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Nutcase Nevada Assemblywoman Michele Fiore ([R] Glock County) has been getting some attention for the Christmas card reproduced above, in which she and her extended family are pictured cradling enough weaponry to take out an entire middle school. After my third cup of coffee this morning I was moved to concoct the following doggerel, which I hope distantly captures the holiday spirit as experienced by a certain DSM-IV demographic. Without further ado, then, here's
The Night Be-Fiore Christmas
It was right before Christmas. All through the abode
The family assembled to lock and to load.
Our pieces were ready, we chambered a round,
Preparing if need be to all stand our ground.
The kiddies were tricked out in holiday best
With matching red t-shirts and cool Kevlar vests.
The old lady wore camo, while I dressed in black:
And everyone knew that their kin had their backs.
Then out on the street there arose such a ruckus
That I went to the window to see what the fuck was
Going down in the hood. I lit up a flare,
Tossed it out on the lawn. What did I see there?
The floodlights had already lit up the premises
(the better to draw a good bead on one’s nemesis!);
Some jerk in a Tesla was parked at the curb.
I shouted “Push off!” (well, I used a rude verb).
Upon closer inspection I turned downright morose:
“Holy shite!” I exclaimed, “It’s that monster George Soros!”
This Hungarian ogre, he gestured and sneered
And most of our firepower just…disappeared!
“Gone, Browning! Beretta! Bushmaster and Ruger!
Out, handgun and long gun, revolver and Luger!
Season’s greetings! I’ve come here on government business
As part of our ongoing jihad on Christmas.
But I leave you your flintlocks. This arsenal fits a
Well-rounded and well-regulated militia.”
We stared in dismay at that pitiful remnant:
All that was left of the Second Amendment!
The currency trader continued to mock while,
Bewildered, we looked all around for our stockpile.
My youngest girl told him “You must be unhinged—
Our gun-toting rights never shall be infringed!”
He chuckled, and told her with stinging derision,
“Kid, you are deluded, but I have a vision
Of the liberal craze overtaking the nation:
Sweeping new and improved anti-gun legislation!”
But as he continued to taunt, in that minute her
Eyes flickered toward the outer perimeter.
The front door burst open. Who was it stood there?
Holy Charleton Heston! ’Twas Wayne LaPierre!
He said, brandishing a Kalashnikov jobbie,
“I speak on behalf of the armaments lobby!
Who cares if you claim that our rhetoric’s raucous
When we own the Congressional GOP caucus?”
In one hand he hoisted a Bible aloft.
“Your leftie conception of Jesus? Too soft.
My Redeemer’s well-armed, and His gospel’s Fox-Newsy.
He didn’t come here to bring peace, but an Uzi!
The Lord’s on our side, and our doctrine is rigid:
A gun crazy’s rights shall not be abridged.”
Slack-jawed, looking right at this patriot’s Glock
The hedge fund guy almost went into deep shock.
And cringing, he whimpered “You can’t have that mortar.
Private use is outlawed by executive order!”
Quoth Wayne, “That’s enough of your commie sedition.
You’ve lost! Give it up! Assume the position!”
And as Soros fell back in disgrace and defeat,
LaPierre went on Twitter and posted a tweet:
“The NRA’s aims ain’t so easily thwarted.
Go jump in the Danube! Your agenda’s aborted!”
A couple of weeks ago I, whose organizational chops are not equal to setting up a two-car motorcade, contrived to organize and get through my father's funeral at the San Francisco Presidio National Cemetery. I am astonished that I did not fuck up.
The kindness and efficiency of the VA and cemetery officials who were involved in the affair cannot be overstated: the entire family, and I in particular, will be forever grateful for their efforts.
Der Alte's remains were in a container the size of a shoebox, but surprisingly heavy as I lowered them into the hole. The presence of my siblings, of most of my nieces and nephews, and of a few of the following generation, made the ceremony a little easier. My thanks to all.
This:
When I was growing up my parents were loyal subscribers to the “Reader’s Digest,” which I regret to report informed my own foreign policy views until about 1966, when it occurred to me that I was just four years from conscription age, and that a lot of late teens were returning from Southeast Asia in body bags. Anyway, the little magazine used to include a regular feature “Life in These United States,” with charming humorous anecdotes about our lives in the most prosperous and virtuous country ever.
That was a long time ago.
A few days back, Coast Guard veteran Walter Scott was shot to death—in the back, from twenty feet away—by a sociopathic police officer on the payroll of the North Charleston SC police force. The official account of the episode was that the victim attempted to grab the cop’s taser, and that the policeman shot in self-defense. A bystander’s video gives the lie to this account.
No video? The official story would never have been questioned. Officer Slager would have quite literally got away with murder. He may yet.
This is not—is not—an isolated incident. Summary executions and fabricated evidence are SOP at need at every level of law enforcement.
This will not change in the lifetimes of anyone who reads this. What needs to change is the common delusion that we live in a society that does not countenance this conduct.
This is how we live today.
This is how we live today.
This is how we live today.
I will not apologize to William Shakespeare since he is, like, long dead:
Full fathom five thy country lies,
Of its wealth are weapons made;
Google’s servers are its eyes,
All thy former rights will fade.
Paid for by the Kochs’ spare change:
Plutocrats both rich and strange.
CPAC cheers this fresh new hell:
Ka-ching!
Same way past republics fell. Ka-ching!
We are so fucked...
