Years ago I was searching for the biggest rooster I could find and heard about a guy in Petaluma, California who had owned a rooster called Weirdo that weighed thirty pounds. Sadly Weirdo had passed away, but his offspring were alive, and guess what? They were even bigger. I went out there and found Ralph, son of Weirdo, who weighed an amazing thirty-two pounds! Then I found Frank, a special breed of miniature horse that stood less than two feet high. I told Frank's owner I wanted to film Ralph chasing Frank—with a midget riding him—around the biggest sequoia tree in the world, thirty metres in circumference. It would have been amazing because the horse and the midget together were still smaller than Ralph, the rooster. But unfortunately Frank's owner refused. He said it would make Frank, the horse, look stupid.
—Werner Herzog
So Saturday, on this here site, extruded a pout-lip, which quickly ascended the rec list, glumly opining that it is simply "impossible to have fun with the right anymore."
To which j'accuse: au contraire.
For, in the Reality that I inhabit, the only thing one can do, with the right-bent weirdsmobiles of our day, is have fun with them.
Because: really: look.
I lived through Richard Nixon.
And I lived through Ronald Racist Reagan.
And I lived through George II.
Those people: they were definitely no fun.
Because they wielded power.
And so everywhere they went: there was a charnel house.
But these whack-a-loons, here, in 2012? They exercise power over nothing.
They are over.
They are losers, and they have lost.
Already happened.
We are here, now, in election season. And so, it is natural, for those who allow themselves to stray into the eddy of electoral politics, to accumulate a little foam, there at the corners of the mouth.
But something that I have found, personally, Very Helpful, when I myself, find myself, drifting into said eddy, is perceiving and acknowledging the Reality that, here in the "United States," what is known as "politics," is not remotely Real.
This came to me, like a goddam thunderbolt, during the 1992 convention acceptance speech of George I, at which time he famously declaimed: "Read my lips: no new taxes."
Except that, what was clear to me, was that the man had no lips.
As is evident in the video below.
So why the hell, I wondered, would the man say "read my lips," when he fucking had no lips?
Because he was fucking with us.
That's why.
And so I turned off the television. And thereafter paid no more attention to the cretin.
Until he was drummed out of office, like that fuck-up in Branded, and sentenced to occupy, for life, the same domicile as that scarifying freak who was clearly his grandmother, though it was said they were married . . . but then nothing these GOoPers do, in their personal lives, is remotely Sane, or even Normal.
And thus I missed a similar defining moment, this time for my colleague, who, some years later, witnessed this same George I of a jester, bringing crack cocaine into the Oval Office, to push it upon the American people.
From this, she, too, concluded, that there was something decidedly Not Real going on.
Outed with bells on, that the American political process is decidedly non-ordinary: that came with the ascension of the alleged spawn of George I—George II—to the presidency.
In November 2005, while in China, as recorded in the video below, George II mumbled monstrous inanities, and then attempted to open a door, a door that would not open.
Colonel Kurtz, he said:
And then I realized, like i was shot—like I was shot, with a diamond bullet, through my forehead. And I thought: 'My God: the genius of that. The genius. The will. The will—to do that.
When I viewed this Chinese door-jam, I realized, like I had been shot—shot—with a diamond bullet, through the forehead: that this was not George II.
At all.
It was, instead, Andy Kaufman.
For, through a process, the details of which I remain to this day ignorant, George II had, somewhere along the line, at some point before he entered the presidency, been replaced by Andy Kaufman.
Kaufman, who had earlier allegedly "died," had done no such thing: he had simply laid in the weeds, until he could replace George II, and thereby play his last, most lasting, joke upon us all.
This: this, is Reality.
I notice that, here on this site, people over the last several days have been bending the fevered knee to Neil Armstrong, because he no longer breathes, and supposedly was the first man to walk on the Moon.
Some kind of "hero."
No.
That first man on the Moon? Neil Armstrong?
No. The first man on the Moon, was Andy Kaufman.
Laughing. Silently. Gently. Heart riven. At, with us, all.
It could be said that I've gone off the rails.
So what? Why does a train need to stay on the tracks?
Sandworms certainly don't.
All of this is connected, as is all and everything. The point is that all is available for mockery, and that is one of the hows by which we who are marooned here may stay sane.
Across the obscured infinity symbol with which this site currently demarks The Great Divide, one may find a piece that I have shamelessly stolen from the next edition of something that is monikered a "GOS app" . . . which I don't understand, or even know how to link to.
Maybe somebody with a Computer Brain will happen by this Diary, and link and enlarge all our minds.
In the meantime, read and reflect. Upon Exhibit "A," of how it is very much possible to have much and glorious "fun," with the GOoPers of today.
And rest easy. For they—the Bad People—as they said of Mister Kurtz: "they daid."
Already happened.
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