The Real Crisis at our Border

InkedFord Wenty profile image_LI

A report from Ale 81 Inn field correspondent Ford Wenty

 

Greetings citizens and residents of ambiguous legal status. This report comes to you from roughly 50km inside the Mexican border. After being barraged with conflicting reports of events occurring at and en route to our border, this reporter decided to conduct an in person investigation to find out just what the fuck is really going on. It’s not a pretty picture, I can tell you. Water is scarce, and suspect. The Federales have become much more expensive to buy off than in the golden age of the eighties. There’s shitty dope and not enough of it. Were it not for rum and mescaline I don’t know how a man is expected to survive in this hellhole. Still, for gonzo journalism, I soldier on.

The situation here is actually not as complicated as we’ve all been led to believe. The key question to be answered, of course; is there a crisis at the border? Based on my observations here in the field I can state unequivocally that yes, there is indeed a crisis at the US-Mexico frontier. These people who have sacrificed everything: their past lives and homes, their dignity as they are forced to queue for rations, their very physical being with fever, aching backs, sore feet. They have endured thousands of miles of dust and sweat and television crews. And now, within reach of their ultimate goal their ambitions to be thwarted all but for the want of floral wire. That’s right America. It’s not a caravan. It’s a parade.

For miles into the Sonoran desert the trail is littered with foil scraps, empty glue containers and staple boxes, remnants of cardboard boxes and spent aerosol spray paint cans. They follow the tire tracks of many trucks. And the tracks of the trailers being towed behind. Trailers which themselves bear upon them a parade of floats. All stalled now because the need to repair the battered adornments of these vessels from the rigors of the long journey. A repair left hopelessly unfulfilled because no one thought to pack extra floral wire.

They are a woeful sight. There are those erstwhile gents over on the US Chamber of Commerce Float, they’re always a contender. And this year’s up and comers are the girls of the Hilton Hotels Float. Theirs is a nearly breathtaking display of a Latina maid smoothing out fresh hotel bedsheets. The gaping holes from where white peonies once made the downy sheets are haunting, like the eyes of a ghost. I would be remiss if I failed to mention the SEIU Float. Manned by a particularly rambunctious crew their float is always a crowd pleaser. Tyson and DelMonte both have impressive entries this year. The Planned Parenthood Float has wowed the field with a tastefully presented, full length vagina float, done primarily in a salmon strain of sunpatiens and blackwave petunias to simulate a landing strip of pubic hair. Sadly none of these poor souls may ever see the finish of this parade.

This is the second of a four year suspension of longtime parade member The Roman Catholic Church. This is a sanction from the parade organizers at the UN following yet another pedophile scandal. There was one new float in the field this year, an odd entry to be sure. Wojciehowicz and Estevez Accounting Services. They did not have an actual float, per se, though they made an entry that qualified. A Toyota pickup with their sign suspended over the tailgate and a small office desk squeezed into the bed of the truck with boxes of pens, refrigerator magnets and business cards. When queried Senor Estevez only shrugged and replied with this:

“Hey homes! Once they make all these fuckers legit man? Then they’re in for the whole shit, you know? I mean they don’t have enough poor dumb white trash to pay all those taxes! But these bros and hos? Shit man! They fuck like rabbits, know what I’m saying? Spanish speaking income tax services for how many million? We’re gonna be like Senor Block man!”

Who am I to disparage a man’s dream? He may be right. Only time will tell.

I would appeal to the better angels that dwell inside all of you. Gather your floral wire, get down to the UPS and let’s get those packages flying in here! Do not abandon these wretched souls in this, their hour of greatest need. If something isn’t done soon Sarah MacLachlan will be doing another damn voiceover. I can’t stand that shit!

Finally there is this. On the precipice of utter despair these artists are finding their hopes bouyed by the most vile of rumors. Somehow the seed has been planted that Nancy Pelosi herself will come to dispense communion wafers and sangria then lead them all to the finish. I can not find the heart to pour water on this. They have been reduced to this as their last hope and would I be more cruel to tell them the truth? I just don’t know….

Ford Wenty report 17 January 2019 end

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Donny Can You Hear Me?

A benefit concert will be held in Leeds on 1 April 2019 for the victims of TDS and TARD.

A fiftieth anniversary commemorative of the rock opera Tommy,  in the form of an adaptation titled Donny Can You Hear Me?, will be performed by Ambivalent Gene and the Tepid Endorsements. An excerpt follows here…

 

Look in the Mirror

Verse 1, CNN Chorus –

He seems to be completely unrepentant

His words and actions make no sense at all

His flippant tweets are spared for no detractors

He seems to flip a coin for every call

 

Donny Chorus –

See me, hear me, love me, fear me

See me, hear me, love me, fear me

Verse 2, House Chorus –

There’s still hope, still untried legislation

Or other means that are well outside the law

And Agent Mueller’s open end investigation

any day could bring the goods to bust them all

 

Donny Chorus –

See me, hear me, love me, fear me

See me, hear me, love me, fear me

Verse 3, CNN Chorus –

His eyes don’t see

His ears don’t hear, yet he still speaks

In circles spinning, he can’t hold a single thought

Even networks tireless spread of misinformation

won’t undo the wicked evil that’s been wrought

 

Look in the Mirror, boy!

Look in the Mirror, boy!

 

Verse 4, Trump –

I often wonder what I was thinking

Don’t they know I simply do not care?

Look at me now, in the mirror preening

What is happening with this hair?

 

Bridge, CNN & House Chorus –

Listening to you we get emetic

Hating on you we will defeat

Taking down you we make our mission

We serve eviction of your seat

Right behind you we see the millions

of fools who bought your story

But they get no opinions

We’ll change the story

 

What is happening with that hair?

Ooo-ooo, I wish I knew

I wish I knew

 

 

Marlboro Man

InkedFord Wenty profile image_LI

A report from Ale 81 Inn field correspondent Ford Wenty

 

Against my better judgement I have allowed myself to be persuaded to take on a feature  concerning the marathon circuit.  It’s not of particular interest to me; it’s a story to finance my vices same as another. There still exists the very real prospect that the entire project will end in utter disaster. With enough intoxicants these displays can be endured with a modicum of sedation to make the time pass unto their merciful conclusion. At least that is the theory. I’m still testing it. 

People who will dedicate so much of their lives to running for no good reason are puzzling to me. They are harmless, I do not harbor any malice towards them, but I simply am unable to discern or appreciate their motivation. There are the usual tales of inspiration, of pushing one’s physical abilities to always rise to the next level. There is the inevitable talk of the runner’s high. I think it comes from oxygen deprivation, but if it works for you, well alright then. I suspect that there is something more to it that they are holding secret from us within their own circle.

People who line the streets of these events are….what’s the word I want here? Disturbed or disturbing? Perhaps a bit of each. Watching horses race can be fun. There is generally better seating, there is usually decent food and/or booze on offer, and with a good eye there may be a chance to make some money too. As best I can tell these marathons end up costing everyone involved. The participants, the audience and the host venue, yet ironically the food trucks seem to make money. Absent the betting the only other avenue for monetizing this lies in charging admission (nearly impossible logistically from most I have seen) or, sponsorship.

Enter one Harry “Hack” Halloran, the Marlboro Man. That’s right, it’s not a typo. I did not mean to say Marathon Man, it is indeed Marlboro Man. Harry, more than any other gaunt and emaciated veteran of the field, I found to be a true inspiration. You see for Harry Halloran the marathon is not a challenge, not a physical feat, not the next hill to climb. No, the marathon is a statement. Hack Halloran is a man selflessly dedicated to a cause.

I met Hack at the Columbus Marathon for the first time. Oh, let me be correct about this. The “official” title of the event is The Nationwide Children’s Hospital Columbus Marathon. I must include this lest I should run afoul of the very long arm of Nationwide Insurance’s legal department. To be fair, they ponied up a lot of money for those naming rights. It’s their way of giving back. Thanks Peyton! Nationwide is on your side!

It was a frigid pre-dawn in late October at the North Bank Park. There were roughly 15,000 runners and along the circuitous route, cleverly devised to pass through only those most exclusive zip codes of the Columbus metropolitan area, there were possibly as many as 100,000 onlookers, volunteers and support staff. As the mob queued at the starting tape, casting frosty breaths into the upper thirties air, there was Hack in the very rear of the field. At 5’8″, 162 pounds this 47 year old man was hardly an imposing figure. What was notable was that he was clad from head to toe in some good quality gear, all of it emblazoned with the red, white and black Marlboro logo. I was standing on the periphery, cataloging various images and sounds that I would incorporate into the feature I had been contracted to write. Hack made his own introduction.

“Hey man, you got a light?”

“Really? Are you serious? You’re in the midst of smoke nazi central dude!”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m here. Harry Halloran, but you can call me Hack.”

I stared for a moment at his outstretched hand. Truth be told, he had me at you got a light. I shook his hand and replied.

” Ford Wenty. Pleased to meet you Hack. So what’s your story?”

“My story! I’m in the fucking race man!” 

It was at this moment I determined that the magazine was going to get the drivel they were looking for. This was my story.  Hack was indeed a registered participant. He produced his little tag as proof. I wondered if he had the Marlboro gear on when arriving and picking up his card.

“Ok, Hack. Gotta ask, man, what’s up with the Marlboro gear?”

“Phillip-Morris is my sponsor.”

Did not see that coming. Phillip-Morris as corporate sponsor for a marathon? Maybe in Richmond, VA, but this? It’s a bit like BW3 serving as a sponsor of an IBS telethon.

“Really? How’d ya pull that off, Hack?”

“Well after they threw me out of the New York Marathon a couple years ago I got pissed so I wrote to the company. Took about a year, but I got them to agree to sponsor me.”

“Wait. They threw you out of the New York Marathon? Why? How’d that happen?”

“They told me I couldn’t smoke in the marathon and I said oh yeah? Show me where it is in the rules. They couldn’t, so then they made up some shit and had the boys in blue escort me away.”

“You like swimming upstream, don’t you?”

“Ha! Yeah I guess you could say that.”

“So you smoke and you run in marathons?”

“Ain’t no fucking law against it, is there?”

“Well, no….didn’t mean to imply that, it’s just that your performance might improve if you didn’t….”

“Yeah, I know I could smoke a lot more if I didn’t compete in these stupid things, but that’s not what this is about.”

Indeed. Next question. “OK, Hack, I’ll bite. What is this all about?”

“I’ll tell ya what it’s all about! I got rights too, ya know! They make excuses for all of these fat bastards stuffing their faces full of crap. Oh, you can be large and still fit…….right? You’ve heard it. Well, I can smoke and still run a fucking marathon. I’m not trying to set any records and I don’t expect to win. I just prove it can be done.”

I was instantly struck by the Quixotic nature of this man’s vision.  Americans by and large have an indefatigable affinity for the underdog. By my reckoning Hack Halloran was by far the biggest underdog in this race. The runners were summoned to the start and Hack was off, still wanting for a lighter as far as I knew. I remained to the rear of the chaos and again studied the route.

The length of a proper marathon is 26.2 miles. When one studies an aerial map of Columbus, Ohio the first distinct route to be detected is the city’s I-270 outerbelt. The total mileage of this roughly circular route is just a shade under 55 miles. One might easily have determined the course by performing a bisection of the city with High Street from north to south (aka US 23) and following the western half of the outerbelt. I’ve not performed the exact measurements, but in the worst case scenario it might have entailed only excluding one exit to arrive at the requisite distance. 

Now far be it for me to presume any knowledge about organizing a marathon. I imagine it to be a rather daunting task and my hat is off to those who would expend that amount of energy for the purpose. I simply wouldn’t do it. You wanna run? Go run then! This particular event, however, does raise a substantial amount of money for a worthy cause: a hospital for children. It’s a brilliant move on the part of Nationwide when you think about it. Any time that you are doing something for “the children” your cause is almost instantaneously unassailable. Add on hospital and there is the added implication of “sick children”. Pure teflon!

More than anything else the marathon is about two things. First, it is gild edged PR for Nationwide Insurance. Second, like Derby Week in Louisville, it’s not about the race or the runners. It’s a place to see and, more importantly, be seen. With this clearly in mind the opening of the course made a bee-line four miles straight east on Broad Street. Past the Statehouse, the Museum of Art and the old Governor’s Mansion until passing the Franklin Park Conservatory and through the gates of Bexley. Bexley is rather exclusive real estate and is an historically Jewish community. Male ejaculation within the city limits of Bexley is against the law as it exceeds the posted city-wide speed limit of 25 mph.

The route observed a disciplined square about Bexley, at the halfway point of this loop passing Capital University, and shortly after turning north up Nelson Road to return to Broad Street for safe passage back to the west. It was vital that the route pass by the hospital itself, but a direct course west from Bexley on either Main or Livingston would have entailed venturing into territory where no preening poser would be caught dead. There was still that dread mile down South 18th Street until reaching Livingston and the shadow of the hospital. It was only this one stretch of the race which passed through anything alien to the snowflake’s world. Otherwise it all remained within the boundaries of the new age urban mythos.

From the hospital the course proceeded further west on Livingston into the prototype urban gentrification of Columbus’ older communities, German Village.  The Germans are long departed, first displaced by Appalachian economic refugees and later, after their urban renewal, gays and lawyers. On a clear day one sees as many rainbow flags in German Village as might be found in San Francisco, boasting more DINK households per capita than any other in the state. The exit onto High Street at Deshler had the runners pointed north to pass and salute the Nationwide mother ship two miles distant.

This particular length of High Street is known well to me from some of the years of my misspent youth. I was able to negotiate the mindless throng to obtain a watch from a second story balcony of the venerable South Wind Hotel. I am uncertain of the current status of this establishment, but it was reputed at one time to be the preferred working place for your higher end call girls servicing clients from the nearby Statehouse and County Court. Most of that is only rumor, I’m sure.  

It was 9:40 AM by that time. The bulk of the herd had already passed this point of the course by then and I was certain that Hack would be arriving in this neck of the race at any moment.  Shortly thereafter there came a chorus of jeers and moans from the assembly of onlookers surrounding the nearby fluid station. This, no doubt, announced his presence. From my vantage point above I could look down High Street and sure enough there he was.  The touque was shed now, along with the track suit. Now a clearer image of the man, the ginger mop atop his head, the wiry frame; a figure more resembling William H. Macy’s character in Shameless than a competitive athlete. Beneath the track suit the Marlboro theme had continued with red, white and black coordinates prominently displaying the flagship of the Phillip-Morris line. And then there was also Hack’s very public and unabashed consumption of the very same. No lightweight gold label or Ultra-lights, no sir. Marlboro red, the original cowboy killer.

Hack had evidently endured his share of abuse while approaching an earlier fluid station with one of those offending sticks hanging out of his mouth. A shouting match was averted and no more harm resulted than him blowing a large cloud of smoke into their faces. It was more of a symbolic gesture in that no one could really be certain how much was actually tobacco smoke and how much steam due to the cold air. In the open with a fair breeze any smoke was almost instantly dissipated, yet the attendees had cowered as though they were being assaulted with Sarin gas. Not wishing to repeat this Hack had left course for a few minutes to visit the BP station at High and Greenlawn to purchase Red Bull and two (gasp) plastic water bottles. Arriving at the S. High fluid station Hack puffed away, standing in the street some 25 or 30 feet distant. He guzzled a can of Red  Bull and rolled the empty to the curb.

“Hey! Why don’t one of you fucking snowflakes pick that up and put it in the garbage for me, huh? I wouldn’t want to pollute your safe space with my 100% legal tobacco smoke!” He then drank half of one of the water bottles and lobbed the remainder at the  scolding frowns behind the tables of their station. “Stick that in yer recycle bin you assholes!”

Horrified suburban soccer moms rushed to clasp their hands about the ears of their children. There is certain code of uniformity in these gatherings; rather, as Jello Biafra once put it, a Chickenshit Conformity. Their conformity has evolved from the mere pretentious flaunting of gratuitous consumerism, arriving in fleets of Lexus, BMW and Range Rover. Now, too, they flaunt their public virtue by wearing all the right ribbons and wristbands, mouthing all of the right slogans, appearing at all the right events. This was but one.

For all of their self-righteous blather about soft, squishy things like tolerance and diversity, they have a decided blind spot for these virtues when it suits them. These are the smoke nazis. The smoker is the most reviled creature they know. There is to be zero tolerance for smoking anywhere! Why, don’t take my word for it. Go ask one of these shrews yourself. They’ll be only too happy to hand you the lecture, which of course is richly garnished with the “it’s for the children” angle.

I did not attempt to follow Hack on his trek north through the downtown, the trendy, hipster Short North district, or the wide ring about the OSU Campus area. OSU, like most state universities, is where the group think of the masses and the group think of the state converge. I avoid these places at almost any cost. Instead I worked my way about the streets through town out to the enclave of Upper Arlington. The city markers as one enters are practically dripping with white liberal guilt. The whole place reeks of it.

It was lunch time when Hack appeared at the fluid station near North Star and Guilford, smacking away outstretched cones of water as he lit up yet another Marlboro. There was still derision, but the fervor of the event had largely passed by this hour. The bulk of the pack was well ahead and many who had made their appearance solely for the purpose of doing so were already home. This was where they lived. 

Hack indeed persevered for the remaining seven miles and concluded his run in the mid afternoon, posting a time of 8 hours 12 minutes and 33 seconds. Hardly a record setting pace, but then that’s not what this was about. Not for Harry Halloran. In spite of his abounding love for tobacco products there is something deeper at work here. You see Hack had an epiphany at some point. He came to understand that when it becomes accepted to ignore the individual rights of the otherwise law abiding citizen for one thing, it is then only a matter of time before it will be accepted for any thing. The state sanctioned popularity contest, whether it is held for good looks or for public virtue, is an insidious evil. 

Running marathons is a dreadful habit. I really can’t recommend it to anyone. If you do not currently run marathons, then please, don’t start! If you already do, then enjoy responsibly, it’s your choice. Oddly I seem to feel pretty much the same about smoking. These two groups would appear to be diametrically opposed to one another, yet they do share one key thing. The failure of either to respect and preserve the rights of the other places their own rights in peril.

 

Yes, Kim, as it turns out you actually can get laid with a bad haircut

In all of the sound and fury of the recent midterm elections a chapter in US diplomatic history has been quickly and conveniently forgotten.  It is a story of which, although it may not yet be complete, we have been given a suitable foretaste. Much of this of course has been alternately sensationalized or underplayed, depending upon one’s voice of choice, but the Singapore Summit marked a true milestone in 21st century geopolitics. Much was reported at the time, most of which was largely speculative in nature and little of it flattering to the president. This reporter, however, was able to (through extortion and intimidation) obtain a first hand insight into what actually transpired at the meeting. The following is an account of some of  those discussions. Other segments, for concerns of national security, have been redacted.


 

Ah, Kim! So pleased to finally meet you! I’ve been a big admirer for a long time. How was your flight?

Mr. President Trump… I have been big admirer for you also! Flight was okay. Thank you again for jet fuel…

What, that? Bah! What’s a few hundred gallons of jet fuel between friends, right? We’re friends, right? Of course we’re friends! Come on and sit here with me, Kim. We have a lot to talk about.

It was most generous gift, but uh….why you no come to North Korea?

Wellll….you know, Kim, we weren’t sure it would be safe for you. I mean you’re just like me, you know? So beloved by your people and since you’ve been trash talking us for so long we thought maybe there would be some of your people – you know like maybe some of those generals – well….They might have been a little pissed off about me coming in there, you know, with the great big jet and all. Before I go you gotta come see Air Force 1, or….You know what? What the hell, right? Maybe we’ll just take a ride somewhere. Yeah, but anyway, Kim, we figured for this first meeting -this is just the first you know – it would be better to make it a neutral site.

I see. Maybe, uh, next meeting I come to America?

Sure! That would be great, just great.  You can be my guest at Mar a Lago!

Not at white house?

Oh Kim! Just between me and you, okay…that place is a dump! Really, you’ll like Florida much, much more. Nicer place, better weather, hotter babes. Really, Kim, that much I can tell you.

Oh….I, uh…..

What? What Kim? Did I say something to upset you? I’m always doing that, you know? Was it…

Oh! No Mr. President Trump! You say nothing bad, I just, uh…I like the nice place and nice weather is good and I like a hot babes! But I have a ugly haircut. Just one time I like a hot babe fuck me not because I am Glorious Leader of Peoples Republic. You big important man, you know what I mean, yes?

Kim. Kim, Kim, Kim….lemme tell you something, okay? I promise this is a secret just between us, okay? Because I like you Kim. I really, really like you. You’re okay. You see this? Up here, on top of my head?

Yes. You have a big-big hair.

That’s right Kim! And you know what else? Believe it or not Kim, there are actually some people who say that I, Donald J. Trump, have a bad haircut! Can you believe that? Me!? A bad haircut! It’s all those fake news, Kim. Hell they’re everywhere now! I found Jim Acosta in one of my wardrobe closets last week! That is one sick individual, that much I can tell you, okay?

Why you don’t just a kill him? We have a no sick individuals in Peoples Republic.

Well you know Kim, as much as I would like to things just don’t work that way in America. Besides, it’s much more fun to just fuck with him all the time! See Kim instead of just one state controlled media we have a shit ton, okay? I mean media in America is yuge, okay? And they all like making money. Their ratings were all going down, down….I mean seriously, Kim. Like right down into the toilet, okay? And then I come along and shazam! I saved all their asses!

What mean the shazam? I don’t hear this word before.

Oh right! You wouldn’t know, would you? I’m sorry, Kim….shazam is an expression from an old comic book character called Captain Marvel. You ever read comic books Kim? I recommend the Washington Post. Really, really great comics over there, that much I can tell you.

Ohh-Kay? But what mean “shazam”?

Shazam! You know, it’s like Eureka! Or Holy Shit!

Oh, Holy Shit, yes. I know this one. Ha-ha-ha! Mr. President Trump make a funny joke!

Ha-ha-ha! You like that one, did you? Oh geez, I got a million of them! Ha-ha-ha…..yeah, but seriously, Kim. Back to your hot babe problem. Sure, I get that. Look, Kim…when you’re rich and you’re famous? It’s like catnip for pussy. You gotta learn to just roll with it. Do you honestly think they really give a shit what you look like? Come on, Kim! Have you seen my wife? And she’s with me, Kim. Just think of that, huh? See you could be boning prime tail too. You’re a young man, in your prime! Hell when I was your age I was getting more ass than a toilet seat, that much I can tell you!

I think I like the Mar a Lago! But how I get hot babes in Peoples Republic?

One word for you, Kim: hotels. Lots and lots of hotels, okay? And all we gotta do, Kim, is figure out what we’re gonna do about all these nukes and missiles, okay? I mean if we can work that out then we’re talking the Pyongyang Trump Towers, Kim. It’ll fill up with Russian and Chinese oligarchs and they bring in harems of that hot east European tail.

We will work out plan to turn over all the weapons, but I still get to be supreme ruler of Peoples Republic.

Okay Kim, okay. But we gotta have all the stuff first, okay? I found out you’re holding out on us and it might not be too pretty, you know? I mean it could be really bad. Or… lots and lots of pussy. The choice is yours.

So it work to make more money for all people and they make and spend more then I make more, right?

That is exactly how it will work, Kim. Trust me, I think I know what I’m talking about, okay?

Oh! Oh! When I come at the Mar a Lago Mr. President Trump, will there be any hot Mexican babes? I want to try Mexican!

Oh, better than that, Kim. We’ll get you this nice Cuban girl I know, Carmen. Very, very nice girl. Really, really…..really great tits, you know? I mean those mamas are yuge! You’ll like her Kim.

And you think my haircut okay then?

Your haircut is fine Kim. Really. That much I can tell you, okay?


 

Any further discussions must remain classified. Ford Wenty report end, 9 Nov. 2018

 

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The sad, slow and ugly death of the media, Pt. 3: Scorched Earth

Underneath it all she had always been a petulant little witch. The type of girl who at the age of twelve and a half was permitted to join the adult table, yet could not simply content herself with the honor. Instead she’d made a very special point to then lord it over her younger siblings and cousins. Solomon best described Gazette in his sage observation: woman, thy name is vanity. Now she was in the final stages, getting past the denial, working through the anger and preparing to schlepp off into acceptance. Certainly not, however, before blazing a grand exit. Even in acceptance she is a jealous pool, determined as the lover who declares that if her quarry be denied her then it shall be denied to all.

She doesn’t even bother with the makeup any more. She’s been exposed to all, to the most intimate detail, so why? She still carries the same skin, even if all of the dough beneath has settled to form unsightly bags and cellulite deposits. In her own mind she’s still all that. Where this is present in some ladies this inspires a certain admiration for such security in one’s self. In Gazette’s case it can but inspire pity, for we see not a woman liberated of her inhibitions; instead, a woman drunken on her former glories. She longs to once again feel that intoxication experienced in her heroic age, the days of The Pentagon Papers and Watergate, not realizing that this dragon will ever elude her grasp. She is one of them now, the predictable fruit of every other revolution.

We needn’t feel embarrassment for her, our pity is to be reserved for those more worthy of such tender mercies. Gazette now seeks neither sympathy nor solace. She has grown petty and thin-skinned, her only purpose now is vengeance. Throughout her sordid history she has (for convenience, amusement or both) made her bed with some equally unscrupulous characters. In her glory years these were singular encounters, a darkened rendezvous with a Deep Throat. As her star faded she had morphed into just another useful tool, until she graduated to a full on gang bang with the Deep State. Gazette’s real kink has always been about being on the inside, recipient and disseminator of rumor, gossip and palace intrigue. Being invited to and becoming the life of all the best DC circuit cocktail parties. In her day she was the Grand Mistress to all, the whore incarnate within her home circles; while posing the Madonna face to the contemptible masses, cooing her gentle, motherly scold to the unwashed curs for their ignorant transgressions against the public virtue of the day. Her manipulations were masterful, her physical dexterity superhuman: contorting to any position required that might offer an orifice to all comers. And this was how she was to be repaid? No, no, no….not her. This will not stand.

Make no mistake, my friends. This lady still has more tricks in her. One does not rocket through her orbits and not come into the possession of certain, shall we say “leverage points”. In days of old these might still hold some currency. Had she kept her circle of friends to a more exclusive membership she might still be able to survive with this play. Not so in today’s world. She has left herself too widely exposed. The parties inside of her bubble may not hear much of anything that comes from outside of it, but they certainly do one hell of a lot of talking within it. Gazette always wanted to have her cake and eat it too. She wanted to enjoy the privileges of being on the inside without having to assume any of the risks. She realizes now, too late, that with her sources compromised she is no longer any value and, by extension, no threat. She is equally compromised, fully implicated and in short: reduced to an accomplice. With neither party able to squirm the noose they will both leave scorched earth in their wakes. The fires are just being lit.

 

Face Down on the Potomac

A foul wind blows in the swamp this night. Pungent, fecund reminiscence of a time when this land was indeed a swamp; before it was claimed by pirates and other people with nicer manners, but who would still cut you for a shilling. Though it has been cleared away of the physical swamp, the modern day iteration contains denizens more fearsome than the serpents and gators who once tread these soggy grounds. No swarthy buccaneers are these, no. These are sharks in human skins, expensive suits and unlimited taxpayer funded expense accounts. Mindless eating machines, leaving trails of bloodied chum in their wake.

In the late summer heat, the already oppressive humidity further fueled by the remnants of Florence, the air is fouled by a rancid perfume of dead, rotting flesh and human feces. Not just in DC proper, mind you. The stench wafts heavily on the evening air from other quarters, seeping rather than blowing in from northern Virginia and from places as far off as Bethesda, MD.  They all knew it was coming, had probably already retained counsel, but within the last 24 hours there has been one mass shuddering of constricted sphincters followed by the largest single pants shitting since the Pilgrims’ Winter of Dysentery in 1612. 

In Washington, what you hear in the news is not news to them.  The grand fecal communion was bound to occur, but who knew it would strike so abruptly? The emergency response mechanism of DC was ill prepared for this flood of human waste, hangings and suspicious drownings. Even Capitol and Park Police have been brought in to assist with the Haz-Mat efforts. Distant howls, savage shrieks and the wail of sirens cry into the dense night air and there is a hint of yet another fragrance: panic. It is palpable, giving a visceral turn not unlike that experienced on a roller coaster, or 495 at rush hour.

The panic grows from a stark realization that the declassification of DOJ correspondence, FISA warrant applications and personal texts between Sztrok and Page, in their full and unredacted form, paints their most reliable accomplices into a corner. With this declassification there is no longer any ambiguity of redaction to seed that shadow of doubt. There is no valid excuse not to reveal the content in it’s entirety, yet in so doing mainstream media outlets must expose the fact that they have indeed been co-conspirators. They must present evidence in direct contradiction of a narrative they have fomented for over a year. The alternative, to suppress the information or distort it in any way provides no less of an admission, if only tacit in the latter case. For the deep state malefactors the one reliable smoke screen they had going for them, the slobbering lap dogs at the Times and the Post, the shameless apologists on the networks; they are neutralized. Any remaining shred of credibility they had vaporized with the stroke of a pen.

From this extends the further realization that this is only the first layer of the onion. From here it leads to the colossal farce that is the Special Counsel Office of one Robert Mueller. I’d wager a bottle of Jameson’s with any fool who thinks that there won’t be some further declassification before the midterms and Agent Mueller’s skin in that onion is the next one in the crosshairs. Once you peel that layer back you expose the putrid, molding core that lies at the center. Agent Mueller’s crimes long predate this saga. I have previously chronicled Mueller’s profile in an earlier report, The Unvarnished Truth about the Mueller Investigation: Beware when Axolotls Frolic .  At the conclusion of that report I had shared some reports of his whereabouts which have since been refuted. For myself, I won’t believe any of this is over until I find him floating, face down on the Potomac.