More dead fish

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A Doom and Reprisal editorial from Ale 81 field correspondent, Ford Wenty


 

On the same day that Fred Willard passed on from this realm another Fred also departed. He was none other than Fred the betta, a small, blue fish. While Mr. Willard was renowned among his peers, as well as viewing audiences of five decades, Fred the betta was and still remains an obscure quantity. His passing was not unnoticed by me and I am struck suddenly that dead fish seem to have become a theme in this column.

There was actually nothing remarkable in the demise of this tiny creature.  He had already lived far beyond any reasonable expectation of his species’ normal lifespan, and outside of a very select handful of people besides myself he was a total unknown.  This story, like the recent Of Dead Sharks and Divorce, is not literally about a dead fish (shark or betta); rather it is about the dead fish as metaphor.

For many hours Fred had been a silent companion at my writing desk, he on one side of a six liter glass bowl and I on the other. Ours was a peaceful coexistence, while in two distinctly separate realities. Either of us were able to view the other’s world through the distortion of that glass bowl, yet neither of us able to experience the other’s world directly. Whereas I breathe air, and he water, it was an impossibility for us to exchange places. Despite these facts it is still true that, though I might not see everything inside of the bowl with total clarity, I was still able to observe his behavior.

In his waning days there was much of that behavior that remained the same as before, but there were others which signalled that a change was coming. Fred’s degree of curiosity about the outside had always been limited to whatever should press against the glass of his bowl. A couple of weeks before the end this began to change. Where he had once eagerly swam to the top of the water to greet those who would peer in, he began instead to ignore any other presence. He seemed to “play dead”, utterly disinterested in anything occurring on the other side of the glass. His colors, once comprised of brilliant tones of blue, faded to a sickly pallor of pale grey.  In his last couple of days on this earth he spent most of his time with his belly pressed upon the glass near the surface, his gills seemingly bloated and laboring to breathe. These spells were broken periodically by frantic paroxysms, splashing about aimlessly until spent and then resuming a listless drift. At the end these fits came more frequently and violently, followed by a return to the glass where he would remain still, requiring every ounce of energy just to keep his gills moving. When he was finally done a film covered his dead eyes and he sank slowly to the bottom.

I have been left to contemplate Fred’s passing for nearly two days now and it occurs to me that, like the dead shark of Annie Hall fame, Fred likewise is a metaphor for something more. Not something greater, in any real sense of that word, just something other. There is an unmistakable parallel between Fred’s last days and some of the events we see playing out around us.

There is a certain order that has prevailed in our world for many years. It is an order which, not unlike Fred’s glass bowl, that has been highly insulated. The inhabitants of that bowl have, like the recently departed fish, been perfectly content to remain within it’s confines to shit where they eat. Day after day, month after month, and years on end. They have remained blind to realities that exist beyond their sheltered pool, able to catch mere glimpses of that reality without gaining any further understanding of what else may lay beyond.  Fred was only a fish. It is unlikely that he experienced a knowledge that he was dying; rather, it was an instinct which spurred the changes in his behaviors at the end. The behaviors of those comprising this order would seem to mirror that of the late betta fish. They seem to be flailing about in the same spasms of desperation, like the panicked, drowning soul that thrashes utterly mindless that they might pull others down with them.  Unable to admit to themselves what is happening, though they have the means to know it, they revert to instinct.  Having ignored and denied instinct for so long their actions are purely reflexive.

It was saddening to watch Fred go through those last days. In contrast it is a total delight to watch these craven, privileged shit stains descend into their death throes.  Fred has been given a burial suitable for his place, his bowl submerged into flowing waters that will ultimately carry him to the distant Gulf of Mexico.  He was deserving of more than being flushed down a toilet.  I can not say the same for that dying order. They have already been swimming in the largest toilet ever made for years.  Better they wash up on some distant shore for the birds to pick their carcasses clean, though I still wonder: would they even eat anything so foul?

 

Ford Wenty report end , 5/18/2020

 

The Barber of Owosso: a tragic opera in one act

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A Doom and Reprisal report from Ale 81 Inn field correspondent, Ford Wenty

Scene: The Reichspalatz, 12:15AM, 5 May 2020

Reichsfuehrer Gretchen Goering-Hitler had just finished a luxurious bath in mare’s milk; with just a touch of blood from the latest herd of Guatemalan immigrant children. She had discovered that the fresh blood, perhaps due to the tropic of the donors, was far more efficacious than her prior regimen of aborted fetal tissue. The soothing therapy of that bath was well earned, for she had just completed an exhausting day in the special observance of the 50th annual Statist’s Ball; a commemoration of the Kent State massacre. This year the committee had outdone themselves, featuring the sacrifice of a live giraffe (just because they could), and constitution biscuits for communion wafers. The biscuits were a first: it seems they have found that by baking bits of the constitution right into the biscuit, it saves them the time and expense of having it printed on their toilet tissue.

She had returned from the Ball at around 11:00 PM and made directly for her bath chambers. All was well in the Reich and all of her subjects had been turned in for curfew. After a rejuvenating soak she had plans to settle in for a nice, long session reviewing her Pornhub subscriptions. She was mildly startled to find that the giraffe scene had left her in such an aroused state. Shortly after wandering into some bestiality pages, Madame Reichsfuehrer was most rudely interrupted by an official sounding rap at her chamber doors. She froze at the sound and listened intently to be certain there had been. Thirty seconds later it came again.

“Oh fuck me runnin’, will ya? Seriously!?”, she exclaimed in a hiss. She arose from the bed and draped a brilliant red satin nightgown about herself, then stepped into a pair of slutty pumps in matching red. “I’ll be right there…”, she called out as she gained her balance. “This had better be fucking good!”, she thought angrily as she reached to open the door. Unless there was a large quadruped, or two well-hung Cuban dancers named Manuel on the other side of that door, she was not going to be pleased. Her displeasure was magnified many fold at the sight of Gestapo Security Chief, Fritz von Pickelschwanz. He grew stiffly too attention (in the only manner she expected him to be able) and saluted.

“Madame Reichsfuehrer! Zu befehl! I am terribly sorry to disturb, but…”

“Yeah, yeah, Pickledick…, what is it?”

“We have a small problem in Shiawassee County.”

“A small problem? You don’t come knockin’ on my door after midnight with a small problem, Pickledick! What is it? Come on, give!”

“There is a barber in the town of Owosso who has defied your authority, Reichsfuehrer.”

“Yeah? So? You know what to do. No witnesses, right?”

“Er, of course, Madame Reichsfuehrer… it’s just that…”

“Is there a point here Fritz? I’m burning some serious spank time here, okay? What is it, the media? Christ, don’t worry about them!”

“No ma’am! The local authorities already got to him.”

Madame Reichsfuehrer was growing more exasperated by the second. She formed a mocking query with her face. “Annnnnd? What am I missing here?”

The Reichsmarschal’s face grew solemn as he quietly uttered, “The local authorities issued fines, Madame Reichsfuehrer. Only fines.”

It had been bad enough to have her me time interrupted by this pathetic cuck, but this!? The odd peasant here or there to defy her orders was one thing. There were always a few, no matter what measures are taken, but for local authorities to usurp her supreme authority and issue….fines?! This bordered upon apostasy! Her countenance grew black as she glowered at the Gestapo chief. She could feel her heart begin to race, her breathing grew heavy and her temperature rose. Pickelschwanz stood still before her, nervously awaiting instructions. Several tense moments passed as Madame Reichsfuehrer slowly regained her composure.

Briefly she poked her head beyond the doorframe to cast a furtive glance up and down the hall. “Did you come here alone, Pickledick?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good. Come on inside. I’m bored.”

Pickelschwanz likewise made a discreet survey of the hall before reluctantly obliging her order. After stepping in the Reichsfuehrer closed the door and turned a very audible lock behind him. He instantly began to wonder if he would be leaving this room with his ass intact. He did not have to wait long at all to find out where this would go.

“Go have a seat on that ottoman at the foot of the bed, Pickledick.” She stated nothing further until he had assumed his place, then resumed. “Although your timing could not be worse, I am pleased that you have brought this to my attention.” From the ottoman Pickelschwanz followed her movements warily as she strolled casually about the room, musing as she went. “I am supremely disappointed in you, Pencildick! Leaving your responsibilities to some hinterland Gauleiters? What find of fucking Gestapo chief does that?”

Sensing that this was about to go seriously awry, Pickelschwanz hastily blubbered the best defense he could offer. “Madame Reichsfuehrer! Please, we simply haven’t enough men to…”

“Hey asshole! I don’t wanna hear excuses! We can let these local yokels collect on traffic stops and local code violations, ok? But I am in charge. ME! You let this kind of shit fly and the next thing you know there will be a caravan of gangbangers from south of 8 mile heading out to Owosso to get their dos freshened up. Do you want that, Pickledick?”

“Of course not, Madame Reichsfuehrer!”

“Of course not. And do you know why? Because that would be anarchy! These people aren’t smart enough to make these kinds of decisions for themselves!” Madame Reichsfuehrer’s eyes glazed over, her face slowly grew into a mask of incredulity. Such ingratitude!

The lengthening silence was excruciating. The Gestapo chief kept his wary eyes upon her to remain ever alert to her capricious whims. He had just begun to summon the courage to ask for her orders when suddenly she let her satin gown slink to the floor. Instinctively he averted his eyes as she climbed upon the bed and spreadeagled herself before him; planting those blood red pumps to either side at the foot of the bed. He could not bring himself to raise his eyes beyond those shoes.

“Lemme tell ya what we’re gonna do, Pickledick. You’re gonna suck on my heels while I rub one out, then you’re gonna drive out to Owosso, burn that fucking place to the ground and kill everyone in it. Everyone but one: You will bring me the Barber!” She punctuated her final command by thrusting one of her heels into his slack jawed mouth.

I’ll spare you the further description of events which followed. Those of you with sufficiently twisted psyches will be capable of forming the visual on your own. All of the preceding narrative is true, recounted exactly as the events occurred. By the tactical use of narcotics, discreetly applied extortion and a fanatical dedication to the Gonzo ethic, this reporter has been able to obtain the truth. This truth includes some rather ugly details in Madame Reichsfuehrer’s back story, details which shall be revealed for the first time in these pages.

 

ReichskanzellorWhitmer

Bring me the barber!

I am confident that most of you have determined that we are speaking of Michigan governor Gretchen Whitmer. That is the identity assigned to her current iteration, for you see Gretchen has been among us before. She is in fact Eva Hitler-Goering; the fruit of some long ago Nazi genetic experiment. By my best reckoning Gretchen must be version 6.0, but there is no way to really be certain. Apparently a group of Nazi geneticists, some real fanatical types, made some extraordinarily advanced leaps in the science in the waning months of the war. By those days it was evident to even the most diehard among them that the war was not going well. A plan was formed to create the perfect Aryan female for the purpose of repopulating the master race in some subterranean siege fortress. Genetic material was taken from Eva Braun for her zaftig physical characteristics and appetite for fellatio; from Goering for his height and penchant for flamboyant perversion, and from Hitler because…well, because he’s Hitler.

The first edition of this abomination was smuggled off by MI6 in Goering’s yacht at the end of the war. From there she was spirited away to a remote Welsh farm for further study. Those clever Windsors just can’t resist their anal retentive Germanic heritage. During the ‘50s a program was underway to see if a condensed, freeze-dried version could be developed for installation into their parting colonial possessions. Insta-tyrant: just add water and rule. While this did not come to fruition, there are a series of rather nondescript buildings sprinkled throughout Middlesex that house what might best be described as axolotl tanks, a la Frank Herbert’s Dune universe. A “clone bath”, if you will, where these gholas may be replicated again and again. So our “Gretchen” is but one of several of the same model. I’m sure that by now the Russians have likely developed their own version. It was believed at one time that Debbie Wasserman-Schulz was a Russian version, but this was easily refuted as she is obviously much too Jewish.

In every age, in every guise the Hitler gene shines strong. Whether wearing a brown shirt or a brown skirt. Being born a Buckeye it would be quite easy to chortle at the misfortune of Michiganders, but not even a Wolverine fan deserves this. In the event that the NCAA football season does come off without a hitch, I’m going to suggest to our neighbors to the north that they revise their cheer from “GO BLUE” to “GO BLOW”. This year, more than ever, it seems to fit.

 

Ford Wenty report end  5/11/2020

 

Pandemic vs. Plandemic

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

 

Well that is a bit of a provocative title, isn’t it?  I’m guessing that this is not the first time for many of you to have heard this topic framed in such a fashion.  I have stated previously in this forum that I do not subscribe to the “plan”demic suggestions, as tempting as some of these may be. There are already, and no doubt will continue to be, those who will cite various pieces of data to suggest and then support such theories.  I can admit to myself that some of these suggestions hold a degree of plausibility, yet I am still tethered to the notion that in most instances the simplest explanation of a thing tends to be the most logical.  Since all of the furor now surrounds not the virus, but the official response to it, the simplest explanation for where we now find ourselves is this. Where there is a permanent class in our public sectors, who have been continually rewarded for inefficiency and incompetence, the occurrence of ANY crisis will manifest it’s absolute worst side effects by their actions.

Stories have emerged this week which suggest that proof will be tendered to demonstrate that the Covid 19 virus did indeed originate from the virology studies laboratory in Wuhan. If true then that is indeed a splendid bit of news, though at this stage I’m not altogether certain what we’re to do with this information. If I might be so bold, I will paraphrase a source as unlikely as Hillary Clinton: at this point what difference does it make? While this revelation may be useful in garnering support for drastic changes in US policy towards China, it is of little use in addressing what is now the greater issue: domestic authorities trampling upon civil liberties.

There is no conspiracy to be uncovered here folks. What we are all witnessing now is the entirely predictable failure of our public institutions because they have long been infected with a virus much more insidious than Covid 19. It is the virus of institutional hubris. The most common symptoms are tone deafness, arrogance, refusal to accept personal responsibility and projection. All of these symptoms have been on display long before this.  In extreme cases this disease presents as a maniacal drive towards tyrannical control of the subject’s surroundings; a more recent development, but also on full display. Most of these people haven’t been challenged on anything in decades. Like a child who has always been given anything they desired, it is no surprise that they are triggered when any of their fiat should be denied. Sadly these people are convinced that not only is it their privilege to rule, it is our privilege to be ruled by them. Anything less than blind and fawning obedience is seen as being ungrateful, which apparently is now a crime which may subject one to house arrest. Or worse.

Now if Communist China should decide that there is somehow an advantage in taking down the United States through the use of some bioagent, they have a pretty good idea of our weakness. In response to the global spread of a virus, which contrary to all models seems to be little worse than the most aggressive strain of the annual flu, the US has panicked itself into a state of paralysis. Just imagine another virus, this one with  infection and mortality rates comparable to the infamous Spanish Influenza. Twenty-seven percent infection rate with a two percent mortality rate, multiplied by a national population of three-hundred-thirty million. That would be just over 89 million infected and 1,782,000 dead. Make that an airborne virus, transmittable by human to human contact, and one that ultimately kills by hemorrhoidal colic, and….?

It would be game over. We couldn’t even keep toilet paper on the shelves this time.

Of dead sharks and divorce

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A Doom and Reprisal editorial from Ford Wenty

Earlier this week I happened to catch a bit of an interview with Dennis Miller. I have always enjoyed hearing Miller’s take on things: his well tempered cynicism, wrapped inside of clever humor, is good medicine in even the best of times. This brief clip prompted me to revisit another recent appearance of Miller, this one on The Rubin Report of 29 March, 2020. I’ll not post the link here (absolutely nothing against Dave Rubin), but this podcast is easily found and I would encourage all to watch. The episode is just slightly over one hour in it’s duration, but it was only one brief exchange that has inspired the train of thought which follows. Within the context of a discussion over the current sociopolitical climate in the United States, Miller said:

I don’t see it coming back around. I see it getting very tribal and I can only hope at some point we divvy up the albums, like a relationship that’s gone. It’s like Woody Allen and Annie Hall: we got a dead shark here.”

This can be found at 47:47 in the podcast and there is some further exchange between Miller and Rubin about this. When pressed by Rubin to explain exactly what that means (divvying up the albums? How would that work?), Miller answered honestly that he did not know. Nor did he offer any suggestions. Despite this, I still believe that he is correct. As a nation I have considered for some time that we have reached the stage where we should have “that talk”. What are we even doing here? Pretending? Maybe we just need to admit to ourselves that it’s over and that we can at least agree to move on with our lives. Apart.

Not all of us have had this unfortunate experience in our lives, but there are many who have. These lines echo poignantly, sometimes painfully in our memories, as we recognize their recurrence played out on the grander scale. The parallels are unmistakable.

The citizen in Iowa or Arkansas find themselves, rather like being party to a marriage contract, bound to the fates and fortunes of their other halves in the shape of New York or California. They may share memories of a happier time when theirs was, if not a blissful union, at least a contented one. Sharing the same roof and checkbook will force a lot of forgiveness for the minor transgression, but we all have our limits in what we will tolerate. When Miller poses this situation under such terms it is not a great leap of faith to imagine the interminable bickering in our politics as reenactments of the toxic soup of our own worst relationships.

Things may have been peachy for a long time in these unions, married or otherwise, but as life ensues opportunities for the parting of opinion multiply rapidly. Questions of finance, child rearing, education, religion (or not)… every one of these ripe for marital discord. For any who have endured these trials there is the understanding that those cases listed here are monumental: the grist for that all inclusive explanation of irreconcilable differences. Yet these are just greater manifestations of differences that reside in deeper places; the sort of fundamental differences that are oft ignored through courtship and the honeymoon era, yet these do not disappear over time. They grow and fester, sometimes boiling over, but more often being nurtured as a silent grudge. This goes on for years until one day it is discovered that despite all that has been shared together, deep down there are two parties who in the end really don’t have all that much in common. Not only is the love gone, they don’t even like each other any more.

Fragile unions seldom come to an end as a result of a single event. The end comes as a culmination of events, a reservoir of ill will and distrust that rises until that final catastrophic event breaks the floodgates. The precipitating event may come in the form of a job loss, a portfolio collapse, the death of a child. They are life altering occurrences when faced alone. Compounded upon a union that already exists under terms of a nervous truce these events often become the final deal breaker. It becomes that occasion when the parties seriously confront the fact that it is indeed time to divvy up the albums.

This unfortunate series of events does not occur in a vacuum. There are always other parties involved in the process. They come in the form of overbearing, manipulative in-laws always inserting their unsolicited advice and opinions into matters that don’t concern them. Or the gossipy co-worker with their own relationship issues providing bad counsel. There are a host of other voices in this chorus, always playing in the background while contributing nothing constructive. They are like the orchestra on the deck of the Titanic.

Whether one has had first hand experience or observed such in the lives of friends or family, these examples of dissolution are recognizable and are easily juxtaposed upon the state of our national union. Viewing the current state of national affairs through this lens it is hardly a reach to conclude that this viral panic, and all of it’s fallout, might very well be our deal breaking event. We have the rotting corpse of a giant dead shark decaying in our national living room. We are beyond the point of pretending it isn’t there. Intuitively we all sense that by some means or another this carcass will be removed. What remains to be seen is what kind of stink it will leave behind. Never mind divvying up the albums, just keep them. Let’s just talk sensible exit strategies.

For many of us the following will describe how we are feeling about the fragile emotional state of this union. We have endured a spouse who has routinely subjected us to public ridicule. Constantly. For years. Bitching about the clothes we wear, the music we like, the vehicles we like to drive. They have heaped derision upon us for our regional accents, our choice of homes, our choice of worship. Media pundits and politicos have been, just like the meddling in-laws, the cheering section for this theater of abuse. We have been demonized for gun ownership and the assertion of our second amendment rights. For every shooting that occurs a self righteous and pontificating shill has the angry white male profile all cued up before the facts are known.

We have argued about spending. Endlessly. Every time we have instituted some check to this profligacy the spouse has devised ways to circumvent these restrictions and spend the money anyway. Whether we have it or not. Time and time again. And the debt just keeps piling up.

We are no longer allowed to…… insert example here. The list keeps growing and growing. And now we find ourselves in a catastrophe of a lifetime. At least that’s what we were told. Only now we are beginning to discover that the spouse has in fact held our head under water until drowned, now means to revive us and guide us back to a new normal. The new normal is likely to entail having our hands tied behind our backs and being set to cross a major interstate while blindfolded. At night. In dark clothes.

A lot of us have the good sense to know when it is time to cut bait. We don’t want to argue about it any more, the details have become inconsequential. We’re just done. We don’t want to work it out because there is no incentive. It’s not about the albums. Now it’s all about the dildos, because the only discussion of compromise is whether or not the spouse will ram a 9”, 12” or 16” dildo up your ass. How about no!? How about you just keep all the dildos and shove them up your own ass?

Really. It will be better this way. You can go to New York or California, or where ever they “do things right” by your way of thinking. Best of luck to you. Build good walls. You will need them to keep your people in.

A half-dressed rehearsal

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

 

Social distancing is hardly a new phenomenon for me. I’ve been practicing it for years and can heartily extol the benefits derived from such a life. I completely understand that it is not for everyone, especially when it is not a matter of one’s own choice. We have a new truism introduced in the midst of the latest crisis, one akin to the ubiquitous “it is what it is”. We’re all in this together. One should ask, is this in fact true?

There is an awful lot that we still don’t know. There is undeniably a wealth of information made available through nearly every conceivable outlet, yet even the very best of it has to be qualified by the caution “based upon what we know right now”. This term imparts the tacit admission that there is incomplete data. We know this. What we do not know is how incomplete. It would be irresponsible hyperbole to suggest that we are flying blind. It would be humbly honest to say that we are at the very least flying while visually impaired. As a nation we find ourselves as the passengers on a craft that has lost all of it’s instruments and communications with the tower. We are left to trust that the crew is capable of putting us all back on the ground in one piece without the benefit of these vital tools.

Let us remain for a moment longer within this aircraft analogy. Were we discussing an actual passenger plane in these circumstances we might safely assume that the crew embarked on this flight with all of their normal tools intact. This is a mid-flight adjustment, where they must revert to experience and training. One should like to think that, for an example, if the pilot were to encounter an unanticipated turbulence they should be skilled enough not to overcompensate and send the plane into a tailspin. It remains vital to do those things necessary to keep the plane aloft until a safe landing can be charted. Though this may not contribute to the landing, it is no less true and there is no harm in saying so.

It is fair to say that crises are by their very nature situations in which one scarcely has the luxury of doing nothing. These are circumstances tailor made for errors to occur; errors which may only be judged by the degree to which they are manifest. If we are to follow that formula then we must take the example of overcompensating into a tailspin as a cautionary tale. It has already been stated in other terms: let’s not have the cure be worse than the disease. Though it may be perilously premature to say it, I for one suspect that we may have already passed that mark.

It would be foolhardy to presume that a pandemic event of this magnitude should not cause a temporary disruption of commerce, but this? Even World War I continued apace through the last comparable pandemic, the great Spanish Influenza of a century ago. For as bad as this virus has proven to be, the fatalities as they are currently trending will pale in comparison. Advances in medicine and a vastly improved communications network to aid epidemiology can account for fewer fatalities. When weighing the factor of a substantially greater world population and increased international travel one might safely conclude that the two events are at least equals in their severity. We can drill down into the statistics once this is all over to be certain.

While first responders, nurses and doctors employ their medical skills in the public health battle, public policy makers and state authorities are prescribing their own economic medicine. Like that first course of chemo in an aggressive cancer treatment they have in fact poisoned the entire body to combat the illness. In an age when annual budget deficits routinely push against one trillion dollars there seems to be little forethought given to the rapid passage of a “relief package” of two and one half times that. Before one has even begun to digest this there is already talk, serious talk, of still another trillion and one half more. For all of the alarm bells this should sound it is not the worst deficit that we face. It is the deficit of trust in our government, both federal and local; indeed, a well deserved mistrust for nearly all of our public institutions.

When crises of national or statewide level occur they become national and statewide problems for whomsoever happens to be in charge. It should really come as little surprise that those in charge should move with all haste to exercise what are statist solutions to the problem. As the acting authority for what is a state mechanism, be it local or federal, they are by definition statists. To be fair there are some who are acting as statists out of necessity, being caught within the boundaries of the current state and it’s accepted role. The majority of those who inhabit this establishment are statists by choice; it is their creed. It is how they have acquired and maintained their power. These are the people who populate our many state and federal bureaus. By their fruits shall ye know them.

Some may well ask “Is this the SHTF moment?” I for one do not believe that it is. This is a dress rehearsal. How does that old maxim go? Past performance is predictive of future performance? Statists are entirely predictable in their actions, or more properly, their reactions. In a crisis the statist makes three calculations in their response. First, how do I get ahead of this? What actions must be taken to assure I will share no part in the blame? This is known broadly as the CYA factor. This of course includes the obfuscation of any facts which would confirm that the party is indeed entitled to a share, if not all of the blame.

The second calculation is, how might I benefit from this politically? Is it a chance to play hero? Does it give me some leverage to gain something that might otherwise be unattainable? This is known broadly as the never let a good crisis go to waste factor.

The third calculation comes in the form of two options. In the event that there may be severe and lasting repercussions, is there A: someone else who can be blamed, or B: if no immediate blame or remedy is available, can the consequences be delayed? This is known broadly as the kick the can down the road factor.

In even their most benign moments public officials act as they do in order to say that they are actually doing something. Anything. Then further energies are spent convincing a wary populace that they are in fact doing something for them, not to them. To keep things within the confines of experience for our younger audience, let us consider just since the start of the 21st century. First big crisis? Why 911, of course! In response we got? Expansion of the surveillance state, an open ended “authorization of force” that still has us enmeshed in the Middle East, and my own personal favorite, the TSA. Do you feel safer?

Then we had the big crash of 2008. You remember. We have GOT to vote for this bank bailout or the entire economy is going to collapse. How about you? Did you get a bailout? I didn’t either. And just a few short months later there was the Obama stimulus package, also just south of a trillion dollars. The unions got bailed out. And the auto manufacturers. Did you get any of that? I didn’t either.

I do not subscribe to those theories that 911 was a government job. With an existing class of career personnel in military and surveillance, who in all likelihood already craved bigger budgets and expanded authority, 911 served as a bullet proof opportunity. Once this was gained we were wired for perpetual war. Not for that stated purpose of victory. War is big business. There is no better vehicle for laundering dirty money. It doesn’t require a conspiracy for this to occur. Universal solutions, no matter their consequences, are executed for the convenience and the self aggrandizement of the governing class. If you’re paying attention you should note that in each of the examples provided the beneficiaries of favor are in institutions which aid in keeping the authority of the state in place. Not you. Not me. Probably not anyone either of us know.

Now likewise I will not fall prey to the temptation of deeming this whole thing as a “plandemic”. It is because of that very deficit of trust in our authorities that we must even entertain such ideas. It makes for an interesting, and sadly plausible narrative, but again there is no conspiracy required. There is a class of jackals and vultures in waiting for every such event. It is something that was loosed and got out of control. It has from that moment forward been exploited to the maximum benefit of those with other motives. Just like every other crisis, real or imagined.

Covid 19, Wuhan Flu, Corona virus, whatever the hell we are calling this thing this week, is not a national crisis. It is an urban crisis, of a legitimate acute concern in high population centers where a spike in the load of infected could temporarily overwhelm local health facilities. Keyword: Could. I do not deny a cause for concern, nor do I discount the cautionary measures. The concerns and cautions need to be applied specifically where they are most needed, not universally. When these decisions are left in the hands of people whose default logic is the statist solution to any problem, the universal solution is always the one which prevails. You know. Like frisking an 87 year old woman in a wheelchair getting on to her flight for Boca. Are you sure you don’t feel safer?

What we are seeing is no longer about the virus. It is about another sickness that dwells in our midst. I referred earlier to a dress rehearsal. It is a half-dressed rehearsal; not a full blown naked power grab. More of a topless with pasties power grab. Let’s see how far we can take this before the bulls come in and shut us down. Pay careful heed to these public authorities, to the things they have done and said in response to the crisis. There will still be an election in November. You may arrive at the election still not certain about which candidate has your back. If you’ve taken anything from this entire debacle you know for absolute certain which ones do not.

Every panicked, over reaching government ordered shutdown was excused as a means necessary to limit exposure. Put in those terms one can fairly say that this is not a lie. It just fails to disclose that the exposure they are most concerned with is their own. They don’t care about me, or you. Any of you. The government is never your friend, at the end of the day you are alone. It is all on you. They know it. It’s what they are afraid of. Hopefully, now, more of you know it too. Some things are going to have to change, or you can all get used to a lot more of this.

Ford Wenty, report end. 4/13/2020

 

My endorsement for the honest politician

In the ugly and crowded field of 2020 presidential contenders the most monumental task is in deciding which of these to despise the most.  We have entered the phase where the pretenders, the Quixotic warriors, have begun to exit the field. Some go in shame, while others depart as they entered: completely unnoticed. Politics is an ugly business. It attracts the worst among us and it brings out the worst in us. In presidential election years this is magnified ten-if-not-twenty fold.

I make observations and often share my criticisms. One would scour my catalogue long and hard to find an occasion where I have lavished praise upon any candidate. The search would be fruitless. While I may favor the positions taken by one side or another on a case by case basis, I have no affiliation with either of the two primary parties. I firmly believe that political parties are inherently evil, and yes, some more evil than others. In the few too many decades I have spent on this planet, there has yet to be a politician who has provided me with a suitable explanation of why the fuck I require governing.

I have recently stumbled upon an obscure, independent presidential candidate. He is a completely self-absorbed narcissist, completely void of principle or core conviction. He would lie, cheat and steal, even pimp his own mother to win an election. Indeed, a misanthrope of monumental magnitude; a man who, were he in possession of any scruples, they would most certainly belong to someone else. These are all top calibre qualities for anyone to succeed in politics, yet sadly few will ever even hear of this man. Despite the gift of all these stellar qualities this man has one fatal shortcoming: he is honest.

An honest politician? Preposterous you say? Well, what follows here is the candidate’s own press release to announce his campaign:

This is to announce the candidacy for the president of the United States of Mr. Ralph Nota. Mr. Nota is running under the banner of the Go Fuck Yourself Party. Here is, in his own words, the campaign manifesto

” Hi, I’m Ralph Nota and I’m running for president. I’m here to bathe in your fawning adulation. I won’t ask how any of you are doing because, well… I really don’t give a shit. Okay, so here’s the deal. I’m part of a mob who’s looking to throw out the current mob. Things aren’t gonna be one bit different for you, you’re not important. What is important is that my mob gets control so we can take care of ourselves and put the other mob in jail. Or kill ’em, whichever is easier to clean up. So we’re gonna need your money and your vote because you just can’t vote for that other guy. He’s terrible, right? Come on! Don’t you listen to the news? A vote for Ralph Nota assures that for the next four years I will wipe my ass daily with the US Constitution and pretend that all you motherfuckers don’t even exist. My economic plan is to cash in early and often. All you motherfuckers are on your own, except for the crumbs we’ll allow you to keep. We’ll do just enough to keep you on that government teat so you won’t wander off of the plantation. We’ll pass more laws for you to obey and for us to break with impunity. Then we’ll come back here in four years and do it all again. We’ll have some new bogeyman or shiny object to distract your attention from any substantive matters, and you will thank us for it. Because you’re all dumbasses and I’m better than you are. That’s why I should be president. Fuck you all and thanks for your support.”

 

There it is folks. This guy doesn’t have a prayer, but hell! At least he’s honest.

 

Mother Superior

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A Doom and Reprisal report from Ale 81 Inn field correspondent, Ford Wenty

 

I surely hope that the pews of Mother Superior’s private chapel are padded. All of the kneeling required for her prayerful reflection must play hell on her near octogenarian knees. It is clear that, due to long hours massaging her rosary beads, arthritis has set into those bony digits; so much so that it was necessary to make a little starter tear in her copy of the SOTU address to avoid the colossal embarrassment of a mid-rip failure. Despite the fact that she is no longer able to firmly grip a ruler she has yet managed, through a combination of cheap vodka, prescription pain killers and an indomitable will, to maintain an order among her increasingly rebellious charges.

Through her long years of pious existence in service of the Church, Mother Superior has developed a possession of spirit common to zealots of every stripe. Under any creed there breaths nothing more deadly than the true believer, for they are awash in whatever flavor of holy spirit that their gods dispense. Becoming one with the spirit infects the corporeal being with the certainty that they, the true believer, are to act as the very instrument of their god on earth. The warning signs for when a zealot’s meter has grown full are not always obvious. Some of the more common manifestations are confusion, slurred speech and wearing white out of season; all three of which the Mother Superior exhibits with regularity.

This righteous fervor blinds one to practical realities, a small price to pay for such heightened enlightenment to be sure, but no less debilitating to navigation in the physical realm. It must have been in this weakened and vulnerable state that she allowed herself to accept the counsel of the Torquemada Twins, Adam and Jerrold. There are certainly more boisterous voices in the flock, but no others with the tools of Inquisition at their disposal. In the throes of her delusions of grandeur Mother Superior could not see beyond to the possible consequences: what should happen if their quarry were to escape?

Throughout history there have been bold prophets to proclaim the date of the end, usually through some construct which entails their being cast in some messianic role. There seems to be some manner of universal prune juice which causes societies to excrete these at roughly decade intervals. Most fade into history and are forgotten; those which we know range from the infamous, a la Jim Jones, to the pathetic Heaven’s Gate exit in 1997.  In those two examples the prophets went the way of their own prophecies, but the more forgettable cases end with shame and exits of a less permanent nature.

Mother Superior now stands before us painted in that very shame, but no quitter is she. She is of that rare breed who, even after utter public repudiation, will carry on undaunted. Doubling and tripling down on the same delusions, repurposed and repackaged daily to fit the ever changing news cycle. In semi-lucid moments she angrily rattles her beads as she shakes her fists in righteous indignation. Her remaining acolytes are in tow, eagerly slobbering for her continued pronouncements. Completely oblivious to the fact that she is thoroughly discredited, they blithely go their way to parrot her words. The Dark Gospel echoes in an electronic cathedral where most no longer come to take their communion. Their sacraments of horse piss and turd biscuits do not trans-substantiate into anything higher. They, like Mother Superior herself, are only the fruits scraped from the sidewalks of her home parish.

She will at some future date depart from this realm. There, but by the Grace of God goes she, mortua sorore graditur (if my Latin is correct). And she will leave us in prayer:

 

Our gender neutral, benign and omnipotent, anthropomorphized, extra-corporeal entity

who resides in Washington D.C.

Hallowed be thy State

Thy Kingdom unchallenged

Thy will be imposed

Here, there and everywhere

Forever and ever

Amen