Each moment lives in itself
Fear not tomorrow
Each moment lives in itself
Fear not tomorrow
With my apologies in advance to the great poet and songwriter Gordon Lightfoot. Even though he is a Canadian. Imagine, if you will, to the tune of The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald….
The legend lives on from the Shiawassee on down
of the great bitch they call Gretchen Whitmer
That bitch, it is said, never loses her head
with November defeat surely looming
She’s a load of horse shit piled up past her tits
still somehow that head remains empty
But a miserable cunt never gives up the hunt
when she smells a reckoning come early
She was the pride of the democrat side
like some beast that comes from Ann Arbor
As big liars go she was bigger than most
her lobbyists were all well rewarded
to be continued (come on! It’s a long ballad! No worries. Plenty of material to work with)
A Doom and Reprisal editorial from Ford Wenty, Ale 81 Inn field correspondent
These are indeed troubled times in which we live. Regardless of which side of the political divide one finds themselves this is a statement upon which we may find a consensus. Depending upon which side of that divide one may find themselves this conclusion is reached for differing reasons. Under current circumstances it would be to the benefit of all concerned if we were to unite upon those reasons which we find in common. There is no doubt that such commonality exists, yet still it seems to elude us. That leaves us with this question: why?
The images of Mr. Floyd are disturbing. They are disturbing not because they show a white cop shoving the face of a black man into the pavement. They are disturbing because this image is emblematic of the state of affairs nationwide. What I see is an American citizen being crushed beneath the boot of unrestrained and thuggish application of police powers. The motto of “protect and serve” has long been replaced by “intimidate and extort”. The politicization of police powers and the militarization of police forces has grown unchecked for the past thirty years. This is an unpopular position to take, but I will say it anyway: many of our so called “peace officers” are little more than hired thugs. I know many will disagree, as is their prerogative, but I will stand by this statement nonetheless.
There is an order that has reigned in this nation for a very long time. It is a corrupt house of cards that is doomed to fall; indeed, it is beginning to crumble before our very eyes. Those who sit upon these cardboard thrones know it and are scrambling desperately to preserve their advantage. One need only listen to which side the jackals in our media are cheering for to know that this is true.
Do not make the mistake of concluding that I am cheering for the looters in Minneapolis, because I am not. They are not protestors. They are looters, opportunists of the ugliest kind. They are spreading far and wide beyond Minnesota while the usual network talking heads cheer them on and lecture us about racial injustice. These are people who are very concerned about injustice, provided it is the right kind of injustice: one which fits their stale and dishonest narrative. From the images streamed to us from Minneapolis, LA, and most recently Columbus, I am left with only one question. Are these looters wearing masks to protect against the virus, or to hide their faces? You form your own conclusions. I have already reached mine.
How is looting the Target store, or burning down an auto parts store, or torching cars in the street (cars which one must assume are owned by someone) a form of protest? Who do these acts benefit? The looters? The property owners? No and no. The only people who benefit from these acts are the race baiters and poverty pimps who preserve their own power and influence by continually stoking this racial division. These people don’t wear masks, except when it suits them. You can see their ugly, lying, bare faces on your television screens every day.
The powers granted through legislative subterfuge, or as is often the case simply seized outright, are no longer legitimate. It is time for consent to be revoked. If only a segment of what constitutes no more than fifteen percent of a population can turn out and behave like this, and the “authorities” are content to sit on the sidelines and wring their hands, what should they do if all of us say enough? What will they do if all of us show up in the streets, with no masks, no social distancing, and assert our constitutional rights? Not to loot or burn, just to show up in numbers and shout with one loud voice: ENOUGH. We don’t trust you, you got it wrong, now be big enough to say so and crawl back to your lairs. We are taking back our lives. We would discover very quickly whether or not these authorities are truly interested in our safety, or if they are only the same brand of opportunists as the looters.
Ford Wenty report end, 5/29/2020
No, Eva. You got it wrong again.
We said go fuck yourself.
When last met with my friend Fritz it was a somber occasion. I recall thinking that it would be some time before I might see him again. I do not know what instinct had told me this. Perhaps it was only some dark intuition, the sort often associated with his comings and goings. As it happens this was incorrect. I was awakened in the dark of pre-dawn by that familiar voice.
Your sleep is uneasy tonight.
You prefer to listen to your music rendered on vinyl. Why is it that you do not prefer to write on paper?
Fritz and I have established a familiarity between us. His oblique puzzles, though I may struggle to answer, do make sense to me.
I have not considered this Fritz. I actually do prefer to write upon paper.
I see. Is that because you are unable to communicate on vinyl?
HA! He left me an opening!
That is but one of many reasons Fritz.
You wish to speak of this no more?
I wish to speak of it no more today.
He then remained silent for some time, though I knew our conversation was far from finished. We both enjoy the silence that we may better hear our inner voices. This is the space where Fritz and I commune.
This tropic choler of your nights do not suit my central European constitution Thomas.
I should have thought you would have grown used to it by now.
Perhaps I shall in time. You carry a sadness Thomas. Something new, not your ordinary melancholy.
Indeed I do Fritz. It was not my wish to trouble you with it.
Na, was gibt’s?
At your age? Ach… it is that curse of masculinity. We are forever in some part that ever eager adolescent.
True enough, but this is not like that.
For an instant Fritz appeared genuinely surprised. That marks a rare occasion. He said nothing more, merely entreating me with his glowing, dark eyes to go on.
I have grown numb Fritz. I am the victim of an innocent, girlish infatuation. A child’s hero worship. This is the type of trusting love that should bring joy to the heart, if one is human. I am able to smile and play the part, yet I only feel fear and dread.
Dread of what Thomas?
He knew the answer, or would not have asked.
It is the dread of receiving this trust, knowing that ultimately I can only disappoint.
As is the burden of Man to receive God’s love. I wrestled with this all my mortal life Thomas.
Indeed you did. And what say you now Fritz?
You were a stranger to yourself for most of your life Thomas. What say you now?
He had me. The bastard had me! He would leave, with that question weighing in the air. I have been awake since.
She couldn’t stop the virus
She couldn’t stop the flood
That fat cow sits in her palace
chewing on her cud
Tell them stay in their homes
Wait, now you tell them leave?
You can take your stupid orders
and shove them up your beave
The horse was a peaceful creature
living free upon the plains
Until once they were subjected
to the bridle and the reins
When men had found them useful
to a purpose more malign
They were made unwitting players
to some sinister design
From Pizarro at Cajamarca
and many more since then
The horse employed as weapon
to enslave all lesser men
What could have been for many
instead advantaged only few
Living things or flying machines
for the evil that men do
They shoot horses, don’t they?
Yes, usually in the head,
but would that they should all grow thumbs
and they shoot man instead