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BLACK
HELICOPTERS EPISODE 22 FRIDAY the SEVENTH - 2:17 PM Masty Hall was, by early afternoon, a sweatbox. Speaker
after speaker had traipsed up and down the podium, hectoring delegates: asserting
what evil things the Pubs and Dems were – fomenters
of racism, high gas prices, plague, recession – drugs too (save legal or
medicinal pot), warmongering (or weakness on Russia), the Savings Tax, the
U.N. occupation, terrorism, cannibalism in the Ukrainian insurgency, climate
change, Confederate statues – and what good things American free enterprise,
patriotism and pride were, withal.
Now, Glenn and Tom Beedle sauntered at the
fringes of the convention hall periphery, chock-a-block with capitalism in
action... hot dogs, booklets, souvenirs… |
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"What's this stuff, boy?" the lawyer gestured to a novelty
vendor...
"This?
Just a moment..." the vendor frowned, then fumbled, "...yes, ma'am,
eight dollars. Hold it, here's your change."
He
exchanged two small bills for one large from a fat roll in the pouch of his
jogging suit.
"Sorry.
How can I help you gentlemen? Have children... how about finger puppets?"
He held up a box of little Catfish finger puppets in politically correct shades
of black, white, tan, red and yellow. "Or a T-shirt, we have twenty-two
different logos..."
"How
about something like... oh... 'My parents went to the CNC convention and all
they brought back was this lousy t-shirt'... something like that?" Glenn
asked.
"Yes, sir! It's somewhere... small, medium, large or
extra..."
"He
was fuckin' with you," Beedle said abruptly.
"Tom Beedle, I’m with the campaign. Lemme see your license, Diego."
"License plates? Uh... the company didn't give us a
truck. Dropped me off..."
"License. Vending license, dropout.
Your license! Lemme see it!"
"Señor?"
"You
have a license to sell this shit,
Jose Jiminez?" The vendor nodded, finally
understanding. "Well, let's see it! And your green card and Homeland
Security papers, too, while we're at it! And your vaxx certification.
Too fucking much, right Glenn?" Beedle
smirked as the vendor reached into his moneybelt. "Buttons! T-shirts! Programs! Inspirational tapes...
all that crap churned out by foreign slave-children, sold to us by other damned
Dreamer foreigners who flunked out of the colleges they were supposed to be
going to? Want some?"
"Reminds
me of the parking lot outside a Grateful Dead concert," Glenn sniffed.
"Never
saw those junkie faggots," the lawyer grunted. "Come on, Speedy
Gonzalez, move it! Used to be more of a Beach Boys boy... a
board, a beer, a bunny, a bird in a bush. Two Bushes! Too bad we didn’t make it three instead of
that orange-haired Putin putz – even a Ted Cruz
would’ve turned out better. Too old for
them drugs anyway, not like some around here, I’ll stick with Jim, Jack and
Johnny," Beedle winked upwards towards the huge
posters of Parnell and Tillerman. The vendor finally
displayed several already-crumbling little squares of white and coloured cardboard. "Son of a fuckin' bitch... it's
real! See, we were getting a shitload of unauthorized souvenirs. Fringe groups. There's millions in this stuff, ain't there Pancho? What's
moving, buttons?"
"Oh
yes, yes sir! Cuffalinkas, very good. But not so much the puppets, señores..."
"Figures! Like cufflinks, Glenn? Try these!" Beedle scooped up a fistful, then some buttons, tapping his
nametag with his left finger.
"Yes,
Mr. Beedle!" the vendor wheedled. "Anything
you take. Have a Cher? Madonna..."
"Cher's
still wearing the black for Marianne Williamson’s latest crusade against Old,
White Joe, last we heard," the lawyer winked, "but I got Tony working
on her, on all those celebrities. Think Madonna's waiting on whether George
Clooney makes up his mind to run for Governator out
there in Loonyfornia! Hollywood liberals went all
crazy with that recall shit, back in oh-three, so what do they get? A Republican Terminator! And then, a retard retread from the sixties
with a whole posse of ham actors waiting in the wings and, after that, a male
model as doesn’t think that crazy killers deserve the gas, let alone the rope
and another recall. And a strike that
sent them back to waiting tables, plus enough snow and flooding to wash them
out to sea! Keep your green card,"
he advised the vendor, "just don't cheat our delegates too much!" And
he guided Glenn back onto the vortex of the floor.
"Work
to do, Glennski! Money for the
taking. That's where it's at, you know, marketing! Only good thing about Trump. Some folks can't handle it... economic
separatists. Assholes! Listen, you've done good, I
want you with me in Los Angeles next March when the President’s health problems
hit home and the ravens start gathering. That's where the boys get separated
from the men... including a certain aging lady witch in pantsuits, two-time
loser who couldn’t take dictation, know what I mean? That man with the speech
defect and the Vice President who’s both black and Asian – the gay guy, the vegetable, the Mexican, the fake
Mexican anna buncha new
Senators and Governors from places that don't matter. Maybe Al Gore gets tired
of polishing his Oscar, maybe a Kennedy or two... not the Republican from
Louisiana, but who knows? E-lezzie
Warren and her fake applications to the bar? Screamin’ Howard
Dean? Koo-sinish? Bernie from the nursing home? Retreads!" Beedle speculated, flexing his wrists. "That's where
the deal goes down, where the money talks. Thank the Devil for the
Constitution, ex-Governator Ahrnold
would wipe out this field with his pinky finger, either party if it weren’t for
the homegrown provision. Elon Musk,
maybe? We hang in as far as
California and the Vice-Presidency's locked up... we win the thing, see, then
drop out and anoint some old Democratic nominee, maybe poor old Joe Biden
again..."
And he coughed, lifted a finger to point at the
heavens and began to sing…
“Three old men! Bernie, Don, Bye...den!
Sittin’
on a fence, thinkin’ should I run?
They’d all run after Slick
Willie’s wife…
Whose polls have been sliced
with a server’s knife…
Have you ever seen such hubris
in your life
As three old
men.”
"Tom,"
Glenn admitted, shaking his head, "you’re incredible. You're already
assuming Jack goes back to the party, loses and cuts a deal with the
gerontocracy for twenty eight. What if we win the nomination and the election? What if Oprah
changes her mind? And why is Trump
lumped with those liberals…"
"Then
we're screwed! Because what we’ve been going through the last eight… hell,
sixteen… double hell fifty… years is just preliminary… the economy is finally
going to explode on whomever’s next watch. Not like that present little bump in the road
or the plague recession or the one back in oh-eight, but the real deal! Total Kharkiv! It's already dead, but still walking around
like one of them zombies on TV, rotting from the inside... would you want to be
in charge when it falls over, all bugs and liquid and bank failures and
foreclosures oozing out, and the peasants coming after you with pickaxes and
torches when the FDIC runs out of money? How many hamster/lemur hybrids can Genotech export to Korea? Whereas, being Vice-President,
Jack gets to spend all his time on the phone, raking in the bucks… like that
defeated momzer from the Yukon wanted to do… so when
he has to get round to sticking the President in her back, his back,
whomsoever's back it is, well, for the interests of this great country, he'll
say, going misty like he does over his dogs and kids, his old American truck...
nobody can blame anything on us, because he's just the Vice-President.
One of youse guys, that humbly humility thing. Goin' to funerals for dead dictators, doin'
his job! Speakin' out about getting America back on track again. Meanwhile
the country's falling apart so Congress will do anything he wants them to, presuming that Austin's got some of
his people into the GOP and they take out Saint Ron and the unhanged
former Vice who’s already gone off the rails with his Space Force. The fat guy’s been outed
as the Second Coming of Nixon, ‘Pubs will never get behind that Cuban in
Florida… any of those mokes from Florida!.. the Texican Governor or that
Indian rookie from wherever... wonder if India changing its name to Barack or
something means the libtards don’t have to wallow in
guilt about mistaking Native Americans for Kashmiris
or all those tea-party eggheads talking their economics. Or that other from-India Indian girl…
wouldn’t that be some trip – two Indians facing each other down on a street
full of cowboys? Ron Paul could be scary
if he weren’t so old… Rand Paul?
Not! Hair too
curly. Teddy boy would be a
problem – we’d have to double down on those snapshots from Cancun. And…” Beedle
smirked, rubbing his nose knowily. “But that depends on this convention coming
out just right... not too hot, not too cold and fer Chrissake, nobody nominating a real American like somebody
from the military, that Puerto Rican bitch up in the Bronx or Tom Tancredo or
even Sheriff Joe, old as he’s
getting... so let the majors set us up for another dynastic rehash – mano a mano with the Donald if he
hasn’t dropped dead in the meanwhile.
What's important, here, is how we take care of these protest
people. You know, Mad Vlad Putin sups at the Devil’s table, but he knows what to
do with street trash..."
"What
protests?" Glenn objected. "All those people were in jail before the
marching and the chanting even started. By the way, how was that handled?" he asked,
pretending disinterest. "By Rayna? Henri started
to tell me something, but never got around to the details..."
"Oh,
that was good," Beedle chuckled, "real
good. He had it wired with that old fart at the dinner, Judge Claymore."
"Claymore? He's a Republican,
he'd be for Tillerman, if any of us!"
"Oh,
you know him? Think you do... listen to me, they're out doing exactly what we
are, except on their side, and both of us have to worry about Glenn Beck and
what’s-his-name, that Internet billionaire who hit thirty-five last month. Not the one in the movie,
or the one in jail... the other one. Where and if... other than that, it's
already been worked out, you'll see! Those whiskers of the Catfish... well,
those of his father’s that he still can exploit… they reach strange and deeply
down into Washington’s muddy riverbottoms, my
friend... strange and deep! Henri knew he'd be on the bench, on rotation so...
now this gets cute... they find this weird state law that conspiracy to commit
a misdemeanor's a felony. Ain't been used since the
labor riots in 1913 so… ain't it a bitch? You eighty-six the whole protest shebang
without even having to turn Austin’s skinheads loose the way Trump did, beating
up and tasering those journalists during that press
conference back in December and getting
got as a consequence."
"Actually,"
Glenn objected, "they tried using it a lot when I was here at the U. On
Mark Cobb, on the anti-Vietnam people before that... the Supreme Court kept
throwing their cases out."
"Really?" Beedle pretended surprise. "Well, that would have been
then… before the assassinations and those vacancies that got the Supremes as
tied up and dysfunctional as Congress… and this is now! Fuckin’ Susan
Collins… she’ll get hers in a couple of weeks!
We’re serious people, under fire from serious enemies. Three bloods on the corner, talking jive,
spitting on the sidewalk or maybe jaywalking, get the Unapissers
in... on our
side... bam! Five years, no bail, no probation, hard labor clearing fire brush
in Idaho! Piece of cake! Hey... it's what everybody wants, even the pieceniks," the lawyer chuckled. "It's their
protest personalities... see? Going to
jail as martyrs lets them go on believing that they're better than the rest of
us, making a difference in the world, as if anybody cared... keeps 'em off the
street at the same time. Like that
ninety-something nun getting a nickel for pouring blood on some military
sidewalk or them assholes as went to Trump rallies,
made pests of themselves and got killed as a consequence but dragged down the
President’s poll numbers with them. Or,
you want the religious right - that lady down in Kentucky, quashing the gay
weddings, going to jail as a martyr and now she’s writing a book… well, having
one ghostwritten, more likely. Won’t
make her a billionaire, but she should clear a couple million, almost as good as Hillary’s scribbling. Won’t make ten percent of
Obama’s wife, tho’. Some kinda mental illness, sorta... none of these people had healthy childhoods, trust
me on this. So even if the Supremes let 'em walk after a year or so, everybody
wins! Us – most of all! Hey... get a load of that place, c'mon!"
Beedle tugged at Glenn. "It's my treat!"
So
Glenn, for his duty and loyalty, was presented with a free catfish-on-a-stick,
all chocolate-covered frozen yogurt... which
immediately began dripping over his shoes as he lifted his cellphone to his ear
with his left hand, trying to keep up with the results now scuttling out of the
Human Rights Caucus, downstairs.
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