IN CONVERSATION WITH # (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR) AND # (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

(# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR) AND # (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN))

by Peter Breschard

(NOTE: Across an unadorned pine table #4 and #7 at times look to one another.)

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

What do you do when the cache is full? Does it all spill out into some universe none of us have ever imagined?

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

Say what?

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

No, think about it From that first instant when, all at once, the senses release themselves to this universe. Immense amounts of what might as well be called data, bombards us with an incalculable jumble.

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

You are going to continue this?

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

Do we simply create the reality our senses transmit to our brain and all the jigsaw pieces are editorialized and sorted and indexed and filed? And we put these jigsaw pieces somewhere near other similar pieces and then we name it?

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

You want a coffee?

(NOTE: Gender neutral. GODOT. Use best actors available.

They sit across from one another at the table.

Omniscient narrator and characters.)

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

Which inevitably leads to how I created you and everything else I perceive.

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

Thank gods!

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

Not that I am. Silly. Certainly not by my own conception of such a creator. By definition: Non.

Does attaining a certain age effect the editing process?

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

Of course. Is there any place worth calling out for so we can eat in?

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

All those years atop one another. Quadrillions of sensory data feeds. Memory of data bits, bytes, buffered beyond belief.

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

Or a B Plus.

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

There has to be a limit. We are solids, not ethereal. (I would creatively assume.)

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

Do we actually play it this way?

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

Any way we want to play it. Or I want to play it. Or you want to play it, if what I am perceiving as my own creation turns out to be simply your projection of me attempting to understand what you are projecting of my own character in relation to yours. It's all quite simple if we view it that way.

(NOTE: They push their chairs inches away from the table.)

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

Or not.

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

For the moment, let us assume that you are my creation.

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

Thank you so very much.

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

Do you dream?

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

At times. Often before breakfast.

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

Do you dream of a day you have already imagined to live? And in your dream are only small details deformed?

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

Deformed? Do you mean changed? How much do we have to tip for delivery? Could I possibly imagine a larger tip?

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

There it is. A dream of fortune. So common.

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

There were mornings before attending child school. Changing faces of numerous pedagogues. Possibly seeing what would occur later in the day. Possibly living in a memory of a distorted memory within a dream. Possibly your dream. Or mine.

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

We take our previous interpretation, and we dream of finer design. We send that imagining into the as yet unknowing universe.

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

Our dreams are other interpretations. We might or might not still choose? Coffee?

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

Always will remain a possibility of going back. But again, how can we have initial sensory input if all we know to be is our own construct? Which could not have existed before one's own consciousness.

NOTE: They sit two minutes drinking coffee.

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

Difficult to design a tastier cup.

(NOTE: Should reader be brought in at this point?)

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

Imagine that.

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

I really don't have to. I am drinking it.

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

So you see what's been done? Don't you?

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

Smell. Eyeball. Touch. Taste. Yes, I have the general idea. And if I slosh it around a bit, I can hear it.

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

When did you imagine the coffee plantations in South America? I know I didn't. So you must have dreamt all the heat, humidity, and the inhumane slave trade along with everything else that goes into harvesting little beans someone grinds to bits then lets sit in nearly boiling water until every last flavinoid, or whatever, blends with the H2O, and you imagine such a combination to be in some ways enjoyable. Good for you.

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

Why don't we both leave administration of these worldly estates to you?

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

Wouldn't that be nice?

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

Fine by me.

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

One of us created this world. At least as far as I can now imagine. We certainly are responsible for our creations. We own the world's horrors before our coming to this consciousness. And what will certainly arrive in our perceived future.

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

Then we certainly can change the past, our future, and this present. Is the door unlocked for the delivery driver?

----------

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

There was a time before?

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

Before time? There was? Another construct. Created by you or me or the construct itself? So like a picture frame. To isolate what you don't wish to blend into the wall.

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

Even ancient art?

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

Can you imagine a worse frame for a drawing than a cave? Adorn your art with poorly illuminated moist rock?

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

But there are positives.

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

Of course there are. Oil paint on canvas can only last so long but art hidden deep within a cave, undisturbed for thousands of centuries, will exist until rediscovered and brought to destruction by the eyes that view.

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

Nothing is eternal.

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

Nothing is. Nothing precedes everything. Ergo nothing is eternal but art most certainly is not.

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

That's an idea.

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

Most certainly and to my point of view, one of your best. But the idea itself, now that certainly cannot be eternal.

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

Thought is not eternal?

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

A construct. What we view as thought exists as how we perceive it. Is it expressed in language? Does it exist as an image, be it two or three or possibly four dimensional? We express the thought within our own constructs. Languages perish. Never rediscovered. Three dimensional objects revert to dust. Expressing thought dooms itself by its own existence. Expression is never timeless.

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

"I think therefor I am."

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

"Cogito ergo sum." Dare you disagree? If one fails to think does one simply fade into an indescribable form of ether? Or is thought process a thing constantly aware? If you can never stop thinking does thought enslave? Is it thought alone that so many wish to escape? If you imagine life to be eternal what are the limitations to your imagining of existence?

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

I think I hear our food.

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

I hear therefor I eat.

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

I eat therefor I am.

----------

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

And don't forget the background players.

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

How can there be a background? Does it not entirely depend upon your focus? What's in the foreground and background all depends upon from where you view.

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

And what is that I'm hearing?

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

Oh, it's always the radio. Your, our, entire kaboodles. Close your eyes. Hear our quiet. Cut out all extraneous noise. And then, it's all radio.

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

Open your eyes. Their, ours, whoever.

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

Third base.

----------

VOICE OVER

Taken from IMMORTAL TALES FROM NINETEEN PLANETS. For those of you just joining us now, we've been participating in IN CONVERSATION WITH #(NUMBER) 4 (FOUR) AND # (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN). Have you marveled and puzzled yet? Have #4 and #7 created wonder within your own weary world.

VOICE OVER

But isn't that why we are all here? We've all known creatures similar to #(NUMBER) 4 (FOUR) and # (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN). Are we not similar to them ourselves? Think about that for a moment. But to return.

----------

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

We create our worlds? All the upsides and all the downsides? We create languages which we'll never understand spoken by people of our imagination who we will never meet? And if they never become a concept within our own consciousness they will never exist?

# (NUMBER) 7 (SEVEN)

Now you're getting the idea? Or I'm elaborating on a theme entirely new to me where you begin to become a creature of awareness unto yourself. Of course an imaginary creature, such as yourself, could easily become as corporeal as I and begin your own creation voyage. That's not out of the range of utilitarianism which is often of use to myself.

# (NUMBER) 4 (FOUR)

So how does all of this play out? Cannot I create works of art which will keep me from becoming bored and disillusioned ever again? Can we expand every expanse to be free from ever experiencing eternal ennui?

WHERE’S LAURENCE HARVEY NOW THAT WE NEED HIM?

Take today as an example. Did the nine-to-five without breaking a sweat or breaking into song, so that’s a victory. Had a fine dinner and later as I was sprawled out on the couch an odd assortment of concepts congealed into something somewhat frightening.

They really don’t need him anymore.

“There’s no way he’s going to be this organization’s Presidential candidate.” Beppo had control of the room. “As a matter of fact, there are many of us who consider him an extreme liability. More than anything else, Americans hate horse thieves. And they really, really will fire the wrath of God on a, lying, horse thief. And a whole bunch of our people are seeing him that way now.

“Let’s face it, he’s had his run. It’s time to turn this fucking limping, screeching, obnoxious liability into the best kind of asset we can.”

“How’s about he sicks it out? Comes down with malaria or something?” Kitchen appeared lost in thought.

“Definitely considered. Definitely. His royal fatness, I am sure, hosts numerous ailments which might do him in at any moment but, although illness would very well turn this situation into an asset, we think we might have a way to eke out even more mileage from the old boy.”

“Inheritance baby resigns and anoints another?” Glastonbury intoned the obvious.

“You know Fats isn’t gonna go for that.” Ripper snorted while straightening his tie.

“We have discussed this. As was mentioned, it’s never going to happen. Knowing full well that if you don’t win your fate will be much more dire than losing an election for some boondock mayorality, you know he’s not bowing out. He’ll fight on to all of our detriment. Allow me now to share the thoughts of the committee.

“You all know I am a fan of old movies. Listen for a minute or two.” Beppo smiled and eyeballed his notes.

“Now here’s how it happens. And might I say here that most necessary elements for this endeavor are already in place, patiently awaiting their time.

“The committee has spent many months reviewing any number of plausible scenarios. We do our darnedest to cover at least the bare minimum of possibilities. These particular circumstances were guesstimated very, very high, and this scenario is the culmination of our best efforts.

“All would come to an end soon after our clown emerges victorious at the convention.

“This past Tuesday an outspoken transsexual, whose outward appearance is that of a woman, was brought in by our men and is currently under, let’s say, heavy sedation until that time when it will be needed. That’s Number One.”

“They don’t by any chance happen to know each other, do they, Beppo?” Kitchen again.

“Actually I’m not privy to such detail. Compartmentalization, they say. I’ll bring it up. Back to it then.

“Number Two is ex-Iranian military. Ranger type or at least their equivalent. Sharp. He’ll be fallback in case something goes totally astray but we imagine more beneficial outcomes if our primary, Number One, takes the fall.”

“Will any blues be injured?” Wall was always concerned about her troops.

“Not if everything, or at least most everything, plays out the way we think it should. Only one fatality on site.”

“Will any friends be there?” Kitchen was leading this inquisition.

“Three, I’m telling you, three of our people will be on stage with him. Couldn’t believe it when they told me. Three.”

“Out of how many?”

"Mostly the rest of the family. Some high ranking media echoers. Like I said, three, getting into position should be relatively a bit easier.

“Logistics, transport, local enforcement, already in place.

"Still working on a go signal. Certainly a minor issue. His roundness doesn’t read very well so we can’t use cue words inserted into his victory speech. I’ve tried and failed to imagine how much blather that would be but, as some might say, words fail me.”

“Is he that much of a liability? I always considered him moderately amusing. Does it have to come to this?” Rayon decided to make their presence known.

“Our research, and unanimous consent of committee with their considerable experience, say yes. He has to go in a way most beneficial to our organization. Research sees him as a loser and his name alone costs the down tickets almost everything. With him gone, in our maximalist fashion, we will still lose the big one but the harm to down tickets will not be fatal. It’s do or die time.

"Sometime after the nomination and toward the beginning of his acceptance speech, we don’t want it to be at less than five but no more then ten minutes. If it were up to me I’d be as close to five as practical. Who needs listening to his shit more than necessary?”

“Is Tip Top here tonight or are we going to have to wait until morning to get the picks? “

“Wait until morning. The markets will be just as open for business as they ever are. I’m told none of TipTop’s tips are particularly time sensitive.”

“I’m guessing Number One will encounter some heroic blue and not-survive?”

“Covered in, what do they call it? GSR. Gun Shot Residue. Which will match the weapon used by Number Two.

“Number Two will be found dead, somewhere little known and far away, within the week. Another knotted end.” Beppo grinned.

Continuing: “Two shots. Clean. Head. Chest. Suspect dies in firefight with our courageous blues. Any further questions?"

“And I’m assuming one of our three friends on stage with him will jump in and, cradling Fat’s volleyball of a head in their arms give a speech for the ages.” Oddly, Kitchen actually said this with a wide smile.

“Absolutely. You’re getting it. You’ve seen the movie. This will be a speech the Committee has been working on for nearly a year. Just in case events like those we now have might occur. At the end of the speech with the babbling, drooling, dribbling, dying candidate’s head in the new candidate’s arms, the entire country will be moved to tears and we might as well enthrone our speechifying friend as the new POTUS then and there; bloodstained battered but ready to defend our United States of America! Vote for Me and god bless America!

“And finally. And finally after all of these years. She will, as she cradles our fat, inane martyr to her breast and calls on America to avenge this attack on Christianity and our Homeland, Sarah Palin will, after all of our blood, sweat and tears, become the next President of Our United States!

by Peter Breschard

Texas Two-Step

 12/16/2022

 “I pity the fool attempting to diagnose Breschard.” said Doctor T.

It has come to my attention that a rumor or story or factual report has been circulating that I have recently been discovered to be the proud owner of a bladder cancer. At this moment in time I want to put an end to the speculation that I have been so afflicted by stating categorically that I am indeed dancing with bladder cancer.

Not to worry. It's being dealt with.

Let's go back a few months, late June. My BW, Nell, is teaching a miniatures class in Castine, Maine, when she comes down with COVID. She could only remain housed where she was for three more days and quarantines were meant to be at least seven, so it came down to me to make the 1,100 mile drive from our home in Michigan to Castine to pick her up and take her back to our suburban paradise. I like to drive, but a 2,200 mile round trip does put a bit of a dent into one’s weekend plans. The emergency evacuation went well, but on the first day of my drive I made a rest stop for the usual reasons. While visiting the porcelain upright throne I noticed my urine was not its ordinary pale yellow but a glorious crimson.

Not to worry, probably just a kidney stone seeking its freedom. The rest of the rescue mission was non-eventful and from then until now my body has remained gloriously asymptomatic.

Back at my home WiFi I promptly did what any 2022 citizen does and Googled what to do when you see blood in your urine and haven’t recently received a pounding kidney punch from your significant other. What you do is see your doctor. Checked it a dozen times and they all said see your doctor. Probably not a serious problem, could be from driving too much, but you should see your doctor.

I made a non-emergency appointment with my GP. In three weeks.

Saw my GP and she had me take all the usual tests.

A few days later an appointment was made with a urinary surgical oncologist (my dream job as an eight year old). Three weeks.

Meet the oncologist. He fist bumps me and calls me “Buddy”. Twenty-five years my junior and he calls me “Buddy”.

Schedule an exploratory procedure. Let’s say in another two weeks. I could look up all the exact dates, but why bother?

I get set for the procedure where they are to send some kind of alien technology probe up my penis for a look see. I’m cool, relaxed, and wearing a backless dress for maybe the second time in my life. Everything going swell, three other people in the room, and I’m not sweating this at all. They swab or whatever my Willie, and my “Buddy” says that will numb me sufficiently. I have no problem with drugs designed to keep pain in abeyance.

Then they send the Raquel Welch piloted probe up my Precious.

I doubt any of you have ever heard me scream. Let me say here that I was quite loud. It was a feeling I can only imagine to be similar to having a saguaro cactus shoved through that tiny, tiny hole at the tip of the penis. Aside from what might be considered impolite screamed verbiage I distinctly remember yelling at the top of my lungs that I should start singing in my usual horrible voice so at least the three of them could experience some pain. I don’t know how long the pain lasted but rather rapidly my “Buddy” called a halt to the procedure. My guess is “Buddy” didn’t wait long enough for the pain killer to take effect. But that’s just an amateur’s opinion.

Buddy came in later and apologized. I was most gracious and said words to the effect of “shit happens”.

Schedule a procedure where they’ll put me under general and try to remove a tumor in my bladder. Three weeks more.

Meantime I see my GP again and she reads the report, which I’d already perused

Apparently there were some code words I’m not privy to, that indicated I didn’t have a swell time with my last procedure.

Meantime I’m having MRIs or other very expensive shit like that. Again I could look it up, but I’m not going to. Interrupts my narrative flow.

Three weeks and I’m on an operating table for the first time since I had my tonsils taken out when I was about 10. I’ve been one healthy camper much to the surprise of many.

They put me out. They go in. I wake up. Eventually my “Buddy” let’s me know that he couldn’t do the whole job since my bladder is the proud owner of a “diverticulum” which is basically the same thing as a corner pocket on a pool table. Buddy couldn’t get into the pocket to remove everything. Probably never played pool in a barroom when he was cracking those texts in undergrad. Lab says definitely cancer.

Schedule another what they call a TURBT. (trans urethral resection of bladder tumor). Buddy also informs me around this time that I’ll probably have to have my bladder removed. Happy! Happy! Happy!

Another month passes and Buddy goes in again. Gets most I guess. Lab tests, similar shit.

Buddy recommends me to one of his work pals who I guess will be handling my chemo. Three more weeks to meet the guy. New doc comes to my appointment and shows such concern for my case that he’s reading my file for the first time as he’s talking to my BW and myself. Such professionalism. I can do cold reads better than that.

I have to credit Buddy and the other guy with one thing. They both suggested I get a second opinion. Nearest good hospital is University of Michigan about an hour away. Buddy told me some of his patients don’t get a second opinion because it’s too far away. I don’t kiss my bladder goodbye that quickly, and I like to drive.

A month later at U of M. Welcome to OZ. New doc is another surgical oncologist. It seems to me, although my BW disagrees, that she was ready to remove my organ (What - no monkey?) until I ask her if there is a way to treat my condition other than surgery.

And she says “When you have a hammer.”

Anybody who knows me reasonably well understands my style includes a healthy respect for non-elaboration. Basically I aim for an audience which is at least as clever as a bright sophomore in high school. At that age you shouldn’t need to have everything explained to you. “When you have a hammer” should be enough for a good reader to bring to mind “When all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.” What’s necessary with a little mental work, and no more.

Click.

New doc suggests I see a radiologist in her group. An alternative including radiation and chemo is proposed instead of removing my pal, myself, my bladder.

Radio guy gives me a COVID fist bump but definitely doesn’t call me “Buddy”.

Another TURBT is scheduled in a month which happens to have been yesterday.

I’m writing this with another catheter shoved up my cock, that’s what happens after every one of my TURBTs and this is my third TURBT. Definitely not the definition of “A real pisser.” (Pissah for youse Bostonians.)

Yesterday my BW chats with my second opinion first doc while I’m still under anesthesia and I’m later informed that the doc says that she’s “cautiously optimistic” after scraping my bladder again that I might not need any further treatment. We’ll hear about that in another five days or so but will probably have to schedule another extremely expensive MRI. (I love the way the medical profession makes up imaginary numbers for their billing departments. Hey, we’ll charge the government 30K for this and by the way you still owe us a hundred bucks. I bring them an imaginary 30K worth of business and they still want a hundred bucks from me? I’d say decimate the MBAs but I’d lose too many friends.)

As of now it’s all looking pretty good. Even if I still need some treatment, radiation and chemo appear to work pretty well. But there’s hope that I might not need any at all.

With any luck in couple of weeks I’ll be able to say, like Emily Litella, “Never mind.”

Couple of weeks. I could probably do that even with a catheter up my cock the whole time. Fortunately the catheter is coming out Wednesday.

…………

A quick note. When I get past all of this, I hope to Thor nobody refers to me as a fuqqin cancer survivor. When somebody or something attacks someone and they beat them back and away, you don’t call the victor a survivor. When Ali wiped the canvas with Foreman, nobody called Ali a survivor. When I beat the crap out of this cancer I’ll allow all of you to call me Champ. And Champ I’ll remain until I’m Champ no longer.

................

12/22/2022

Word from the pill pushers is that the cancerous growth has probably been totally removed and has not invaded the rest of my corpus. Will need a few more tests to confirm but this is the best news I could have expected.  I'm so happy I think I'll go out and play in traffic!

START MAKING SENSE

Now that our presidential race has almost begun (you really can’t start a prezzie grudge match until both bloated corporate tweedle parties, Deepubs and Deedems, have officially selected their designated mouthpiece), it’s time to clear up some matters.

Anyone, and I mean anyone, who barfs out the slogan, “Not voting for Biden is the same as voting for Chump!” should have their high school diploma revoked (Being most generous in assuming they were awarded one. Possibly a participation trophy?). This bit of brilliance is right up there with “You’re either for me or against me!”, both being mental products designed to enrage rather than enlighten. “Mess with me and I’ll burn down your cave” kind of wisdom.

By the kindergarten logic employed by those Deedems who weep and wail each and every time, and really, each and every time, the name Chump is mentioned (almost four years now, get over it and do something productive instead of allowing that dimwit to guide your attention) what these deluded sloganeers are also saying is, “Not voting for Chump is the same as voting for Biden!” What’s good for the gander is certainly good for the goose. Unfortunately for the Deedems, it appears that even their opponents (as dim as they certainly are) don’t make such silly, threatening (actually laughable) statements. 

A vote for Chump is a vote for Chump. A vote for Biden is a vote for Biden. A vote for anyone else is a vote for anyone else. Just because it’s not the Atlantic Ocean doesn’t mean it’s the Pacific. I am seriously surprised any of these deluded partisans were able to pass the written part of their driver’s test.

And now, those running for president can address the following issues. If I agree with their positions, they might earn my support. “My guy is better than your guy” simply doesn’t fly with me.

Put an end to all fracking and oil supports immediately. 

The Green New Deal, now.

Medicare for All. Healthcare is a human right. The buying and selling of human rights was pretty much decided by our Civil War. Both parties are presently opposed. Anyone who opposes Medicare for All and is not being compensated by the for-profit healthcare industry is a fool. These companies pay good money to their salespeople. And those who aren’t fools but deny being compensated, well, liars and thieves.

Subsidize electric vehicles and pay our fellow Americans to decommission their present gasoline machines. Cash for clunkers.

Withdraw our troops from almost all foreign bases and cut the defense budget by a whole bunch.

Guaranteed income, definitely worth discussing.

Ending the revolving door government/corporate lobbyist nonsense. Make it illegal for anyone officially involved in government to lobby for at least five years after receiving a government paycheck.

Stopping Congress members from investing in the stock market and profiting from privileged information.

Robin Hood tax on Wall Street. Wealth Tax. Raising taxes a good bunch on those earning over $200,000 a year. And end so many other policies the extreme wealthy have burdened this country with for decades.

All of these items involve money. 

Certainly not all of them will be addressed in ways with which I’ll agree, but to earn my support some have to be addressed in ways which won’t destroy the earth or imperil our existence. I am unimpressed by Deedems who say they’re all for equal rights when those equal rights equally allow their wealthy donors to exploit each and every one  of us. Slavery and capitalism are both economic systems. We all know where the money and power is, it’s time to go out and get it before this planet becomes the ultimate hothouse and we all turn orange.

DIE BOOMERS DIE

It’s time for the “Baby Boom” babies to DIE already.

Make no mistake, these are my people. I have lived among these self-centered, pampered, pompous assholes for my entire life, more years than I care to remember.

The vast majority of the boomers sold out long before their bellies no longer fit into their Levis.

Bernie Sanders got clobbered last night. No doubt about that.

But Bernie won among Democratic voters under the age of 50. Right, 50 year olds, not exactly teenagers. He won big among the folks who have waited decades for the Boomers to get off the stage and allow a new generation to sing. But, no, the Boomers still want it all for themselves.

Face it, Boomer Geezers refuse to believe they’re already old and decrepit. They hog all the money and the houses and pay a thousand dollars a ticket to see cadaverous 75 year olds prance around on stage playing hits from 60 years ago, narcissism to the extreme. Boomers think they have the wisdom of age, at the same time believing in their heart they’re 18 years old.

And now they’ve fucked over their children, and their grandchildren, and everyone else who isn’t old enough to get free Medicare like they do. We’ve got ours, FU.

Boom Geezers voted almost 3 to 1 against the interests of those who still have decades left to live if they survive without proper healthcare, and if climate change doesn’t do them in. But the Boomers could give less of a rat’s ass about things like that. They’ll be dead. One can hope.

They voted for a man who helped lead us into that ongoing disaster, the Iraq War. Boomer Geezers voted for a man who up until nine months ago was more than content to let poor women bleed to death in some back alley rather than allow them to control their own bodies.

This from a generation who were supposedly all about “Peace”. Put away all those love beads, you skeletal hippies, we all know now that the “Peace” you wanted was only for yourself.

Boom Geezers want to remain cozy and coddled in their navel gazing cocoons, and the rest of the world, the rest of America, anyone other than themselves, can simply fuck off.

This world may have a chance once these addled Rolling Stone fans eventually decide to shuffle off their mortal coil.  But until then, they will stick around, seemingly forever, and mindlessly destroy anyone or anything that dares interfere with their lethal self-centered buzz.

Take Pride In Your Right to Arm Bears

There are thousands of faceless heroes out there on the Internet and on the airwaves. It’s about time they came forward and claimed the recognition they so justly deserve.

These brave soldiers battle for their and others’ freedoms each and every day. When events occur which will forever justify their labors, they are all too often forgotten while the spotlight shifts to other more easily accessible subjects.

Still they sit at their keyboards, or call in to their radio programs, or attend their rallies. But now things have certainly changed. It’s time for all of you who have worked so hard, to get your own special brand of recognition. It’s time for you to come out and take a bow. It’s time for all American citizens to see who you really are and to appreciate your life’s work.

Step forward and claim your just rewards, all you fighters for easy access to weapons of mass murder. You are truly the unsung heroes of the slaughters in El Paso, Texas, and Dayton, Ohio.

For years you have fought against any law which might have caused the killers the slightest inconvenience in obtaining their instruments of death. “There must be no impediment for mass murderers in obtaining firearms!” you so loudly proclaimed. You cited one section of the Constitution so often that many forgot the rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. All important must be the ability of those chronically deranged to obtain weaponry with the ability to tear through the flesh of their fellow citizens in as rapid a manner as possible.

You are truly those chosen by the Lord. 

Shout it from the rooftops! Put ads on TV! Be a guest of FOX News! Let the world know that you were the ones who helped grease the path for the killers to take so many innocent lives! Let the country know that without you and your constant battle for easy access to weapons of war there quite probably would never have been these massacres! You have stood up for your version of the law, and who cares how many lives have to be snuffed out in the process! El Paso and Dayton only prove your point that America needs guns in the hands of the deranged in order to be safe and free!

Shout it loud that you few, you happy few, you band of brothers, have fought long and hard for the rights of the homicidal to purchase assault weapons so they can rip apart the bodies of children, women, and men as they go about their everyday lives. 

Take pride in how you work for free for those who profit greatly from the manufacture and sale of machines whose sole purpose is to end life.

Your brilliance should be celebrated by the world. Feel no guilt for the many murders you have aided and abetted. Take pride in the blood in the streets. 

You are a true work of genius. 32 bodies were added to your list in recent days. You should feel such pride. Let no court accuse you of depraved indifference.

Where would we all be without patriots like you?

-----------------------------------

AND THEN WE WIN

It’s been a while since I last put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, or chisel to rock, but at the moment I think I might have something to say. Usually I try to write about the moral depravity of corporate Democrats, but since Chump has placed his orange ass all over this country, making jokes about those in power has been so easy just about everyone is doing it.

For a change I will not indulge in my dentured biting satire and tell all of you how to finally get Medicare for All passed. 

STOP TALKING ABOUT HOW TO PAY FOR MEDICARE FOR ALL

Theories about how to divvy up money are like assholes, everyone has one and they all stink. Once the Republicans and corporate Democrat hacks start talking about money, you’ve already lost the battle. You’re talking about meaningless economic theories which leads to a Tower of Babel from where you will never return. Leave money out of the conversation.

HERE ARE THE TALKING POINTS TO WIN EVERY MEDICARE FOR ALL DEBATE

#1) BODY COUNT

Approximately 59,000 Americans died during the Vietnam War.
Since 2014, the first full year of the Affordable Care Act, until now, academic studies have estimated that between 90,000 and 200,000 Americans have died from a lack of health insurance or from inadequate health insurance.
So, in the last five years almost two to four times as many Americans died from the for-profit insurance industry as Americans died in Vietnam.
Medicare for All would have prevented all the deaths from these causes.

#2) GUILT

If you oppose, or do not fully support, Medicare for All, you must bear your share of responsibility for those Americans who will die because they remain uninsured or under insured. Approximately 30,000 of your fellow citizens will die this year and all following years for these reasons. 
If you oppose Medicare for All you must bear responsibility for your words and actions.
Medicare for All will bring to virtually zero the number of these preventable deaths.

#3) WHAT’S THE PROBLEM?

The problem isn't paying for Medicare for All, the problem is 30,000 Americans needlessly die each year because we don't have it.

#4) DO YOU KISS YOUR MOTHER WITH THAT MOUTH?

What kind of a human being are you if you let 30,000 Americans die each year rather than support Medicare for All?

#5) YOU ARE GUILTY AS SIN AND YOUR ASS IS GOING TO HELL

In opposing Medicare for All you are actively keeping Medicare for All from preventing the preventable deaths of 30,000 Americans each year. You, and people like you, bear responsibility for these deaths. Hope you have a good night’s sleep.

#6) IF YOU DON’T LIKE WHAT’S ON THE MENU, GO EAT SOMEWHERE ELSE

If you have a better plan for preventing the preventable deaths of 30,000 Americans a year, I'd like to hear it. And how many people will unnecessarily die every year from preventable causes if we go your way?




And that should shut them up but good.

These are the talking points. Go get ‘em, kids. Watch those idiots squirm.

Good morning, campers.

Due to popular demand I’ve made a list of all the shit I think you’ll need in order to make six gallons (about 28 bottles) of really fine Pinot Noir at home. After you’ve made your first batch you’ll realize how easy this game actually is.

I’ve linked to Amazon but if you have a reasonable homebrew shop somewhere close by, you should be able to get all you need from them.

All prices aren’t the cheapest but I used them because I’m inherently lazy and you can shop around yourself if you want to bring the price point of a bottle down from $4 to $3.50.

It looks like the first two cases might run about $200 with initial purchase of equipment but after that the only real cost is the price of the kit. My kits usually run about $85 so 85/27 = $3.15 a bottle. Plus about a dime for the cork.



Wine Kit - Vintner's Reserve - Pinot Noir
https://www.amazon.com/Wine-Kit-Vintners-Reserve-Pinot/dp/B072R3KVHS/ref=sr_1_18?ie=UTF8&qid=1544544240&sr=8-18&keywords=pinot+noir+wine+kit


Bucket Kit, Two White 7 Gallon Buckets with White Gamma Seal Lids
https://www.amazon.com/Bucket-White-Gallon-Buckets-Gamma/dp/B016R2RVRY/ref=sr_1_20?ie=UTF8&qid=1544544404&sr=8-20&keywords=7+gallon+plastic+bucket+food+grade


28 empty wine bottles


Homebrew Airlock Beer Wine Brewing Bubble Fermentation Bung & Bubbler Bucket Air Valve
https://www.amazon.com/Homebrew-Airlock-Brewing-Fermentation-Bubbler/dp/B075NC3D6R/ref=sr_1_14?ie=UTF8&qid=1544544549&sr=8-14&keywords=alcohol+bubbler

Racking cane
https://www.amazon.com/Racking-Cane-inch-inches-long/dp/B000E66A36/ref=sr_1_8?ie=UTF8&qid=1544544640&sr=8-8&keywords=homebrew+siphon


Tubing
https://www.amazon.com/Learn-Brew-LLC-Grade-Tubing/dp/B000E62TCC/ref=pd_bxgy_328_img_2?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_i=B000E62TCC&pd_rd_r=5e557846-fd5f-11e8-9bd0-c192ba7c048e&pd_rd_w=FZygX&pd_rd_wg=yv8PE&pf_rd_p=6725dbd6-9917-451d-beba-16af7874e407&pf_rd_r=NTKPDH1CZ6H98SC0N7EF&psc=1&refRID=NTKPDH1CZ6H98SC0N7EF

Bottle filler
https://www.amazon.com/Home-Brew-Ohio-H8-PQQ5-T5KB-Bottle/dp/B007VFBLNC/ref=pd_sim_328_5?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_i=B007VFBLNC&pd_rd_r=72938197-fd5f-11e8-b8c1-1f0fd5300496&pd_rd_w=nYFlE&pd_rd_wg=rmsGw&pf_rd_p=18bb0b78-4200-49b9-ac91-f141d61a1780&pf_rd_r=699MC06MECK80EAZFKYG&psc=1&refRID=699MC06MECK80EAZFKYG

Bleach or other sanitizer

Corks
https://www.amazon.com/Straight-Corks-15-16-Bag/dp/B07HHCQCGW/ref=sr_1_10?s=industrial&ie=UTF8&qid=1544545130&sr=1-10&keywords=wine+corks


Corker
https://www.amazon.com/Double-Lever-Hand-Corker-Synthetic/dp/B07JB97PT7/ref=sr_1_2_sspa?s=industrial&ie=UTF8&qid=1544545175&sr=1-2-spons&keywords=wine+corker&psc=1

(While your booze is bubbling away, there just might be a discernible aroma.)

There’s No Reason to Vote

The vast majority of eligible voters didn’t vote for Trump. The vast majority of eligible voters didn’t vote for Clinton, either.

40% of possible voters said piss on all of them and sat on their hands.

Now that Hillary is history and the Chump is well on his way to impeachment or resignation, it looks like the citizens who didn’t cast a ballot for either of them are the real winners after all. Bye bye, major party candidates.

There are any number of reasons why eligible American voters don’t bother but there’s one de-motivator which doesn’t receive enough attention.

Way back when, Bill Clinton and his cronies decided on a strategy of shifting the Democratic Party just a little bit farther to the right in order to pick up a handful of Republicans who were turned off by the Bible thumpers and fellow travelers in their party. Who knows? Clinton’s scam might have been good politics for an enlightened Arkansas.

After Bubba defeated Bush the Elder (mostly thanks to a little guy by the name of H. Ross Perot who was also running and shattered the Republican vote), the Clinton brand of corporate liberal Republicanism (we want choice but won’t make it law) suddenly became enshrined by the leaders of the Democratic Party. 


“We won! We won! Corporate Democrats are the way!” 

Well, so far, not so good.

With the exception of Obama (Remember Romneycare?) the Democratic Party has been losing ground at a stunning rate since Clintonism (we’re just a little to the left of George Wallace) took control. 

The Senate. Gone. The House. Gone. Governors. Gone. State Houses. History. 


There have been so many Democratic losses as to make that party’s former power seem but a distant memory.


Here’s a test. Instead of pointing out the slight differences between the two major parties, think about how much their leaders currently have in common. Pro for-profit health insurance. Pro death penalty. Pro Middle East adventurism, and on and on. All financed by Goldman Sachs et al. How Republican of them both.

But, wait a second, it turns out that all of that is not what rank and file Democrats actually support. The majority of Dems want Medicare for All. Most of them, along with most states, could live without the death penalty. Middle Eastern war games? Not so much. And by all means, tax the living shit out of Goldman Sachs.

Real Democrats are so much farther to the left than the party’s Clintonite leadership that it’s almost no, not almost it’s really, really funny.

But, even in the face of so many losses, the Clintonistas still put the blame on others. They couldn’t possibly be wrong. After all, the corporations and the donors give them almost as much money as they give to the Republicans.

Another thought. Instead of constantly losing by chasing the three or four liberals who remain in the Republican Party (Republicans tend to vote for Republicans anyway, you blithering idiots), why not offer Americans a real choice?

Instead of veering right in hopes of luring that loose GOPer, try going the other way. 40% of eligible voters don’t vote. And that’s for Presidential tilts. Lesser elections, lesser percentages. There are more people not voting than voting for either party. 

But the Democratic leadership ignores the forty percent and wrap themselves in Republican Lite robes in hopes of attracting more Wall Street moolah.

It isn’t working, morons.

How many former Democratic voters have stopped pulling the handle because they no longer see enough of a difference between the two parties for them to bother to vote?

Imagine if the Democratic Party actually offered a real choice rather than a faint Republican echo. Imagine if that non-voting 40% was actually presented with a stark difference. No longer Trump versus Trump-lite. No longer massive health insurance premiums versus 1% less massive health insurance premiums.


Imagine if the Democratic Party ran candidates who actually represented the views of actual Democrats. Maybe a small fraction of that 40% might be inspired enough to vacate their Barcaloungers. If Democrats could actually show that “they’re all the same” no longer applies, it might just motivate a few of the fallen. If Democrats could attract just a few of the non-voters, instead of chasing the white whale swing Republican, perhaps the losses might stop. Imagine if the Democrats could get a mere 2% out of that dormant 40 to pull the lever in their direction. Things might just become a whole lot different.

Bill Clinton is a most charming man, but he is an idiot. The Clintons and their ilk have just about destroyed the Democratic Party. It’s time for all of them to concede defeat and just go away.

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