I find that I am posting a lot less than I would like to. The problem is primarily one of habit. I have gotten into the habit of doing my email before anything else and by the time I have deleted all the offers to give me a huge cock, or offers to suck same cock I am not in the mode to wax philosophic online. Mostly I want to go wash my hands. So, I want to do more writing.

I recently read that the new federal budget wants to close down a lot of brain injury facilities. I assume we are going to gas and cremate those poor people who have found themselves in such facilities, although they won't admit it. They will be disappeared or maybe shipped off to Dick Cheney's hunting preserve. The ones in wheelchairs will be not much sport but as it seems Dick likes to shoot old men in the face I suppose shooting some kid in a wheelchair will be as much fun. Does anybody else think it odd that the Vice President should take his pacemaker into the killing fields? I mean the guy is a gnat's ass away from being the leader of the free world and his idea of responsible action is to have a few beers and then go shoot one of his friends in the face and THEN try to cover it up. Now I understand the principle of royal privleges but still, come on Dick... taking full responsibility mean jack if you're still drinking beers and then taking up your dinky little shotgun and waving it around. Possible "taking full responsibility" should include not driving while drunk, not drinking when you obviously have a problem holding your drink, and not shooting people in the face. I hate to think of what kinds of things this man has done when we weren't watching.

I also wonder why none of the SS claimed to have fired the shot or at least to have launched themselves into the path of the shot. What ever happened to total loyalty? Heck, Clinton's guards used to supply him with bimbettes to diddle, why doesn't Cheney's men supply him with better targets? Maybe they did. Maybe Whittington was just the one that got away. I can see it now... Dick is standing there, red faced and staggering around, waving the shotgun with SS men trying to talk him into aiming the thing. Bodies are strewn about the desert: babies in nets, women and children sprawled face down near the scrub brush and that old fart running for his life, turning at the last minute to scream "Dick! NO!" and then taking it full in the chest. By this time the SS have gotten the hypo into Dick's sweaty back and the VP is sinking to the ground, gun gripped in his cold hands, mumbling, "Should have used the 10 gauge...."

I think that people who run for the Presidency should be given injections of estrogen while they are in office. This way we wouldn't get old macho jerks stumbling around the desert shooting women and children, even by proxy. Ever notice the twitchy little smirk George gets when he speaks of dead babies? The more carnage he is excusing the more he grins. The thought of those bleeding screaming mothers seems to really crack him up. Dick likes to watch. He flies down to some secret prison and watches the "persons of interest" get the electrodes up the butt. Sipping his brandy, stroking his pussy, the VP whispers to the SS, "He can take more. Jack it up another notch..."
"No, Mr. Cheney, this one is dead." the grey faced man says.
"I don't care if his mother is dead! Jack it UP now!! I want to hear the skin crackle..." He smiles that same crooked smile he had when he pulled the plug on Terri Schaivo. The SS add another car battery to the circuit and the cat's hair stands up on end as the smell of burning flesh fills the room.
"Ah, yes, that's the ticket." the VP mutters. The secret service men look at one another, thinking back if they have another worthy prisoner, remembering not to run out or one of them will go under the probe. On of the SS officers takes out a clean white linen hanky and gently wipes the drool from the corner of Cheney's mouth. A long pink tongue emerges to lick the finger of the man and one of the guards faints. "Well, boys, it seems we have a volunteer..."

I've been thinking thoughts about death lately, watching too many newscasts I guess. But still it occured to me that this breath I take could be my last. This bit of air I take into my body could be carrying that germ, that virus, that takes me out. When I look at my collection of meds and think about the damage they do to my memory I wonder if they are also eating my liver up or something. What if the noon dose of neurontin is the straw that broke the DNA's back? If I could trust the paperwork they hand out with the pills I would not feel so bad, but as it is there is nothing in the paper about memory loss. Doc Izzo says they are getting reports from patients about this nasty side effect. So if an anti-seizure med kills nerve pain but also kills short term memory cells is it possible that some of the meds Jon gets to control his seizures are why he no longer seems to recognize me or even try to move his arms? What if by controlling the seizures he no longer gets they are preventing his recovery? What if the responsible thing we are doing for him is responsible for his inability to come home?

What if the last attack by terrorists was never noticed because they simply slipped chemicals into the water supply so that we think celebrities dancing badly is worthy of the television time it takes up, rather than reports of women and children vanishing near the Vice President's shooting range? Suppose Osama is employed by George and Crew to occasionally send out a video to distract us from the various efforts by the Pres to slice and dice the Constitution? It kinda reminds me of those religious nuts who lock up their children in the closet to protect them from the evils of the world. George and Dick want to lock up our freedoms and civil rights in order to protect them from those evil men out there. Tucked away in amber for none to see are the inspiring words of those great white slave owners who created a republic of, by and for rich white slave owners: "All men are created equal, but some are more equal than others..." I find it reassuring that Presidents seem to like screwing really ugly women. That means my wife is safe. We can meet the Bush without being offered a ride to the Texas ranch for the weekend with fresh quail being offered as the brunch. Dick likes to eat quail eggs, but only if they are fertile and only if the chicks are just starting to move inside. He can dislocate his jaw to take in the big eggs, the ostrich and emu eggs he imports from way down south. Sometimes the SS have to pick out bits of baby skull from the VP's teeth. They draw straws to see who has the task. Sometimes those who go into the cleaning room don't come back and that evening Dick refuses desert, saying "No thanks, I'm stuffed."

My neighbor came over this morning to tell me about a man she met who has a gallery on the west side in the new so-called arts district. She says I should meet him and get some of my work in his gallery. He's sold pieces recently for as much as $900! Wow. I looked at the galleries in the arts district. Bad artists displaying each other's work in tiny, off the beaten track store fronts. If he sold a piece for $900 I have to assume it was a relative who bought it. One of the side effects of living in a capitalistic society is that all art is judged worthy based on it's ability to be sold for huge sums of money. Curiously the fact that Van Gogh sold only one or two pieces for tiny sums of money does not detract from their worthiness in today's market. They sell for millions now. I think I would prefer to sell my stuff for small amounts of moneynow and then have their worth skyrocket when I pass on. That way Jessie is not spoiled by being in a rich family yet still has a shot at paying some bills by selling my favorite works. The sad thing about the west side arts district is that although these people claim to be artists, based primarily on their producing non-functional bits of paint and metal and clay, the stores and galleries they put up resemble a hippy shop from the 60's. Missing only displays of rolling papers and bongs they have poster sized landscapes resembling paint by numbers canvases and sculptures that could have come out of one of my weekend workshops for teens. Yet the price tags reveal that they are, indeed, works of art.

Probably years from now they will be selling my writings for stacks of Euros with a sidenote that "Shirley also was interested in sculpture".