The week, October 16-22, 2011, is a strange one, a week dominated by the cadavers of powerful men, the latest, Prince Sultan bin Abdul-Aziz Al Saud, First Deputy Prime Minister and Minister of Defense and Aviation, one of the Sudairi Seven, first in the Saudi line of succession, of cancer on Saturday, 22 October 2011; preceded by Muammar Muhammad Abu Minyar al-Gaddafi, Brother Leader, Guide of the Revolution, King of Kings, by various bullets, Thursday, 20 October 2011; Terry Thompson, autocratic owner of Muskingum County Animal Farm near Zanesville, Ohio, collector of wild and rare animals, swapper of assorted weaponry, occasional pilot, various odd jobs, by his own hand on Tuesday, 18 October 2011.
I, a sleepless woman, twisted the knob of the ever-present and audited radio to learn of the feared "uncertainty" caused by the expected death of the old Saud, first in the Saudi line of succession, 85, suffering from cancer of the colon. "Uncertainty"? An ancient Saud, cancer, what is so "uncertain" about that? Was he supposed to live forever?
I, a live and walking woman, hate, loathe the Sauds, numberless sons, brothers, male descendants, anonymous daughters, sisters, female descendants. I hate them for that, their damned "uncertainty" because of the stupidity of their stupidly patriarchal lineage, their pride in numberless sons by numberless anonymous women who shall never be named, their power ensured by the demon oil which I eschew whenever possible by walking.
Oil, despicable Saud oil.
Oil, Iranian oil, the causer of the overthrow of democratically elected prime minister of Iran, Mohammad Mosaddegh, Wednesday, 19 August 1953, orchestrated by the intelligence agencies of the United Kingdom and the United States under the name TPAJAX Project, essentially the bastard child of that despicable little man caught up in his own conceits, Sir Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill, KG, OM, CH, TD, PC, DL, FRS, Hon. RA, widely regarded as one of the greatest wartime leaders of the century Prime Minister of England twice, noted statesman and orator, officer in the British Army, a historian, writer, artist, only British prime minister to have received the Nobel Prize in Literature, first person to be made an Honorary Citizen of the United States.
Churchill should have been a decent chap and rested upon his laurels, but he was also an autocratic bastard who despised non-whites and hated Mosaddegh because Mosaddegh had had the audacity to claim the oil beneath the soil of Iran as belonging to Iran, not to the British-owned Anglo-Iranian Oil Company, bastard parent of today's bastard oil company British Petroleum, now codified as "BP".
Oil, titles, successions.
Oil played a discreet role in the ignoble death of Gaddafi, late of Libya. Libya has oil you see, and British Petroleum, now known as "BP" is going to play a very powerful role in the exploitation of the "Sweet Crude" of Libya:
The type of crude produced by Libya, known as light, sweet crude, is rare. It is especially valuable because it is easier for refineries to convert into diesel and gasoline. Many refineries can’t switch easily to processing other varieties of crude.
Sweet Crude
Terry Thompson? Oil? A small role there, petrol to power the planes he piloted, the motorcycles he mended. No, he collected large carnivores, lions and tigers and bears and such. He had a sick need to collect such creatures, it seems, to wield power over them, enabled by Kasich of Ohio who let an order that banned buying and selling exotic animals expire. Kasich is trying to defend his Randian stupidity at this moment.
Power. Oil. Patriarchy. Death. The certainty of death. That Bitch Whore Goddess, Ayn Rand.
Prince Sultan's body is lovingly attended, bathed, swathed in his death robes, to be tenderly placed in his grave, a man of power in his death.
Gaddafi's body hangs in a meat shop in Libra, essentially betrayed by that puto bastard prick, Sweet Crude.
Thompson's body, adorned by a tiger's bite, probably lies in the midst of the heaped up bodies of his abused menagerie, a man of power over powerless powerful animals rendered helpless, dead by his own hand.
Such is the state of our "advanced" civilization.
No! I must close with a tribute to those who live, from the Wounded Warrior Project:
Here’s how Marine Corporal Anthony Villarreal recounts his "Alive Day":
"There was a big flash and a loud bang. I crawled out of the vehicle as another Marine came to my rescue … [then] a rocket in the back of the vehicle exploded."
On June 20, 2008, during his third deployment, Villarreal's supply convoy hit an improvised explosive device in Afghanistan. He was severely injured along with two of his fellow Marines. The fact that he survived is why Villarreal refers to June 20 as his Alive Day. Thousands of other wounded warriors use the same term to describe the date they suffered near-fatal battlefield injuries but managed to escape with their lives.
The scars left by third-degree burns over 60 percent of Villarreal's body and his amputated right hand and left fingers are readily apparent. But what you can’t see and wouldn’t know unless you met him is that his fighting spirit is as strong as ever!
Here's to being alive and putting an end to killing and maiming on behalf of the Great Puto Bastard Prick Oil.