Sunday, November 1, 2015

Doldrums Before The Descent

Your Color-Coded Weekend

Most people I know feel uneasy about the future. Climate change; the unending brutality in the Middle East, and the tide of Refugees... heartbreaking, even as it affects the map of internal European politics.

In America, our political landscape resembles more than the usual Pestidental Year struggle -- it's not just between Liberals and Conservatives, but between an honest Populism, Business-As-Usual politicos who Fluff the same Old Order that's paid them for generations; and the Rebels -- Buffoons, our own Xtian Taliban, and Tea Partei Randians.

The Homeland Security Advisory System was created in the wake of Nine-eleven, during the reign of "Lil' Boots" Bush (appointed Pestident by the U.S. Supreme Court in 2000). It was criticized, like the peevish dullard who approved it, as being "vague and ineffective", with alert levels that simply remained either Yellow (Elevated) or Orange (High)

It was replaced in 2011 by the National Terrorism Advisory System, which does not use color-coding and consists of two stages, "Elevated" or "Imminent".  This was replaced in 2015 by the current color-coded system, based on the "share how you feel" ideas of the current administration.

Given that Fred Thompson is dead, Little Paulie Ryan is Speaker-To-Animals In Da House, Republikanner Candidate Trump !  is in second place to a religious zealot that makes Grand Turtlebear Bachmann look sane (Sehr Aber Schade, Jebby ! ), and Hillary ! allowed herself to be questioned by the Tea Partei in Congress without hurling blood curses against their firstborn in front of the media, we feel we'll need it in the days ahead.

If you don't believe me, above is an unretouched photograph from Australia's Division Of Inland Rooways, advising motorists that for about the next 75 miles, they can encounter Wombats and Kangaroos that are are large as Camels. 

Crikey. That's one serious country. Now, the fact of Lil' Rupert starts to make more sense, mate. I get up in the morning expecting The Weird Stuff to appear, but it isn't often acknowledged in advance by a Road Maintenance department.


  1. speaking of anxiety, and expecting weird stuff to appear, and presidentin' -

    here's a poem written during the W years by a pulitzer prize winner

    Bounden Duty
    by James Tate

    I got a call from the White House, from the
    president himself, asking me if I would do him a personal
    favor. I like the president, so I said, “Sure, Mr.
    President, anything you like.” He said, “Just act
    like nothing’s going on. Act normal. That would
    mean the world to me. Can you do that, Leon?" "Why
    sure, Mr. President, you've got it. Normal, that's
    how I'm going to act. I won't let on, even if I'm
    tortured," I said, immediately regretting that "tortured"
    bit. He thanked me several times and hung up. I was
    dying to tell someone that the president himself called
    me, but I knew I couldn't. The sudden pressure to
    act normal was killing me. And what was going on
    anyway. I didn't know anything was going on. I
    saw the president on TV yesterday. He was shaking
    hands with a farmer. What if it wasn't really a
    farmer? I needed to buy some milk, but suddenly
    I was afraid to go out. I checked what I had on.
    I looked "normal" to me, but maybe I looked more
    like I was trying to be normal. That's pretty
    suspicious. I opened the door and looked around.
    What was going on? There was a car parked in front
    of my car that I had never seen before, a car that
    was trying to look normal, but I wasn't fooled.
    If you need milk, you have to get milk, otherwise
    people will think something's going on. I got into
    my car and sped down the road. I could feel
    those little radar guns popping behind every tree and bush,
    but, apparently, they were under orders not to stop
    me. I ran into Kirsten at the store. "Hey, what's
    going on, Leon?" she said. She had a very nice smile.
    I hated to lie to her. "Nothing's going on. Just
    getting milk for my cat," I said. "I didn't know
    you had a cat," she said. "I meant to say coffee.
    You're right. I don't have a cat. Sometimes I
    refer to my coffee as my cat. It's just a private
    joke. Sorry," I said. "Are you all right?" she
    asked. "Nothing's going on, Kirsten. I promise
    you. Everything is normal. The president shook
    hands with a farmer, a real farmer. Is that such
    a big deal?" I said. "I saw that," she said, "and
    that man was definitely not a farmer." "Yeah, I
    know," I said, feeling better.

    1. Don't think about the Elephant. Don't think about the Elephant. Don't think about the Ellie Pants.Don't think about the Elle Prints. Don't think about the 'L'. Don't think about the Parakeet, because The Parakeet is thinking about You.

      But that's normal. Right?


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