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

 

Bernie Bro Ballyhoo

InkedFord Wenty profile image_LI

A report from Ale 81 Inn field correspondent Ford Wenty

Project Veritas is at it again. Mr. O’Keefe and company have graced us with yet another of their exposés; this time peeling back the carpet to reveal the rotted sub-floor beneath that is the Bernie Sanders campaign. The chief subject of this episode is an Iowa field organizer by the name of Kyle Jurek, a name now known to millions. The marvelous thing about Project Veritas’ guerrilla journalism is that unlike more conventional methods, where one listens, records and then reports the words and actions of their subjects, the viewer is instead given the story directly from the subject’s own mouth. On that score Mr. Jurek hardly disappoints: he is a small man with a very big mouth.

Why should we care?  This seems a natural question, we are assured, as there are extremists at either end of our political spectrum. It will be suggested that Mr. Jurek is a lone wolf, an outlier not in any way reflective of the democrat constituency as a whole. Whether this bears any truth or not will make little difference to those who will be content to wrap this warm shawl of comforting thought around their fragile psyches. There is, however, good reason to care and we should all be thankful that this Trotsky wannabe has been exposed.

Jurek holds the title of field organizer, one of many designations applied to the broader category of what we may refer to as campaign workers. While no individual candidate’s campaign runs  in perpetuity, there is always a campaign running somewhere. Consequently there is a pool of campaign workers who are always seeking one with which to hire their services.  I’m not talking local volunteers: these are the professionals, otherwise known as paid shills. Those employed with losing campaigns move from one to another, alway remaining within a sympatico orbit. Those from winning campaigns, in contrast, will generally land positions within the winner’s administration and later get a soft landing into a cushy media gig. George Stephanopolous comes to mind as a stellar example.  Herein lies the seeds for that Deep State that our friends on the left take such great pains to deny.

For the field organizer landing one of those government jobs with the winning team it is akin to the minor league ballplayer getting called up to the majors.  This seems an apt comparison as there are indisputably “farm clubs” for this talent pool. One of the most prodigious of these in the past decade has been SEIU, a name no doubt quite familiar from the Obama years.  It is through that very vehicle that Mr. Jurek has attained his bona fides as a presidential campaign field organizer.

From the limited information that we have been able to obtain thus far we have pieced together at least a partial history of Jurek’s career path. After attending Saginaw Valley State University in Michigan he remained for a time as a graduate assistant before joining SEIU sometime in the late 2000’s.  Although unclear exactly when it was established, Jurek still has an active LinkedIn profile identifying him as a field rep/organizer with SEIU UHW in Oakland, CA. There are unverified accounts that after joining SEIU in Michigan he was later dispatched to work on campaigns in California and Arizona. Jurek served as an SEIU organizer in their $15 per hour minimum wage strikes in Michigan in late 2014. We have not yet found verification, but we believe that Jurek was also a part of Sanders’ 2016 campaign in Michigan. We do know that he was hired for “recount consulting services” by the Democrat Senate Campaign Committee  in Florida in November 2018.

From Jurek’s LinkedIn page:

  • Kyle Jurek

Field Rep / Organizer at SEIU UHW

 

Recount Consulting Services. Hmm… wonder what that could be? :

 

 

Those familiar with this column will know that we seek to view matters through that unique lens of the stoner’s perspective. By Jurek’s own admission (as seen in Project Veritas video) and a lengthy arrest record we are assured that he can lay claim to a membership in Stoner Nation:

1/7/2020 OWI/ DWI

1/7/2020 Failure to provide proof of financial liability ( No Insurance )

1/7/2020 Possession of drug paraphernalia

1/7/2020 operating while intoxicated – 2nd offense

1/7/2020 Violation of probation

All Saylor Township, IA

9/27/2019 Possession of a controlled substance

9/27/2019 Unlawful possession of prescription drug

9/27/2019 Possession of drug paraphernalia

Urbandale, IA

Arenac County MI Sheriffs Dept

9/24/2016 Misdemeanor Dangerous drug

9/24/2016 DUI

He was arrested Pinconning , MI Police Dept

6/19/2009 3 ct. controlled substance

Bay County Prosecutors Office

6/20/2009 Possession of Cocaine ( less than 25 Grams ) guilty plea

6/20/2009 Possession of Analogues guilty plea

6/20/2009 Possession of Marijuana guilty plea

 

There are more, going back to his college days at SVSU, but you get the point. If you are a stoner this is not a dude you want to run with. He is a dumbass who does not know how to maintain a low profile. While his communist international card may be safe for now, I move that his Stoner Nation card be revoked forthwith. Stoners share one universal creed: Don’t be a dick. Jurek has not only broken, he has utterly shattered this rule. We are by and large a very forgiving people, and were he a snot nosed twenty-four year old grad student much of this might be discounted. He is thirty-eight years old. GTFU, okay? The intellectual capacity of this manchild is so glaringly deficient that it can only inspire disappointment. His behavior helps to reinforce a stereotype that we should no longer have to defend, making it far too easy for alcohol soaked hypocrites on the right to equate marijuana use with this brand of stupidity.

At the age of thirty-eight, even if you don’t participate in the electoral process, it would be reasonable to expect that as an adult one would know how to count. Counting backwards by fours from this, a presidential election year, one regresses from 20, 16, 12…….84, 80, and…..wait. That’s 1976. No presidential election in 1978. And it wasn’t McGovern. That was 1972. What should we think of a thirty-eight year old man with a Karl Marx beard, a college graduate, who can not complete a sentence without the words “like” or “f-ing”? Yes, those are important words in a stoner’s vocabulary, but not every other word! It would seem that the re-education camps Jurek advocates for are in fact a fait accompli. They are the very public education system of which he is living proof.

In addition to some remedial courses in English, mathematics and history, I might also recommend some required reading for Jurek: Orwell’s 1984. If nothing else would sink in to his addled mind, I would hope that he could learn one, if only one, lesson. Mr. Jurek – you are no longer one of the proles. You are a party member now and as such, once your revolution has been realized, you will be purged because of your drug use. Your chemical dependency compromises your ideological purity. Surely a man so well versed on Comrade Stalin would know this.

I strongly suspect that Kyle Jurek is too far gone, now beyond redemption. As a very last resort I might prescribe daily dosing with The Presidential Cheese (cannabis rex). Perhaps, just perhaps, all of this is just due to shitty dope. We can but hope….

 

bernie gulags

 

Ford Wenty, report end 1/20/20

 

Testimony?

Thefoureunuchs

L to R; eunuch, ballbreaker, eunuch, token

 

Ah, testimony. Lovely word, isn’t it? Testimony: derived from Latin. Another gift from those crafty Romans. Testes, testis, testimony. From the oath taken under Roman law, that is to swear upon one’s manhood. Back in those years before the Romans had co-opted the Hebrew God to their own purposes, there was no “word of God” upon which to stake one’s honor. In any culture; any language; any time in human history, a man compelled to swear an oath at the risk of his jewels has proven to sufficiently incentivize truth telling. With this in mind, I for one, believe that this word ought be treated with a bit more reverence.

What is being offered up today, under the sublime leadership of the only alien being ever seated in the US Congress (pictured below)……

 

JabbaNadler 1Nadler 2Nadler 3Nadler 4……is not testimony. Not in any legal sense, nor in it’s euphemistic sense as given in the word’s origin. There aren’t enough balls present in that line up to do the word justice. These people, just like the recent parade of disgruntled diplomats at the Adam Schiff show, are the embodiment of what is wrong with Washington. The names and faces have been changed, but the story remains the same. The same condescending, rules for thee – not for me, hypocrisy hustle that swamp rats have heaped upon us for decades now.

Chairman Waddler adjusts himself upon that pillow of excess flesh folded beneath him. It’s a fortunate byproduct of the transformation he has undergone since arriving on this planet. A man who never could find his own ass with both hands now has a valid excuse. Some say that he actually has a pouch somewhere in those folds where he carries a spare gavel. Should this actually exist one shudders at the thought of what else might be found there.

You are witnessing the long playing version of the Caddyshack Presidency. These hearings are like a board meeting of the Bushwood Country Club, where the snobs scheme at how they will rid themselves of the nouveau riche trash, Rodney Dangerfield’s Al Cervic – ironically also a real estate developer. In their universe this is who Trump is. There is a scene from Caddyshack that I consider the most emblematic of the farce we have witnessed for the last three years. The swimming pool scene where the plebian caddies and club staff are permitted a brief opportunity to avail themselves of this amenity.  The look of horror upon the faces of the members is rather like the perpetual scowl of the swamp rat in the full throes of TDS.  And in both instances this fear is not just for the fact that the unwashed have breached their sanctum: it is the fear that once they’ve gone there will be a big, fat turd left floating on the surface.

I for one hope that President Trump leaves them a pipe-plugger of epic proportions. Lord knows we’ve been swimming in their toilet for years.

 

 

A sojourn in the city

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A report from Ale81 Inn field correspondent Ford Wenty

 

A bizarre start to a Thursday evening. Chicago, southwest, undisclosed location. Cold as fuck. I sat in the back seat of some ubiquitous crossover of unknown manufacture, what passes for a sedan with four doors and a hatchback. I am there with a couple of local associates of a sometime associate of my own, Javier. We were suspended there in that ugliest grey, the urban ranges of frozen slush making furrows of every street and avenue. The vehicle sat idling, lights off , spewing the sweet monoxide fume and forming an ozone with the bitterly frigid air. We were in an alleyway, between garages and facing toward the backside of the homes lining the street before us. 

What the fuck am I doing here? Will I be asked to aid in the disposal of a corpse? Or worse? It had been three or four years since I had been to the city. Chicago, for all of it’s charm and character, is the sort of town I have chosen to avoid. If Chicago were a woman it would be Stockard Channing. You stare at her for a while, she bats her lashes or purses those pouty lips and you start to say to yourself ” hey, she’s kinda hot!” Then she turns her head and you see her from a different angle and…..ah, hell no! Surely some of you will understand this.

At an hour no later than 7:30 in the evening the wind chills were at a steady -25, with gusts occasionally whipping to a -40. Why at this hour, under these types of conditions? Surely I would be better off in my warm suite in Burr Ridge, with a bottle of Jamesons and several grams of fluffy bud. Alas, these are the sacrifices one makes for their art. 

Our wheel man was introduced and aside from a brief grunt uttered at that occasion let not another sound escape his lips for the duration of our travels. For this reason I had completely forgotten his name. The lead man was inside one of these houses on this block, a safe house. Benno Santomauro, a Brazilian by birth, had been Javier’s agent for the Chicago market for nigh on twenty years. Benno is fond of blades and has the scars to prove it. Not a man to be trifled with.

I was certain that I had already been seated in that alley for no less than 30 minutes. It briefly occurred to me that I should inquire of our driver how much longer, but given his demonstrative lack of or aversion to verbal skills these thoughts were quickly abandoned.  I really had no reason to be concerned.  My itinerary was such that I had some number of days to linger in the windy city before making the long trek back to the compound. My insertion into this situation was entirely coincidental: call it a classic case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

I had been enticed to this odd pilgrimage at the behest of an old colleague, someone with whom I had not worked in nearly twenty years and had not spoken to in nearly a decade. The gentleman is some years my senior and I was actually surprised to learn that he was still active in business. He is a living ghost from a past life when I walked and breathed among them: the screwheads who are convinced themselves and are eternally trying to convince others that they are in charge. They know the skinny and thus that is simply how things will be done. It is truly remarkable what one can learn about these people when left free to move in their midst. One need only carry the external trappings of their identity while remaining nondescript. It helps if you speak their language, of course. There is no need to be fluent, a conversational knowledge of banality will suffice for most situations. My old colleague is not one of them, though he has chosen to continue playing in their charade. Aside from his grating, northeastern accent he is almost a normal human being. 

Chuck’s forte over the years had been in the field of material handling. The MHI (Material Handling Institute), for some unfathomable reason, has for years set their annual Expo in February on an alternating schedule between the two known garden spots of McCormick Place in Chicago and Cobo Hall in Detroit. The odd numbered years take them to Chicago. As I have already detailed to some limited degree above, to know Chicago in February is to know winter for the bitch she really is. Nonetheless, after having gone through such a circuitous route to locate me, I was practically obliged to make the trek and attend once the invitation was offered. It was only by my mention of this trip in passing to Javier that I was further invited to attend this, some small part of his business concerns in the Chicagoland market. It had been made my understanding that once our business here was concluded I was to be entrusted with a package that I was to take to the compound. Javier’s instructions were, as ever, concise, clear and wanting for any extraneous details. We both like conducting business on a need to know basis: the only thing you need to know is whether the job is felonious, or only vaguely criminal in nature.

Another twenty minutes or so elapsed when Benno’s hulking parka could be seen leaning into the wind, determinedly progressing up the alley toward us. He closed the distance rather quickly from the moment I had first spotted him and I was briefly startled when he opened the door opposite of me and climbed into the back. The brief gust that entered in that instant was bone numbing. Benno whipped back the fur lined hood of his parka. “Jesus fucking christ it’s cold out there! Give us a cigarette, will ya Ford?”  I happily obliged with a Dunhill Blue – an extravagance I permit myself on the road – and joined him for a smoke. I gave Benno a few minutes to fully recover from the arctic before engaging any conversation.

“You, uh…get everything taken care of in there?”

Benno drew deeply on his cigarette and replied as exhaling smoke through his nostrils. “Yuh! It’s all good…” he paused, clearly meaning to continue as he fumbled to draw his zipper down, ” I got something for ya here Ford. Javi told ya you’d have a package to take back with ya, right?”

“Yeah, sure he did.”

From within that parka came a box, 12 x 20 and about 3″ deep, wrapped up in brown parcel paper. “Well here it is. I wouldn’t open it in public, if ya know what I mean.” He smiled as he dropped the box in my lap. “That’s 22 ounces, all vacuum sealed. That’s what took so long, sorry.”

It is a rare day indeed when fortune so smiles upon a body. Nearly a pound and a half of Presidential Cheese dropped in your lap.  Benno continued grinning, in the dim light from the dashboard eerily resembling Pacino’s Scarface.

“So ya wanna know what this is about?”

” Do I need to?”

” No, not really.”

“Good. Then no.”

“That’s good because I have no clue. I thought maybe you knew. My instructions were to pick up and prepare the package here and leave it with you.”

“Well now that I know what it is, friend, I know as much as you do.”

Javi knew me well enough to know that I would likely be able to put it all together. If and when he should decide that I needed to know more he would tell me. This visit was a favor, not a social call. Within this network it has been my experience that it is best not to grow too acquainted. The less you know the better.

The ride out to Burr Ridge from that alleyway was reasonably brief, my drop off and exit as unceremonious as our initial meeting. I was left the next couple of days in relative peace at my suite. An ample supply of whiskey and bud, the warm succor of the bar at a local tavern, The Wolf’s Head. The only thing missing from my old habit was the absence of The Dome Family Restaurant for my breakfast. I was to discover the sad news of the establishment’s closure and subsequent demolition of it’s iconic structure. Their potato pancakes were always exquisite. 

The Dome had been run for two generations by a Greek family. Great people. They actually lived down in the city, one of the sisters was a long time neighbor of former Chicago Mayor Dick Daley (that’s little Dick, of course, not the old man).  For as much as I would miss their food and their company, the end of The Dome was at once a bittersweet and familiar tale. They did not end for a want of business. There were ample numbers who frequented their tables daily. It ended simply because whatever monetary reward remained in it was no longer enough to compensate the ever waning desire to do it any more. Like my own one time career. I could have gone on, like my friend Chuck, and continued making more and more money. I had enough to do what I wanted to do. When you have enough to do what you want you no longer “have to”. Most of our lives are consumed with have to. My good friends at The Dome, like I, had decided to cash in their chips and leave the table. Our desires to play the game were fully sated.

On Sunday late morning I drove in to Midway to pick up Chuck from his arrival, in from Boston. The highway was both bare and barren, a frozen ribbon, salt glazed and indifferent. The mercury had climbed to near freezing and the low sun over Lake Michigan emitted a blinding glare. It was a bright morning, one for which you give thanks that you hadn’t drank tequila or vodka the night before. It was the kind of tantalizing winter sunlight that causes cravings for orange juice, with or without the liquor.

Chuck and I had coordinated pick ups like this numerous times over the years that we traveled within the same circles.  Our sense of timing had not dulled in the least after years of absence. Chuck was out there in clear view at the Northwest arrivals. Tan trench coat, Bear Bryant hat, hard shelled briefcase and one roll behind carry-on bag. Aside from a few more greys protruding from under the hat he looked pretty much the same. He still wore the uniform. I wheeled up right next and rolled down the passenger window.

“Hey mister! You know where a guy can go find a good time in this town?” He leaned down to look in the vehicle. He couldn’t hide the momentary shock on his face, but recovered quickly.

“Ford!? Christ it is you!” He opened the rear passenger door and dropped his bags in and resumed upon climbing into the front seat. ” I had such a time tracking you down I wasn’t sure you would show. Don’t you even carry a fuckin’ phone anymore?”

I do still carry a phone, but there are few who know this. My contact list totals six, and one of those is a veterinarian ER for my hound, Matthau. ” Nah, Chuck. Don’t have any use for that fuckin’ thing anymore. You all set there? I figure we roll out to the Wolf’s Head for lunch. It’s Sunday….prime rib on Sunday.”

“Well ya sold me, brother! That sounds great! So what the fuck ya been doin’, Ford?”

“Not much, really, Chuck. I dabble a little in pharmaceuticals and green technology. That’s about it.” There was some truth to be found in those words. It was not a total fabrication. Chuck was going to remain professional. He played the straight man.

” Huh. How’d ya get into that? Making any money at it?”

“Oh, I’m compensated. It’s not really about money any more.”

“Right! I gotcha! You’re one of those crypto-currency guys now, huh?”

” Yeah, I guess you could say that, Chuck. Honestly? I don’t get out much any more.”

“Yeah…well, ya look like you lost a shit ton of weight! You okay? I heard some rumors you were sick and then….”

” I was sick, Chuck. Very sick. But I’m okay now. I’ve found a solid therapy regimen. It keeps the nation safe for life, liberty and the pursuit of debauchery.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

I dug inside my coat and lifted the remains of a deck of Dunhill Blue. ” Ya still like the cancer sticks Chuck? I got some good ones…”

Chuck’s eyes lit up. ” Sure! I’ll take one of those!” He reached eagerly to catch one as I let it spill from the foil liner.

We both lit up and rode in silence for a few minutes of traffic congestion encountered while navigating back to 55 south. As we hit the southbound on ramp from Cicero I switched on the radio to ZZ Top’s Nationwide. In between puffs from his cigarette Chuck recited a litany of mutual colleagues and their current doings, or in some few instances, their passing. He would probably wait until over lunch to query further into my activities and whereabouts. Most of these people were of little or no interest to me during my career, when we were contemporaries. It made it so much easier to really not give a fuck about them now. Chuck, of course, was different. Deep down, at his core, Chuck is a sick fuck just like me.

Chuck had been a senior at Temple in ’76. He’d made the poor judgement of throwing in with a group of bikers in the distribution of “bootleg sopors”, the poor man’s alternative to the parent narcotic “disco biscuit”, or quallude. The last time he went to meet up with these guys he found all of them together – shot full of holes, all of the drugs and money gone. After that Chuck was scared straight. Mostly.

Through the course of the nineties Chuck and I had collaborated on a number of projects throughout the Great Lakes. Each of us were respected in our craft and each known to eschew socializing after hours. The fields in which we labored were, and to a large degree I suspect still are, male dominated. Thus, socializing among most of our peers was essentially the same as a frat party, but with better booze and more money.  For any who still feel any urge to explore this area I offer this bit of advice: every titty bar on the planet is the same. Save your money. Those girls will figure out something.

This reticence to belong to the club fell upon Chuck as a matter of age, I suspect. In my case it was a matter of having other business to tend to. Whatever our respective reasons, Chuck and I shared a number of quiet dinners together, trying to find anything other than business to talk about. We were each careful not to expose too much personal detail, yet over the course of several years we each had recounted a lively volume of the misadventures of our ill spent youths. He never presented with any and I never offered, but we each could reasonably claim our lifetime marijuana consumption to be measured in bales. There was also the matter of our mutual fondness for Jameson triple distilled Irish whiskey. Of all of my former colleagues Chuck is one of a very few whom I could also consider a friend. At the very worst it was at least safe to say that we are sympatico.

” I first took ill in 2010, Chuck. Kinda sick for about three months. Then really sick. For almost a year. I sold out my shares, formed another smaller company and went to just consulting, part time. Mostly from home.” 

The sign said the Tri-state was 6 miles to go. I decided to light another Dunhill, extended another to Chuck who declined. He had a mildly frightened expression. I noticed he really needed his eyebrows trimmed.

“Fucked around with that for about a year then I was recruited to a corporate job. Still kept the side business, saw the corporate gig go through three ownership changes in four years. After the last one I was done. Since then I have only been working at being off the map.”

“So you’re not in business?”

“Not in any traditional sense, Chuck.”

“Haw! What’s that supposed to mean?”

” I’ll tell ya more over lunch, huh?”

We arrived at the Wolf’s Head just before 1:00. The lot wasn’t too filled up yet and by this hour Tom, one of the owners, would be in. We’d be sure to get a good table. We were snow blinded in the lot so when entering it was like immersing one’s self in a cave. From the dim space beyond the original Navy Pier bench in their entryway I heard Tom call out in greeting. As our eyes adjusted I made introductions and we were escorted to a corner booth just steps away from the bar. Within moments two Jamesons, neat, arrived at our table. We weaved through some obligatory small talk: the winter, the NFL, the sales number to hit for Q1 2019. Nothing of any real consequence. When the prime rib arrived I ordered two more Jamesons.

“Chuck, you remember when you were having that headache with the vendor assigned for National Grid? Or what was it then…Niagara Mohawk, right?”

” Ah…yah! That was ages ago….”

“Right, right. I know that, just stick with me here. You had a situation where you had a premium product. You had your market, the user had already embraced the product. The problem was with the buyers. Somebody who didn’t know dick about the product made the decision to award the contract to their pet vendor and the user ended up getting some shit they didn’t ask for.”

“Yeah? That’s what happened alright. That shit happens all the time, Ford. You know that.”

“True. It does indeed.”

“Okay. So what’s your point?”

“I’m explaining what it is I do now, Chuck. In all those years on the road I cultivated many networks for many purposes. The last fifteen years I developed a network completely separate of work, something much more far reaching. I have tapped some people with truly extraordinary talents within their disciplines. It is not a company, more of an alliance I guess you would say, but we all share a common interest. We are able to provide both products and services that are premium. Now when you have a premium product there are two simple rules. One is you get your premium. If no one else is comparable your product commands it. Second is you don’t allow your product to be handled by douchebags who don’t know shit.”

” That’s intriguing, Ford. So what kind of products or services? Why so vague about….” the sudden dawning of realization crept upon him mid sentence. ” Green technology, right?”

“Precisely. I have an associate who is a botanist, one of the finest in his field, but he’s a renegade. He has difficulty obtaining legit work so he free lances. I helped him set up his infrastructure and from time to time I come in to assist in certain situations. I’ve set him up with other parties about the country who are “in country”, they handle the routine legwork. My trip here this week has a dual purpose, there has been a situation develop that requires my attention. This is the first time I’ve left the compound since October or November.”

“Really? So you’re really off the grid now, eh? So what kinda situation, if I can ask?”

“Well that’s the reason I brought up your problem with Mohawk. Very similar situation. We have a proprietary product which was rumored to have landed upon the shelves of certain state dispensaries. None of these are authorized distributors. We do not deal with any state entities. Our local people did some scouting, confirmed the rumor and discovered that there was also an imitation product being touted under the same name as our product. Not our name, mind you, but the one they decided to market it with. So we’ve done the prudent thing. Without identifying ourselves we have bought up all of the inventory they had.”

“I don’t get it, Ford. What does that accomplish?”

“We don’t deal with the state because we choose not to. We’ve already received our money for whatever they had. They got it from someone else who is trying to sell them on a knock off and undercutting our price. With those shelves emptied it will make it easier for me to do my job.”

“Which is?”

“I find out where these dispensaries got this product. Then I know who we’re dealing with and what action to recommend. That could be performed by me, or by others, depending on which skill sets are required. We have people with many and varied skill sets.”

“So you’re a dope dealer!?

“No, Chuck. I am a private contractor who sometimes works with a very talented artisan grower in tending the operational needs of a private and select network.”

“Hmm. Well that sounds good, but how ya s’pose that’s gonna hold up in court?”

“There’s not gonna be any court, Chuck.”

“You sound pretty confident. I don’t know Ford. Sounds to me like you’re skating some thin ice.”

I’d finished what I had to tell. I shrugged at his last remark. We live in different worlds now, Chuck and I. It was good to see him again, but I know it will be the last time. I’d considered maybe smoking him up with some of the Presidential Cheese out in my truck, but Chuck demonstrated that he is fully tamed. I’m done with those people. I’m off to where the wild things are. My apologies to Maurice Sendak.

 

The Real Crisis at our Border

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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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