Monday, September 25, 2017

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

You know,

... I'm starting to think that the French word for "juice" is not "sirop."

In other news, I think I just got diabetes.


Dead. All dead.


The Republic, journalism, satire, Mother Shipton, political discourse. All gone. We are zombies staggering around in the ashes of what is left.

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Tales from the Archives: A Gore-y Mess



They claimed that they did not want to take away our music; that they just wanted it allocated into new and helpful marked designations. They said it was for our own good. They always say that, and yet somehow our own good never seems to involve an expansion of our rights, or a reduction of their authority over us. 

We asked the gods to send us someone, anyone. One who would fight for us and stand up to those who hungered so much for power. One champion.

The gods sent us three.

The Illusionist Zappa rode forth, with his mournful eyes and his boss mustache. He had spent a lifetime mocking not only our rulers, but also our confederations and systems that produced such rulers. So his appearance on that day was not entirely unexpected. He was occasionally described as mad. He was never described as obedient.


His defense that day was flawless, and the attack he unleashed was absolutely withering. Gone was the merry prankster, the creator of delightful whimsies that mocked the clerics and the academies. Instead we witnessed barely contained fury directed at our kingdom’s corrupt and corpulent ministers.  

With the government forces still reeling, there were gasps of astonishment as Snider the Barbarian entered the field. At this point, I must ask you to understand that I am not prejudiced at all. Why, some of my best friends are barbarians. But I was… we were… skeptical. This was not a fight that could be won by bellowing, or by dramatic shenanigans. What could Snider hope to accomplish?


Our doubts were foolish and unfounded. Behind that wild ruffian’s demeanor lay the power and wisdom of a wizard. Time and again that day the would-be tyrants recoiled from Snider’s forceful counterblows. You almost wanted to feel sorry for Tipper Gore. Almost, but not quite. 

It was not enough. The forces of aesthetic oppression were bruised, yet they still held the field. We needed one more. And from the high plains in the West, he came.

Small of stature and bespectacled, the druid had long eschewed the harsh Germanic name of his forefathers, taking as his surname that of the city that floats a mile above the seas: Denver. Some said he could communicate with animals. Others said he conversed directly with the heavens. He arrived fully prepared for battle, and yet seemed serene. It was as if he knew the outcome before it began.

Message for my descendants: Children of my children, learn from the mistakes made by my parents and their compeers: Know that if you find yourself in opposition to a legendary lawful good druid, you are on the wrong side of things.  


And the outcome was this: it was a rout. The Druid Denver was unscathed, yet magnanimous in victory. The vile bureaucrats and their toadies cowered and ran and backslid and swore that they had never intended to do the thing that they had absolutely said they were going to do.

The people were ecstatic. We cheered, we danced, we huzzahed, and we told Senator Hollings to go fuck himself. Our music, our arts, and our culture would be safe for a while yet.
     






Editor’s Note: Yeah I know. I had to take a lot of liberties with the facts here. Here are the most egregious:

Zappa, Snider, and John Denver are technically all Bards, though I would argue that Zappa is some kind of odd multiclass.

On that day, the order was Zappa, Denver, and then Snider. But I was 8 years old when Rocky Mountain High was released, and 18 year-old me was absolutely amazed that it was John Fucking Denver stepping up to smack the government’s greasy hand away. I mean, my grandmother liked John Denver. So I changed the order to reflect that.

This story also reads like John Denver was more eloquent than the other speakers. But honestly, Dee Snider’s telling the committee:
 “As the creator of "Under the Blade," I can say categorically that the only sadomasochism, bondage, and rape in this song is in the mind of Ms. Gore” 
was, as modern young people would say, the sickest burn of the day.


Also, John Denver got busted for several DUIs, so he’s probably not lawful good. But as Winston Churchill once said: “History is written by the bloggers.” 

Sunday, September 17, 2017

Friday, September 15, 2017

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

Wednesday, August 23, 2017

First of all,

 "caramelly" is not a word. Second of all, even if it is a word, it is a very bad word and you should not use it.


Thursday, August 17, 2017

Note to Self



If you get a time machine, you need to go back in time and find 21-year old us. And explain to our stubborn lefty ass that someday we will really miss William F. Buckley.


I'm tellin' you guys


That climate change that does not exist is kicking Taipei's ass this summer.


Wednesday, August 16, 2017

30 Years Ago Today - The Harmonic Convergence



Now you youngsters won’t remember this, but 30 years ago today the world experienced the event known as the Harmonic Convergence. It was an exceptional time, and its effects have been profound and long-lasting.

Because of the special alignment of the planets and stars, peoples’ consciousness expanded like gas trapped in a rotting whale. We ate spiritual awakening by the bucketful. Unanticipated peace broke out in the vale and on the steppes, and several species uplifted and left the planet Earth entirely. That’s why you kids have never seen a striped spanner-bill dugong – they were one of the first groups to go.

In the southlands, the dead emerged from their tombs and danced wildly through the rain-soaked streets. They seemed to especially like the song “Little Lies” by Fleetwood Mac. In fairness to the dead, Tango in the Night was a very good album.  

As the preachers screamed “Eschaton! Eschaton!” in the churches (for that August 16 fell on a Sunday), the great cats of Madawaska, descendants of Bastet and Barong Ket, glided silently in their hunt for the evil witch clown Poleesheore (They never caught him – though it is unknown if he escaped through magic or stealth). It is said that late at night in the White Mountains, you can still hear those mighty felines howling in anger over their failure.

As that fateful day ended and our pupils shrank back to their normal size, the world started its slow return to normality. There was nothing we could do except put our clothes back on, say goodbye* to the glowing sea otters with whom we had been frolicking, and call work to say we wouldn’t be coming in the next morning. But we of Gen X remember that day and the changes it wrought upon our psyches.


* “wilujeung keur ayeuna