Well lardy pajamas rolled out of bed
and they rang up the nurses’ station
you’d better strap his ass in a limo fast
or we’ve got ourselves a shit situation

What the nurses saw
was against protocol
What the nurses saw
was against protocol

There was spit on the headliner, spit on the mats
and they had to run the windshield wipers
The secret service guys in the front seat said
“they don’t pay enough to change his diapers”

Well he’s on his way
he don’t know what he’s doing
he’s on his way
but he’s taking his time
and that’s the bitch
Goodbye you fucker, enjoy your Corona
It’ll be you and Melania down by the boneyard.

and you’ll find a murderer.

Oklahoma City #SaveOurChildren advocate jailed, accused in baby’s murder

The Republican party is now just basically rolling in its own shit.

I’m just sorry he couldn’t have been sucked out of his mother’s womb and ended before he could walk among us and do real damage. Eat shit in hell, monkey boy.

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It was you dumb fucks. You were the soft, ass-kissing underbelly that let the Republicans in, and so, the Russians. You hung on their words. You cultivated them as friends because you flaked on some fucked up intractable daddy issues. You were comrades in mediocrity- the kind of louche camaraderie ignited by donuts in the break room, or the free corporate calendar and polystyrene Rubix cube keychain appearing at the receptionist’s table. A communal acceptance of a living death that prepares the body for the saline and valium drip of ever increasing stints in front of the television. A foot tingles, grows painful, sloughs off. The dull children watch and wait. They know the coin collection is virtually worthless, but some hungry immigrants will pay top dollar for this shithole of a brick ranch, and each of the kids will have a new car when all the paperwork is done.

Nancy Nall and her droogies are already like the censorious ghosts of dreams who ask “why haven’t you been to see me in so long?” while they assure you “The cancer’s in remission again. I’m going to whip it this time.”

I don’t know when I first got the feeling the wall between the dead and the living wasn’t merely permeable, but the dead had actively colonized the space of the living, setting up rec rooms and buffet tables, the plastic bags containing their organs sloshing and fermenting as they leaned in for another helping of banana pudding or a bingewatching session of Game of Thrones. But they’re here to tell you authoritarians aren’t so bad; they’ll share some of the shit they steal from you, and if they kill you, big deal: you’ll still be here, wondering if your hair is good or if your IRA is in the shitter from the latest Republican stock market plunge. The worst that can happen is you’ll be another space-hogging corpse, forever going over the old routines, greedily awaiting the nightly frottage with the living and hoping the dead’s familiar hope of breathing again; knocking shit around, getting your hands on the kids to fuck them up good and proper; copping a feel of some of the newer consumer goods.

There are now news networks devoted exclusively to the moldy dead and the aspirational politics of the aggrieved white corpse-state. And the venture capitalist funded “news conservancies” touted as a replacement for actual news are no better than Robert Vaughan hawking hair formula for decapitated crash victims.

The welfare state of the white dead comes furnished with the aura of protestant sensibility. A just reward for keeping your head down and dedicating your living years to unimaginable tedium. For mastering the art of sucking the boss without betraying a shred of that curdling resentment. For humping Rick Snyder’s talking points like a page just out of braces. You deserve this reeking shame of continuing in the presence of the living, sharing the furniture and living spaces you once held in common. You’ve earned the right to have your still-stupid ruminations and commentary interpreted as folk wisdom, or the voice of heightened awareness, even if it’s just Andy Griffith went to hell when Don Knotts left the show. Them chocolate pinwheels sure is good. At least you’re not a dead nonwhite, who come to death not knowing how seamlessly bland they could have had it, and who will probably never truly master the entirely selfish art of going on and on for the sake of going on and on.

The old white trash is forever here, unaware how fucking dead it is. In those high waisted pants and cancer wigs, rooting through bags of coconut flavored Brach’s candies and Railroad Mills snuff. They believe the youngs are fucking like rabbits in every darkened corner and it’s not like the old days when you could only fuck when you could afford it, or were supposed to. They believe the Civil War came out wrong. They believe we were on the wrong side in WWII. Nothing ever tasted quite as sweet after they started letting the coloreds have it. And they have successfully prevailed upon the living to legitimate those grievances as a source of political power.

They continue to haunt us in their ageless solecisms as surely as they haunt flea markets in the form of still greasy fry-daddies and True Detective magazines. Strongly scented funereal mahogony day beds, lift chairs and recliners soaked with end of life fluids. Our dead came drifting back to us on a wave of white mediocrity, and the mediocre let them bury us.

You fucked up letting your blog be overrun by torture apologists and the old white men who suck them off, Nancy Derringer. Now you need to meditate on the idea of collective guilt.

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…needs Kyle Puryear’s fixer. He sounds just like a piece of Hyco Lake Republican filth.

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Roosevelt built that shining city on a hill, and Reagan and his racist white trash commenced its destruction.

A bunch of fat, overgrown manchildren with guns and bimbos slopping toxic dyes all over their empty fucking heads.

It was an inevitable failure, brought on by the absolute worst among us, and cheered on by the vapid and trite motherfuckers who thought racism was a fashion statement. Let them all eat their own shit.

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…thought he was telling you the truth, because you are incapable of rational judgment. Incapable of critical thought. Fuck quarantine, you sadass anti-mask bastards and your whores should be immured in your houses until you rot.

Useless racist trash. Get the fuck on over to Russia.

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You antivaxx cosmetologist trash need to rethink your whole existence, and your children need to be taken from you and remanded to the state.

The farm was quartered by a creek that dragged across a gentle slope. Granite humps arched out of its muddy banks where it descended beneath the roadway lying along the north-south axis. When my father and his brothers expanded their farm to include a dairy, the department of highways brought a backhoe on a flatbed truck and dug a culvert beneath old 86 tall enough for the cows to walk through.
Hornyheads and moccasins gathered in the wallows at either end of the pipe, and as children we would catch the miserable little fish with their thorned crowns while the adults scouted the banks for vipers. The dairy barn wouldn’t hold paint and when they stopped dairying the silo stood wailing lowly in the wind. Even a half dead farm is dead quiet.

I tried to climb the silo’s ladder a few times but always froze even before I reached the sheltered section at the top. My misunderstanding of the value of money can be traced to my feeble efforts to climb the thing. I couldn’t understand how something so far removed from the end products of milk and shit and cash could be worth the risk of falling silently to one’s death on the foundation slab.

And the processes of silage stretched even farther back, sucking at money like the shitty mud would suck the shoes off your feet. Clydesdales and laborers to be fed, plowing, hilling and seeding corn, maintaining ensilage cutters…

There was haying, too. Cut, tedded and put up loose in the loft of the barn with a trolley and hooks. One of my uncles tried to ride the hooks down to a waiting wagonload of hay, slipped, and the hook sliced into his thigh up to the groin. They left him on it until the ambulance came, in case he’d more than grazed his femoral artery.

It seemed like it was fifty years ago they had the dairy, but it was less than a decade they’d quit the hard work and gone to beef cattle and hogs. A square sump of pigshit now foamed behind the silo, and green mildew spores flourished on its whitewash. The pigs were crowded beneath a long open shed on a glassy concrete floor and they stood in their food and their shit until they were trucked off and the floor hosed down into the sump, and the process was repeated until one rough November, when nearly all of them contracted pneumonia in the cold, on the filthy concrete.

At first one by one, and then by the dozens, they had to be shot by my uncle and his brothers, who came to help with the liquidation of that year’s prospects. I remember my father and my older brother coming home with the hems of their trousers caked in blood, worrying my uncle might have placed his bets wrong enough to lose the place.

Most of my family couldn’t have done anything to help them afford the farm. My grandfather was an illiterate barber. A violent drunkard. He quit having to work much once his eldest son was able to hitch horses and begin supporting the family. He kept fucking though, making the family bigger, dumber and more unwieldy.

My eldest uncle had numerous confrontations with him, and I gather they ultimately came to blows. But it wasn’t until later, when my uncle was in the Army Air Force, that gramps got his shit partially together.

He came home late one evening from drinking and for some reason picked a fight with his horse in the stall. Horse won. Gran decided the combination of liquor and stupid was going to kill him, so he opted for stupid, straight up.

They’d saddled the eldest boy with a stupid name- Winnifred. He promptly changed it to Winston when he entered Army flight school as a sergeant. His class books are annotated in a terse, small hand. He was anxious about washing out. He began keeping a diary along with his flight logs, fitfully.

There are family stories about him buzzing the farm in various aircraft. He was probably accumulating flight time by ferrying them back and forth between airbases and transport nodes along the coast.

One time he detoured to come screeching down in a Douglass SBD, dive brakes open, on his brothers picking rocks out of the field. He would have had to tighten the scarf around his neck to keep g’s from pulling all the blood away from his brain and causing him to black out. He rolled back the canopy for one more run and shot them the bird.

People were willing to invest a lot in a joke then.

A few months into the war, he was flying a Bell Aircobra over eastern South Carolina when the fuel hose ruptured. He had to glide the plane down in the Pee Dee swamps. He hydroplaned into a tangle of saplings at the water’s edge. Some sharecroppers had watched him fall and ran from their field into the woods to see what happened.

He was sitting on the wing, his head in his hands, sobbing. It wasn’t so much he’d torn a big chunk of his upper lip and nose on the gunsight. He was afraid he’d fucked up somehow, and they might not let him fly again.
It would have been back to the farm, with no way to pay for it.

He grew a mustache to hide the mess he’d made of his face by the time Operation Torch cleared North Africa. There are a few entries in his diary describing the Roman ruins in Algiers. He was amused the ancients had indoor plumbing when the folks back home were still walking forty yards to a shithouse and wiping their asses with corncobs.

He knew they were dupes, and they’d always be dupes, and they would always need help. He believed in Roosevelt. He believed so strongly, that before he left for Newport News, and North Africa, he went to a radio station and cut a couple of steel discs of himself reading Roosevelt’s Four Freedoms speech.

There was only one disc that hadn’t been lost, and it was badly marred and scratched by the time I heard it. It sounded older than it was. He sounded like an old time musician talking while the band tuned up. Irish tenor register:

Just as our national policy in internal affairs has been based upon a decent respect for the rights and the dignity of all of our fellow men within our gates, so our national policy in foreign affairs has been based on a decent respect for the rights and the dignity of all nations, large and small. And the justice of morality..ality…ality…

Before he left he rebuked one of his younger brothers for using the word Nigger. It was an offence against the poor, he said. Everybody poor, including the people who’d helped him off the wing of his plane and driven him in a farmwagon until they could flag down a car to help him get his face stitched back on. Everybody poor-including his family.

His first combat flight was out of Castel Volturno, near Naples, providing air cover for the Americans bottled up at Anzio. The flight officer’s report says they encountered about eighteen FW-190s. He saw my uncle’s chute deploy and drift toward the German lines.

At home, his hunting dog began to scream, and did for a few days.

His last diary entry is about the Spitfires his fighter group flew. He said it was a beautiful thing to fly- an intelligent, graceful thing.

…on American soil for the traitor filth, his family, his ancestors, or his enablers.

Complete expurgation. Ship that dead filth to Russia in the payload bay of a goddamn missile.