown up now, aren’t you? Here’s a little piece of advice for you. Abandon the institution. It’s a hollow shell. It’s like a tree that through some miracle still stands straight in the forest, but is hollowed from tip to trunk. There is no “there” there, as they say.  If you want that Pepsi? Go out and get it. No one is going to hand it to you. For those of you who may be generationally challenged I may also suggest this reboot of the classic song as performed by Ice-T’s Body Count: https://youtu.be/X9jXnZS3ouU

 

 

Gazette and Pencilneck give it another go. Or not…

It had been some time since she had seen him in person. She had, of course, maintained an interest in his activities. Though he had gone relatively quiet for a time, there remained an ample collection of press conference and hearing appearances from which to observe. In recent months these had increased markedly in volume, again piquing her interest in the man who had so eagerly indulged her penetration fantasies. He still looked mostly the same, though there was something different.  He still presented a comical stick figure profile with those buggy eyes and bad haircut, yet there seemed to be a new confidence in him. It was almost as if he had actually grown a spine.

Though he had still called upon her periodically, the intimacy they had once shared was absent. For a brief time she had actually considered that dear Pencilneck had grown a set and gone the way of MGTOW. “Nah! Too beta for that!”, she had checked herself.  Being the same self-centered bitch as ever she returned to form, assuring herself that the Pencilneck’s renewed frequency in the spotlight could only be a signal that he would soon return to grovel for her help. And it was indeed true; he clearly had waded out into waters well over his head. It was only a matter of time before he came crawling back. Like all the rest of her desperate suitors. They always did.

After viewing his pathetic performance on Sunday 13 October she found herself in a quandary. This latest intrigue he had launched largely on his own. He certainly had not consulted her expertise in these matters. The entire escapade was amateurish from it’s inception. Even the most absolutely moronic soul in DC could see this. If only he had asked for her help before, but now? She dreaded the call. Not because of what she knew she must say, rather because of her immensely conflicted feelings.

She was at once drawn to him and repulsed by him. Drawn to his vulnerability. Vulnerability has been Gazette’s lifeblood throughout her long and storied career. These are the souls she has preyed upon and made her own for an age. She runs the cool kids club. This vulnerability, however, was born of the man’s own arrogance and stupidity. It was a sign of weakness and he wore it well. He now reeked of desperation and failure, two qualities which Gazette had long striven to distance herself from. She found an uncommon need to chastise herself, contrary as it is to her vain nature.

Though the Pencilneck could mouth all the correct platitudes by rote, he really never belonged in their club. He wasn’t as smart, he wasn’t really good looking at all. Not even interesting looking (which usually will suffice for entry). And most of all…..well, no matter how much lipstick you put on the pig, he just isn’t cool enough to be in the club. Cool enough is that certain je ne sais quoi that only Gazette and those of her innermost circle may define. You know. The sort of things beyond mere plebeian comprehension. She could see where it might be said that she was to blame for this: it was her fault for introducing him into the cool kids club. From this he had formed the delusion that he was capable of pulling this off on his own. It was almost sweet in a way. It was like he was trying to show off for her. Oh, would that it should not turn so tragic!

The reality of it was that he was now toxic. He might remain a source for some juicy leaks, but that would have to stay behind the curtain. He would, at least for a time, remain a tool. Just as he had always been. He came at a time when she was at her low ebb, giving up that booty to manifest her rage at being rejected. Used him up like a tampon. 

Studying that video carefully Gazette noted one detail that allowed her a moment of relief for the poor sap. In addition to an apparent spinal implant it became evident that Pencilneck had undergone some work of a cosmetic nature. That previously missed, subtle change in his appearance was about his mouth. A lip job, one supposes to say. It seems he’s had them molded in a perpetually pursed shape and….if one looks very carefully it will be noted that the inside of the lips have been tattooed with the caption: Caution- large brown logs entering and exiting roadway at this point.  He may be nothing but a tool, but there is something to be said for him embracing it.

 

Ford Wenty report end 16 October 2019

420

 

It’s going to be a tough week for some…

JackKeepthatShitup

Buckle up kids. There’s gonna be some shit goin’ down this week. Expect more leaks and more breathless headlines from the Post and the New York Slimes. It’s all in anticipation of the Friday scheduled release of  Inspector General Horowitz’ report on the DOJ FISA warrant abuse. As the details become official and public it reduces the square footage of the already rapidly shrinking corner that the bad actors have painted themselves into.

For those among you who may have fully vested themselves in the credibility of our corporate media, well there is no way to sugar coat this: in the next week you’re all getting a big, fat I TOLD YOU SO. Some feelings are no doubt going to be hurt. TOO FUCKING BAD. You need to suck it up and admit to yourselves that this is not just another ongoing saga of dirty politics. We are talking about criminal behavior on a massive scale throughout our federal law enforcement and intelligence services. CRIMINAL. Do you get a pass on criminal behavior? What’s that? Oh, no, you don’t. These assholes are working on our dime. Why the fuck do they get a pass?

Lemme tell ya what else we’re all gonna find as they continue to peel this rotten onion. We are going to get confirmation that there have been a substantial number of people from both houses of congress and MANY in the media who have been complicit in the entire affair. 

You know what I find hilarious? Trump takes credit for the line “drain the swamp”, but as with much that he says this is not entirely true. You know who had the phrase first? Why none other than Nancy Pelosi herself! Doubt me? Look it up. Part of her address after her party won back the House in the 2006 midterms. It was part of her introduction as the Speaker of the House in waiting.

I only have one thing to say to the Bat Lady from Baltimore: hold an impeachment vote before the full House of Representatives or shut the fuck up.

By the time this all ends nobody will be laughing. 

 

420

Ford Wenty report end

 

 

A fourth of July tale

this was originally published a year ago in a different forum. In a year’s time there is little changed and the tale is still quite fitting.

 

It had been a long time since I’d seen civilization. I’d long relished the long, hot and humid days of the Appalachian summer woodlands. I hadn’t spoken to another human being in? How many weeks had it been? That really didn’t matter. Only my dog, Matthau, knows the days for certain and he is resolutely mute.

 

On the third day of July, 2018 I ventured to make a foray into the nearest hamlet of any consequence, some miles distant from the redoubt. The eve of Independence Day, that most sacred of days for the true patriot, whatever their stripe. This particular jurisdiction is renowned for being “badge heavy”, a real law and order kind of place. For those of us of a certain age we will recall those salad days of our youth when Hazard County and Waylon Jennings graced our television screens. Yup. Just some good old boys. A little stump of a man with some hideous facial deformity and Sheriff Roscoe!

 

My business is my own and I entered with no intentions of lingering in the place. My only true purpose? To acquire a fresh case of Jamesons. Yes, a case. I told you I don’t get out much. That state liquor agent, curiously, is not open on national holidays. Who would’ve thunk it?It must need carry on in this fashion until I perfect my own version to something beyond lighter fluid. This was no complicated plan. I did not, as I have at times before, need to enter the town unobserved. It was a simple trip to the liquor agent and away home. I was eager to make my exit and enjoy the long return ride with the top down. I didn’t want to stick around for the festivities.

 

When the actual observed holiday, which is always THE 4th, falls in midweek as it did this year, the third of July is a curious purgatory. There are those who may have the whole week off, or back to work the following day. Or there are those who work a full day Monday and Tuesday and do not return for five days hence. All true productivity ceased somewhere around 5PM on the preceding Friday. They mill about in varying stages of employ or idleness, no one really certain which is which, but as evening falls excitement and anticipation builds for the next day and all the wonders of Americana it will hold.

 

Long suffering housewives with the progeny of their unions excitedly tailing underfoot wade elbows deep into the preparation of vats containing cole slaw, potato salad and other picnic concoctions. Except for those afflicted with Trump Derangement Syndrome, most households this year are happy, optimistic. For right or wrong this does seem to be the prevailing mood. Tomorrow their husbands will don Bermuda shorts and grill aprons, to the amusement of their neighbors. Budweiser and Miller beers, in all of their various manifestations, will flow freely from iced coolers. Young children and aged lovers dream starry eyed of the fireworks display and sense the memories of crackling sparks and smell of cordite heavy on the air. Yes it will be a grand time to be had for all, but these are not the only festivities for the long holiday period. There are others who eagerly anticipate an entirely different type of celebration.

 

All across the country state and local police jurisdictions salivate at the commencement of a prolonged Tea party. That’s T E A… targeted enforcement action. Fuck the Fourth Amendment! That was a mistake! Clearly they didn’t mean to put that in there! How in the hell are we supposed to protect and serve with that in our way? It’s what the people want, after all, isn’t it? They want to be policed. Anyone who wears the uniform and carries a badge is a hero. Don’t you listen to the news? Yes, starting Tuesday night and for the succeeding five days law enforcement will be out there! Busting all those drunk drivers, conducting random stops and waving their dicks to let everyone know who’s boss around this place!

 

Before I could make my exit I was trapped behind a large gravel truck. An unrepentant pothole jarred the bed of this rolling behemoth and loosed a sizable chunk of limestone upon my windshield. Thankfully the unwitting projectile did not break completely through the screen, though it did spider web the bejesus out of the glass. Damn! Across most of the nation one is within range of the instrument of the popular jingle “Safelite repair, Safelite replace!” As the gravel truck trundled away up the road I thought to myself “I have been annoyed by that syrupy treacle for the last fucking time! Let’s see how good they are here on the afternoon before a national holiday!”

 

The cell reception in this rocky terrain is often suspect at best, but mercifully I found myself within range of a solid tower and within minutes was in communication with a Safelite agent. “Yes, Mr. Wenty”, I was assured by the agent, “we can have a technician at your location in about 90 minutes.” Well! This might not be so horrible after all then! Allowing a little margin for ineptitude I calculated that I might safely resume my journey by 5:00 and be gone well before darkness. Oh, the best laid plans of mice and men!

 

It was closer to 7:00 before the job was completed and as I had traveled with Matthau riding shotgun I was forced to re-evaluate my exit plans. The caloric intake required to sustain the adult male boar hound is daunting. Despite their largely sedentary nature this breed rivals most horses in appetite. I guess with a stature of 32” at the shoulder and a solid 180 pounds they’re not actually that far off of the mark. After concluding our business with Safelite Auto Glass we followed our noses to a smoker erected in the square at the center of town. Two drum halves were working; one with hamburgers, the other with ribs. As a stranger in town one expects to pass through unnoticed. This is an impossibility on foot with a formidable looking Mastiff at your side. I decided the best thing for it was to grab a few orders and find a nearby picnic table to try and melt into the scenery.

 

We took two orders of ribs for twenty bucks, a fair bargain given the portions. Matthau made short work of his and then stuffed his bulk under the picnic table to gnaw contentedly on the bones. I sat with my pipe and engaged in some idle banter with Jeff the Grill Chef, occasionally fielding queries from passers by about the bear I had under the table. Time got away and the next thing I knew darkness was nigh upon us. There would be a nearly two hour ride ahead. No matter what, now, we would have to run the gauntlet. The only thing that could further mar the occasion would be Matthau’s inevitable requirement to evacuate his bowels. It is only after you have had the privilege to pick up after one of these big boys that you can appreciate why these beasts were first used for bear baiting. Nearly any creature traveling the wilds that should happen upon one of these colossal turds in their path will consider carefully whether or not they care discover where it came from. Greasy ribs and sugary BBQ promise a sizable and not necessarily cohesive deposit.

 

 

In the growing gloom of darkness trucks with scaffolding and lighting equipment rolled up on the square. An army of tattoos and black Harley Davidson tee shirts emerged from the shadows and began their preparations for the parade review stand that would host the town’s officials and first citizens tomorrow, at high noon. It was only a matter of time before some of those lights were fired up and this was concerning. Matthau, on the whole, is a fairly gentle soul. His biggest fault is not understanding that he is no longer a puppy. He doesn’t know his own strength. Well, there is one other thing I should mention. You know how a lot of dogs go ape shit when you turn on the vacuum cleaner? Well, Matthau is not fond of the vacuum cleaner, but usually contents himself to retreat with his tail between his legs while it is running. If you want to make Matthau go ape shit just shine a light in his eyes. Especially if it is a big, very bright light. He will warn you. Once. After that? Good luck.

 

With his belly full he was happy to saunter off, away to the opposite side of the square. While the clatter of the construction and the calls of workmen rang into the night behind us we wandered away into the side streets of the town, criss-crossing block after block and always mindful of an empty lot or weedy patch should the need arise. It was nearing 11:00 when finally he began to sniff and do the dance around a row of trash cans in an alley. Under the cover of darkness I let him finish his work and then we hastened on a course to steer around the square and back to the Jeep, hoping to avoid the bright lights.

 

Having lightened his load Matthau sensed that it was time to resume our ride and quickened his pace. We successfully navigated the correct course on the first attempt only to discover that the Jeep was hemmed in by one the trucks. I got the old boy up into his perch, into the back seat with his head and forepaws stretched over the center console and onto the reclined back of the front passenger seat. Other than curling up in the very rear there is no other way he fits. I cracked the windows down for him and then went over to the crew to see if I could get someone to move the truck. This took a bit of time, but I eventually located the fellow with the keys and got him to roll up far enough to finally back out and be on our way. The digital display on the dashboard read 11:50 PM.

 

The night was clear and oppressively still, each breath weighted with a tropic humidity. It would be a good ride to have the windows down. I followed the signs marking the twists and turns of the state route through the town to its eventual exit to open country and the interstate beyond. There was no one else on the road. No one, that is, but one of our heroes in blue.

 

Let me explain a little bit about Targeted Enforcement Actions and some of the tactics that are typically employed. First of all, target vehicles that are from out of town, or better, out of state. This presents an opportunity to collect a bond for any infraction and may further provide seizure of assets under the vague provisions of civil forfeiture laws.

 

Next, probable cause. Don’t worry about it. Invent one. Someone seems to pause just a bit too long at a stop sign, appearing confused about which way to go. There’s your probable cause. How long is too long to pause at a stop sign? Well officer, too long is whatever you think too long is. We’ll have your back, don’t worry. Just get out there and get us some scalps.

 

With the potential target identified and probable cause established call it in and start running the plates on the vehicle. It makes no difference that it may not be the vehicle owner driving, just assume that it is. That’s why we give you these tools to work with, officer. Keep the vehicle within view, with your lights off if at all possible. Roll up within striking distance then hit the brights and move up aggressively, get right on their ass. Don’t worry about safety, just try to force them to make some error. It helps bolster your probable cause argument.

 

Then and only then do you hit the cherries and command the traffic stop. Once the vehicle is halted keep your brights on and aim your spotlight at the sideview mirror. This is too further intimidate the driver, but if asked simply tell them that it is for your safety. Remind them that officers sometimes get shot, that’s always a good one. Once at the vehicle use your handheld flashlight to illuminate the inside and shine it into the drivers face as you demand license, registration and proof of insurance.

 

 

While the subject is preparing the required documents begin to pepper them with questions. Continue to ask questions without permitting the subject to finish answering. In trial situations this is known as badgering a witness, but for that brief time that we have you out there on the front lines officer, you are judge, jury and if need be executioner. If the subject in any way becomes disoriented during this process you are then empowered to demand a field sobriety test. Also be alert to any probable cause to search the vehicle. Not for evidence of any further crime! That has to withstand evidence and trial. Assets seized under civil forfeiture do not.

 

Finally, even if you only suspect that the subject is impaired tag them for it and bring them in. It’s incumbent on them to prove otherwise. There are cops and there are pigs. If you ask a cop whether or not these things are true they will, albeit at times begrudgingly, admit that they are. If you ask a pig they’ll deny it.

 

At 12:05 AM on the fourth of July officer Beetledick executed these tactics on me as I was exiting town. I know the fucking drill, I had all my “papers” ready before he even dragged his fat ass out of the cruiser. Then I had to scramble to get the choker around Matthau’s neck and draw in the sideview to kill the glaring reflection. Officer Beetledick did not like this one little bit, convinced that I was preparing a weapon. He got a little chub going in his pants when he realized that he had justification for this to be a weapon drawn stop.

 

I heard the door of the cruiser swing open violently and the piercing beam of the handheld was trained (with his already drawn sidearm, no doubt) at my driver window. “Place your hands where I can see them!” I obliged in the only manner I could under the circumstances, waving my free hand out of the window. If the motto is protect and serve one might take this as a signal of distress, but not so with officer Beetledick. He came closer, into my peripheral field. With all of that illumination it should have been pretty plain what was going on, but several million candlepower could not light the dim gray expanse between this guy’s ears.

 

“I said get those hands where I can see them!”

 

“Here is my one hand. I am holding back a rather large dog that is having a fit because of your bright lights!”

 

“Hey! You getting smart with me!”

 

“No, I am telling you this hound will not calm down until you douse the beacons!”

 

“Why are you raising your voice? You got some kinda problem?”

 

“I am raising my voice so you can hear over the dog! Could you please kill the lights!”

 

Now he was up at the driver door, still insisting on shining that god damned light into the car. “Those lights are for my protection! Police officers get shot in the line of duty sometimes you know.”

 

Yeah. They always like to put that one out there. I’m sitting there thinking “Yes, and its a wonder more of you don’t get capped”. I said nothing else, only held license, registration and proof of insurance out the window with my free hand. He snatched these away and finally switched off the flashlight, but Matthau was still upset. As a boar hound he has a nose for all things porcine and this tool was definitely a pig. He had that perpetually constipated look of the confused 11 year old boy trying to figure out if he has sprouted a pubic hair or gotten a hard on. In this instance I suspect there would be need of magnification to find either.

 

“Do you have any idea why I stopped you tonight?”

 

“I do not. Would you tell me?”

 

“Have you been drinking tonight?”

 

“Not a drop. Can you tell me why I’ve been stopped?”

 

“You got some place you need to be? You in a hurry?”

 

I know the game this guy was playing so I said nothing further. In these cases it is best to say nothing at all unless asked a direct, specific question because it doesn’t make one damned bit of difference what you say: it will be wrong. They’re looking for a fight. This awkward silence is precious when the officer realizes that he’s got nothing. Even though no one else is watching he still has to try to wave his dick around to save face.

 

“Why you giving me attitude, huh?”

 

“I’m just trying to keep my dog calm until we conclude our business here and drive home.” As I finished speaking those words headlights painted the underside of boughs hanging over the road just ahead. There was someone approaching from around a curve about five hundred feet away. Officer Beetledick’s eyes darted away at their approach. I knew at that moment it was over. The oncoming headlights broke hard around that little bend in the road and it was coming at some speed.

 

Officer Beetledick had already run my plates then requested that dispatch pull up an operators license for the same party. Plates current, no wants or warrants, no moving violations. All of the lights were functioning properly, all the windows secure, sufficient tread on all the tires, proof of insurance provided. I was not impaired, I had not been speeding, run any traffic signals, weaved, operated a cell phone. HE HAD JACK SHIT. He was fishing and he got caught at it. The driver of the approaching vehicle apparently had not expected to find a police cruiser and over reacted to correct their driving. As a consequence he/she lost control of the vehicle and rolled it across the road and smashed into a guardrail. He/she probably had been drinking.

 

 

Beetledick handed me my papers, but before he hastened to his cruiser he offered this sage advice (or was it a warning?), “You need to have some respect for the law, Mister”. Thanks officer Beetledick. I sure will, golly-gee, I will. Now go get ‘em, Tiger! I don’t know that the other driver was drunk. It could’ve been a heart attack or a seizure of some kind, for all I know. I didn’t stick around to find out. The only crime committed in that shithole of a burg was that some imbecile handed a badge, a loaded weapon(s) and a $40,000 police cruiser to that douchebag of an excuse for a human being, officer Beetledick, and then loosed the stooge upon an unsuspecting public.

 

The only thing worse than all the pigs in this country are those who adore them. The fawning, pathetic hero worship for anyone who can squeeze their ass into one of those uniforms has just gone too far by half. I’m sorry. I’m not an advocate for going around and killing cops and cast the same kind of venom upon those groups who do. You know who you are. Nonetheless, let’s be really honest about what has become of law enforcement in this country, by and large. It has grown into an entity unto itself. What officer Beetledick and others of his species want – no, not want. Demand – is not respect. They expect to be revered and feared. We are to kneel down and lick their boots on demand. That is what they mean by respect for the law.

 

Well I don’t respect the law, then, officer Beetledick, but we didn’t have the throw down you were looking for. You were trying to bait me because I’m sure that you could sense that I despise and loathe you and those of your ilk with every fiber of my being. You call yourselves officers of the law. Bull shit! You’re all nothing but hired thugs. If you didn’t do this for the state you’d do it for anyone else that would hire you. Most of you don’t have the brains to freelance. I didn’t fall in your trap because you’re not worth the hassle. I learned that lesson a long time ago about wrestling with pigs: always remember that win, lose or draw, the pig is enjoying it.

 

 

This has infected all of law enforcement. When Abe Lincoln was president they kept pigs on the White House lawn. Now all of the pigs are over at the FBI and, by extension, the office of special counsel Robert Mueller. What Mueller is doing is fishing and just like officer Beetledick HE’S GOT JACK SHIT. How many more times are we going to discover that they are just making it up as they go along? Rules? What rules? They just do what they fucking please and it goes on. It has to stop. It all has to stop. We have become a police state. This year I only had to get ten minutes in to Independence Day to discover what living in the land of the free is really all about.