Copenhagen and those Tungsten Filled Gold Bar Twinkies.

We’ll be doing a hammer and tongs, Smoking Mirrors flavored radio transmission this evening. It should be available for download on Monday evening. It makes sense to have a companion mirrors to counterpoint the broadcast.

 

Dog Poet Transmitting…….

 

The climate, data tinkering scandal, continues to implode as red-faced, finger pointing, dissembling scientists run out of the burning building, faster that Tiger Woods, in advance of his wife with a 7 iron …and with bad knees on both accounts.

 

Once, these august emblems of pure scientific inquiry were wide-eyed children, dreaming of Nobel Prizes, dancing like sugar plums in their heads. Like the long tradition of other lying collectives, which date from the Royal Geographic Society and before; these graft-taking scoundrels have done their industry proud. They found what they were supposed to find and they said what they were told to say by the corporations who provided the grants and salaries, in advance of their complicity in one more gargantuan, public rip-off. They are joined in spirit by their comrades in the AMA-Pharmaceutical combine with their Tammy Faye flu and toxic vaccines. They are joined by their comrades on Wall Street and the banking world with their toxic mortgages and tungsten-filled gold bars; the accidental Twinkie. They are joined by their comrades in the heroin trade, as the opium flows from the killing fields of Afghanistan to the sidewalks of Main Street, USA. They are joined by their comrades in the halls of government, as the wars expand across the Middle East.

 

Yes, these honorable men and women are joined by other soulless husks in suits, from every industry and field of endeavor, whispering as they go, “Me first, you later… maybe.” They are attended by a plague of lawyers who swarm like locusts across the looted plains. It’s The Treasure of Sierra Madre, with thousands of deranged lunatics grasping at the swirling dust of imaginary gold… trampling their fellows, elbows sweeping to the right and the left as they belly up to the trough, snorting and stamping and sodomizing everything in their path like overcrowded rats… eating their own children, stabbing the household pets with forks and dancing to dissonant symphonies that sound like John Cage on bad acid.

 

Some unnamed hero dropped a dime. Some pissed off former comrade had finally had enough of those bankrupt, lying swines. Here they are, these men of complex learning and fine reputation. Somebody said, “Hello Sailor” and they went right up the stairs. They took off their clothes and they rolled around on the stained mattresses in the burning shame of their moral incontinence. They got on their knees and they did the job and they took the money. They weren’t set up like Randy Cunningham and James Traficant for opposing the juggernaut of Ersatz Israel. They went willingly and laid it on the line for the corporate dime.

 

Few cities in the world look like Copenhagen at Christmas. It’s a wonder to see and all the uptown panhandlers from around the world will be walking around with their hands out; looking for Santa to reach into his bag for their just rewards. They lied their asses off. They sold their souls for a pallet of tungsten filled gold. They want what’s coming to them. They earned it. There will be no dissenting voices in Copenhagen. They will all be of one accord. The liars and thieves will toast one another for their tireless efforts on behalf of themselves. The faceless thugs in the black, Kevlar jumpsuits will be at every corner, just looking to break some heads, already half tumescent in anticipation of the crack of batons on available heads. They are damn well going to kick some radical, hippie ass. If they can’t fire up the crowd, they’ll send their agitators into the midst of them to get the party going.

 

Fleets of hookers have flown in from Ost Bloc and there will be young boys and girls in the back rooms for discriminating tastes. There will be dominatrixes and red ping pong balls. It will be a three part mini-series called, “Blood and Semen”. There will be buggery and skullduggery and animal abuse. There will be Satanists in the shadows and dancing in the streets. There will be talk of money and necessary deaths. There will be crimson-faced martini-drinking, fat men riding on the Heart Attack Express. There will be groping and fumbling in the dark, as the Horned Goat of Mendes rises above the city and smiles on his frolicking children in the bacchanal below.

 

Obama (rhymes with Osama) will be there, grateful that there are no Russians who won’t shake his hand and there will be a raging epidemic of lawyers. There will be lawyers everywhere; in the closets and under the beds, rising out of the cisterns in three piece suits. There will be thousands of pens on automatic pilot, moving across thousands of sheets of paper. There will be sheets in the wind and sheets on the beds, where robot armies of lawyers will copulate with demons and there will be drowning polar bears in the canals. It will be The Devil’s Mardi Gras, swept by a wildfire of unbridled greed.

 

I will not be there and you will not be there. We will receive no golden, tungsten Twinkies. They will speak of us though. They will talk about what to do with us after the fix goes in. I fear that the world is top heavy. When it falls it will crush itself under the weight of the plunder.

 

They howled and screamed about Chavez wanting the legal opportunity for a third term. However, in New York, Michael Bloomberg got permission to do it …and the public didn’t even have to vote on it. I guess it depends on who you are. I guess it depends on who you are.

 

Well, my friends… absurdity piles on to absurdity, like some confection designed by Gaudi. There are no boundaries to contain reality. Reality is running for its life, with thousands of lawyers in pursuit. There is no way to predict just how crazy it might get before critical mass is reached. How does it maintain? How does it continue? I am astonished that it can hold itself together. It is a scientific marvel far beyond the abilities of the global warming guys. This unreal fiction, formerly know as life, is breaking every law of physics. This is far beyond small airliners bringing down enormous skyscrapers at free fall into their own footprints. This is the wonder of the age; this tragi-comic fantasy. Is it held up by invisible wires… force fields… blind faith? “I guess but I just don’t know”.

 

Can you imagine being in the position of having to explain this day after day? How do they do it? Well… December brings us into a very different vibration than any we have known before. I won’t be commenting on that at this time. Suffice it to say that something entirely new is going to be added to the equation and you will become increasingly aware of it. Certain doors are opening and certain energies are going to be pouring out and… how is that going to affect what is already off the charts?

 

Strangely enough, I feel good. I don’t know why. Things don’t look all that good. The world has the appearance of a starving wino with a serious case of delirium tremens. The world looks like George W. Bush trying to ride a six foot unicycle. The world looks like it needs to go into detox before it has a nervous breakdown. The world has got the shakes and it really needs a drink. The world is knotting its tie around its wrist and then tossing the rest of it over the back of its neck. It’s pulling the tie with the opposite hand which is pulling the wrist, which is attached to the other hand that is holding the shot glass; necessity is the mother of invention, maybe blind need is too.

 

The Global Warming Magical Mystery Tour is headed for Copenhagen and I’m headed out to the front of the house to work on my succulents in the various planters. I’ll be missing all the parties and the meets and greets. My invitation never arrived so it looks like I won’t depart; no complimentary, tungsten filled, gold bars for me.

 

I am Alive

 

The New Shangri-La