38 Days and a Dear George Letter

Dear George;

There are 38 days left on the calendar and the fate of Animal Farm hangs in the balance. You may be sure that it is my devout wish that other forms might soon hang as well; from lampposts and rafters and over the entrances to the government institutions across the former land of the free and home of the brave.

Karl Rove, the beloved ‘Turdblossom’ and Boss Hogg of your corrupt and fascist administration has promised an October Surprise. It is an indication of the prevailing hubris that he can actually say something like that and no one pays any attention.

I’m assuming you’ve got all your ducks in a row; blindfolded and standing on orange crates with their nuts in a vise. These ducks will sing on command. Still, no matter how you tighten the screws they will still sound like ducks. As a turtle on a fence post, it is possible you can see some irony in this. It’s a good thing the people in the special effects department are on the job; like the guys at ESPN during The Saints game when they substituted all those canned cheers in place of the enormous boos you got during the coin toss. It is unfortunate that when they cut back to the live action, the boos that had been rocking the stadium, could be heard trailing away into the catacombs where Katrina lays down with the dead and the foolish hopes of the survivors.

This isn’t a letter about your time among us or the things you’ve said and done. It would take an army of scribes a great many years to detail them and the evidence of so much of it remains as palpable and obvious as an alcoholic’s morning fart in a crowded elevator. There is a stink upon the land as if the entire landscape had been reduced to that famous patch of highway in East Rutherford, New Jersey. I cannot fully comprehend how the residents of America can go about their business under such conditions, but they do. They go on and on and so do you.

No, I’m not going to get into the things you have said and done; the vicious lies and ugly wars, the attack your people engineered on New York City, the bribes and scandals and corporate swag raked across a blood-soaked table of unfortunate victims who just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. Your assault on The Constitution and the suspension of habeas corpus, your license to kill at home and abroad- those whom you deem to be a threat to the empire... torture...slander...suppression and all the applications of control upon the witless and unlucky... these are there to be seen and smelled and tasted... whether we wish to or not.

My intention here, George my boy, is to continue to remind the world that the clock is ticking and that you and your handlers are up to very bad mischief. You’ve been busy for a long time. This progression that began, possibly even before your father was de facto president, in those years following the expiration of Ronald’s sell by date and which got its first public announcement in the PNAC manifesto, is something that has been slithering like a shit eating slug through the camouflage of material distraction for some long period of time. It’s been feeding and fattening and its appetite increases with every bite it takes.

I just want to go on record and say I know what you’re up to. I know you are the bad guys and that there is no Al Qaeda except the one you created. I want to let you know that I know that Bin Laden has been dead for a long time. I want you to know that I know that the London Bombings and the Madrid Bombing and the 9/11 attack were all done by the same people for the same reasons.

I want you to know that I know how big your investment is and that you cannot afford to go gentle into that good night; that you cannot afford to lose and that you will do anything, ANYTHING, to make sure that you do not lose.

I want you to know that I know you have stolen every election since 2000. I know all about Diebold. I know that they make the ATM machines that hardly ever fail and that always give a paper receipt. I know that there is hard cold proof of all of this now and I also know why it never gets into the main stream media. I know that one of you is the other’s whore but I don’t know exactly what it is you do for each other in the darkness.

I know that the whole intention of the Afghanistan war has more to do with the Opium flow than anything else and I know that all of the bad management of the Iraq conflict; everything that ‘seems’ like an accident, is intentional and designed to create the opportunity to finally bomb the living shit out of the whole area. I know why Afghanistan was first and Iraq second and I know this is about hemming in Iran and what you plan to do there shortly. I know all of this and a great many others do too. There are far too many of us for you to kill us all.

What I don’t know is just what Mohammed Atta and several other alleged hi-jackers were doing on Jack Abramoff’s gambling boat. I know they were there because the FBI says so. No, I don’t know why they were there but I can guess. I don’t know how far Dick Cheney has his hand up your ass. I do know that it’s far enough to tickle your tonsils into speech when the need is there. It might not be far enough to reach your brain but, then again, it is quite possible that that is just an empty space where Dick waves to people now and then through your eyes. I do know why your eyes are brown and if they don’t look brown then I know why you wear contacts.

I know you are a coward and that if both you and Dick were put into a cell with me that I would have you both wearing denim skirts and make-up and calling me Daddy in less than twenty-four hours; but that’s not my métier. I’m not like you; that’s something else I know.

The real purpose of this letter George is to let you know that I’m not afraid of you and that I speak for a whole lot of people that can’t speak for themselves. I speak for the people that are too dead and too afraid to speak. I speak for those trapped into silence by the presence of jobs and families and the ordinary fear of the mortal state. I speak like V in Vendetta and the sounds that howl in the atmosphere from outrage over what you have said and done. I’m not St. George but, then again, you’re no real dragon either. You’re a punk in an expensive suit. You’re an inarticulate mouth breather; a fool and an embarrassment and a murdering thug hiding behind an army of your betters.

This is just to tell you George that I am not alone and there will never come a time when there will not be many like me. So, you may pull it off again. Then again, you might not. Sooner or later, you are going down and you are going down hard, into a well deserved ignominy and as an object lesson to the whole world about what happens when they don’t pay attention or back the wrong horse.

I’m not afraid of your torture or your false impressions of omnipotence and force. I fear far more the unbearable torture of my silence and complacency. I fear what I would become if I ever demurred to speak out against your venal, fascist ass. The day is coming George. The clock that ticks for these 38 days is also ticking toward another date. I hope you’ll have your best suit on for that day. I hope you’ll look your best when the carriage arrives and the doorbell rings.