The Wreck of the Garbage Skow Whitmer

With my apologies in advance to the great poet and songwriter Gordon Lightfoot. Even though he is a Canadian. Imagine, if you will, to the tune of The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald….


The legend lives on from the Shiawassee on down

of the great bitch they call Gretchen Whitmer

That bitch, it is said, never loses her head

with November defeat surely looming

She’s a load of horse shit piled up past her tits

still somehow that head remains empty

But a miserable cunt never gives up the hunt

when she smells a reckoning come early


She was the pride of the democrat side

like some beast that comes from Ann Arbor

As big liars go she was bigger than most

her lobbyists were all well rewarded



to be continued (come on! It’s a long ballad! No worries. Plenty of material to work with)

The Floyd case through color blind lenses


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


These are indeed troubled times in which we live.  Regardless of which side of the political divide one finds themselves this is a statement upon which we may find a consensus.  Depending upon which side of that divide one may find themselves this conclusion is reached for differing reasons.  Under current circumstances it would be to the benefit of all concerned if we were to unite upon those reasons which we find in common.  There is no doubt that such commonality exists, yet still it seems to elude us. That leaves us with this question: why?

The images of Mr. Floyd are disturbing. They are disturbing not because they show a white cop shoving the face of a black man into the pavement. They are disturbing because this image is emblematic of the state of affairs nationwide.  What I see is an American citizen being crushed beneath the boot of unrestrained and thuggish application of police powers.  The motto of “protect and serve” has long been replaced by “intimidate and extort”. The politicization of police powers and the militarization of police forces has grown unchecked for the past thirty years. This is an unpopular position to take, but I will say it anyway: many of our so called “peace officers” are little more than hired thugs. I know many will disagree, as is their prerogative, but I will stand by this statement nonetheless.

There is an order that has reigned in this nation for a very long time.  It is a corrupt house of cards that is doomed to fall; indeed, it is beginning to crumble before our very eyes.  Those who sit upon these cardboard thrones know it and are scrambling desperately to preserve their advantage. One need only listen to which side the jackals in our media are cheering for to know that this is true.

Do not make the mistake of concluding that I am cheering for the looters in Minneapolis, because I am not. They are not protestors. They are looters, opportunists of the ugliest kind.  They are spreading far and wide beyond Minnesota while the usual network talking heads cheer them on and lecture us about racial injustice.  These are people who are very concerned about injustice, provided it is the right kind of injustice: one which fits their stale and dishonest narrative. From the images streamed to us from Minneapolis, LA, and most recently Columbus, I am left with only one question.  Are these looters wearing masks to protect against the virus, or to hide their faces? You form your own conclusions. I have already reached mine.

How is looting the Target store, or burning down an auto parts store, or torching cars in the street (cars which one must assume are owned by someone) a form of protest? Who do these acts benefit? The looters? The property owners? No and no.  The only people who benefit from these acts are the race baiters and poverty pimps who preserve their own power and influence by continually stoking this racial division. These people don’t wear masks, except when it suits them. You can see their ugly, lying, bare faces on your television screens every day.

The powers granted through legislative subterfuge, or as is often the case simply seized outright, are no longer legitimate. It is time for consent to be revoked. If only a segment of what constitutes no more than fifteen percent of a population can turn out and behave like this,  and the “authorities” are content to sit on the sidelines and wring their hands, what should they do if all of us say enough? What will they do if all of us show up in the streets, with no masks, no social distancing, and assert our constitutional rights? Not to loot or burn, just to show up in numbers and shout with one loud voice: ENOUGH. We don’t trust you, you got it wrong, now be big enough to say so and crawl back to your lairs. We are taking back our lives.  We would discover very quickly whether or not these authorities are truly interested in our safety, or if they are only the same brand of opportunists as the looters.


Ford Wenty report end, 5/29/2020



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