Trying to mop up the Tea Party floor with a Vice President’s head.

Mittle Me knew that Southern conservatives found him to be a Milch Cracker.

He knew he could never be a real Cracker or a real Southern country boy, no matter how many times he rode in a ‘Norquistrian Anti Tax Rodeo.’

Dressage seemed like Bronco Riding In Spats and Waistcoat.

He did not understand that country people, who knew how to do things with their hands, knew his soft hands got dirty only by firing others who had callouses on their hands. 

He was the big ranch owner who could sell their jobs overseas. 

Chinese Cowboys would be spitting tea leaves instead of tobacco.  It was so confusing.

Milch Crackers apparently do not have to list the ingredients of their tax records on the party box. 

Real Crackers have to count those cows, and KNOW how many cows they have, and disclose that number when the buyer shows up at the cattle pens.

Country boys knew a Chinese farmer might not like a Milch Communist Noodle, any more than they liked a Milch Cracker Capitalist.

They knew he played the race card to see if he could make them feel taller by standing on some other poor boys neck.

The blame some other skin game could work for a while, but the more he cried Obama, the more it seemed he cried Wolf.

After Osama had been killed, Obama seemed more like a Wolf than a Milch Cracker seemed like a real country boy.

He had to get that Tea Party Floor politically mopped, so he stuck Pullet Hawk’s head on a stick and dropped it into the bucket of cheap hope. 

Hope for cowboys ever owning their own spreads in a Corporate feed lot landscape?

Milch Cracker swabbed the deck with someone else’s face.

Maybe if they did not like a Milch Cracker for president, mopping the floor with a young rooster would make them feel more like they were at a Cock Fight.

Having a rooster on a political stick, and slamming him onto the Southern political floor to draw a little blood in front of smart Southern women needing a good job, did seem to disrespect their women.

Once should not expect a Rich Milch Cracker to understand ordinary work, but disrespecting Southern women by wanting them to to carry a rapist’s baby just seemed like real bad mop water.

 

Print Friendly

A Guidance System Failure in a Political Nose.

He had a good political nose.

He had always been good at a soft landing in the clevage of a Neo Consevative idea.

He felt confident he could land his beak in the valley of American motherhood.  

Unless they were in a teachers union, a service industry union or any sort of union.

Unless they wanted control over their reproductive rights.

Unless they did not want to be forced to have unprotected sex.

He found those women a bit too strong a landing field for his beak.

He often flew straight into them like a North Korean space shot. 

His nose did not have a very sophisticated guidence system.

It did have a self distruct button.

Women who had been beaked on the peaks of their own self esteem by Pullet Hawk were just starting to feel that he might crash into a real neighborhood of jobs, family, and the working mom, and explode 50 years of hard fought progess.

They liked to be thought of as full citizens first, and landing sites only by consent.

They did not mind being full figured, but they liked to be respected for being able to figure as well as a man.

Even moms who stayed at home with the babies could add up coupons better than he could add up his budget.

Pullet Hawk had smelled his own ambition too long to be able to smell anything equal in a woman.

 

 

Print Friendly

Mittle Me picks Pullet Hawk for V.P. and tells him he has to give up literary necrophilia.

Pullet Hawk had loved Ayn Rand since Jr. High School.

The current Congress operated on the level of a  Jr. High School and he was the class president. 

He could commit literary necrophilia as a Tea Party congressman, but as a Vice President he would have to say goodbye to Ayn.

She called after him and he cried.

 Power called with a stronger voice. 

He felt she would understand that he would have to stop visiting her grave in public.  

He must stand next to a man with serious rich boy history. 

Pullet Hawk was forced to stop having political orgasms with a dead athiest.

Her famous book was about a man who held up the world and shrugged it off. 

 Mittle Me had held companies long enough to shrug jobs off.   

He had picked little Pullet to stand next to him, and learn how to be a rich boy.

Mittle hoped that the issue of his taxes stealing a yacht and sailing to Bermuda would be forgotten with Pullet Hawk as a distraction.

Pullet Hawk pecked at Medicare. He pecked at food stamps, he pecked at women in ways a live woman would not enjoy. He aimed his beak at old women while smelling the money in their purses.

He was a big beak in the chicken yard of American women.  Selling older women’s health care to private corporations would make him rich.

Most hens outlived most old roosters.

If he could just steal some medicare from their purses and put them in private feed lots for the elderly, he could be on the boards of Insurance Corporations for life.

Loving a dead woman in a box with a shriveled heart made it easy for him to feel little for real live women.  His views on medicare made him a political necrophiliac.

He would be the first necrophiliac in history to be Vice President.   

It was a love that  dared not smell like a Rose.  It smelled more like his own grave sniffing nose.

It smelled big money.

 

Print Friendly

Mittle’s Raw Nose

It was a dark room and he was very hungry. He could smell things to eat huddling in the corners or against the wall. 

He had worn off the feathers on his face and head feeding inside the American body cavity. 

He fed on dead companies, to make them healthy living corpses.  

He ate  the dead tissue of aging workers who nested in towns that had grown up around gentle grandma and grandpa workplaces.  

He made money selling the bones that were left over.

He worried about his nose. It felt raw, it hurt. 

His Mittle nose was close to the smell of eating when things died hard in the teeth of vulture capitalism.   

His nose could smell the lack of stress in happy worker meat that would not run fast because it  had come to it love its town and job.  

He found this delicious.

The word ‘worker’ began to sound like ‘steak’. The Steak got up today and went to work. The Steak was below the production values needed to maximize profit.

He would eat the fat first, then the feet and hands, to render the company lame and slow.

Then he would sell bits to competitors, retaining stock in the rump roast.  He then bet against the survival of the beast,  while eating its rump roast.

He saved companies from dying a graceful death. 

His money migrated onto nest egg islands built for rich buzzards.  He sat on his nest eggs to keep them warm enough to hatch. 

His nose was raw, his nose worried him.  

Someone bred a maggot with a vulture, and infected it with human DNA.

It was just the natural cycle of Carrion Capitalism.

 

 

Print Friendly

What If Mittle Me Had Been Born a Mittzi?

One denies or accepts the other in the self and tries to control it or flow from it depending on what is needed from our inheritance of important meat.  

One inherits the mother and the father in oneself. One does not want to see them making love, or being too human because one will become that old horse, sag bellied by time and life and the pulling of heavy loads. A heavy load may be you, as the child they gave life.

One admires the person who owns their words, deeds, personal meat,  with grace and kindness toward their parents. 

One wonders about a man or woman who suddenly turns on women or children or the draft horses of the poor and afflicted.

One wonders if that person is in touch with their inherited meat?  

If Mittle Me had been born a Mittzi, would he be accepted by a party of men who are against women’s health care, freedom to chose to breed or not to be bred, food aid for the poor, medicaid, and medicare? 

In the past he seemed to be able to talk to his inner mother. She is now the American Mare, to be bred for the political rodeo.

Is there a mother of all betrayals?

What would he be like as Mittzi?

Would she read Ayn Rand and find Randy Pull and his father Run Pull attractive as Libertarians?

Would she be a conservative woman against cage free chickens? 

Would she find less wealthy woman pecking the American ground for a life to have too much free beak for her tastes?

What would it do to Mittle if he faced a Mittzi of self  across a room? Would Mittzi have a series of male friends, fearing the control of someone more like Mittle himself? 

Has Mittle made a pre-nuptial agreement with his Mittzi side to run as an ultra conservative man?

If one has to make a pre-nup with one’s self over civil rights issues to gain power, perhaps one’s idea about one’s gender is dangerously lost in inner space?

 

 

Print Friendly

Straw Man With Hanging Straw

I do not want any hanging chads, I want voter suppression before the election takes place.

I finished my white chocolate shakedown,  and my straw is stuck to my upper lip.

Running for president is hard work.

 I think I will leave the straw hanging for a while, and blow a few spit bubbles before I go to bed.

Even a rich man gets to blow spit bubbles, but its best to do it in the privacy of a nice home, alone.

You just look silly doing it in public.

I would love to do it in the White House at the big desk.

Others have done a lot sexier things in the White House, but I think I might be a spit babbler.

I am a straw man.

I have sucked the wealth out of companies, through little loopholes in the law.

I can put a straw into a loophole you can hardly see.  I prefer a flexible straw myself, and keep a lawyer at all times near me with a box of them.

I bet I could stick a straw in Beelzebub’s ear and with a good lawyer, I could buy my way into heaven after drinking pure sin. 

Its like going from semi-sweet dark chocolate to a white chocolate shakedown.

I love white chocolate shakedowns.

Print Friendly

Mittle Mouse

I am filled with blue blood, but I never could have been Ulysses fighting Polyphemus.   

I do not want to be a famous warrior in person, just a merchant financing those who sack other tribal groups.

I am like a Barbary pirate producer. I want to produce, not risk my own  blood for treasure.

I am for press gangs of poor with street cred to fight for my treasure in war.  

A corporation is a way to incorporate treasure so it has the rights of a person.  It has to be very clean, so its laundered. Islands used to laundering money have lots of practice.

I talk of putting a stick in the eye of big government. Think of it as a Viking spear.  Think of me as a masterful Viking of finance.

All the other Vikings on Wall Street will feel just that much grander when I am their warrior king.

Mittle Me, the master of Viking Finance. I like it. Wall Street likes it.

I am a member of a raider tribe that has made government weaker  by stealing from its coffers.  I wounded government so I should get to finish it off.

I raise my Mittle Mouse fists, and ask the angriest people in the nation to allow me to kill a wounded animal that I myself helped wound. 

America needs a a new head of state, because the only way to kill a wounded nation is to finish running it into the ground.

Print Friendly

The Migratory Patterns Of The Anglo-Saxon In Denial

My father snuck across the boarder just like a Mexican Grape Picker and had to work hard. He left me rich and well educated. He left me thinking, I should migrate my money to other countries, after all, its Anglo-Saxon money. The Swiss are good with Anglo-Saxon money of all persuasions. They are often good with non Anglo-Saxon money unless the descendants of the non Anglo-Saxons killed by the Germans want it back.

Its a bit disturbing for my Anglo-Saxon money to be in bed with money like that, but Bermuda and the Cayman Islands are still territorial holdings of Anglo-Saxons.

I would like Mexicans in this country to voluntarily migrate back to Mexico, Except for their pesos. 

We need to keep those pesos in America.

I feel my Anglo-Saxon bones inside my body start to glow like irradiated celery!  

We need to establish Tex-Mex tax free havens in Texas and Anglo-Saxon ones in Utah.

Their money could come over the border but not their body. Its a monetary out of the body experience.  

Utah could be like Switzerland if  Utah could secede from economic oversight.

I helped my money secede from economic oversight. 

You are not a crook if you pass laws that make what was crooked too opaque to be interesting.  

I feel very proud.  I have a plan for America.

I am Mittle Me, and I support this message.

Print Friendly

The Abortion Dance, With Maracas

The gourds filled with beans were maracas, dressed up as pregnant dolls.

They were an instrument so simple that even a sincere young conservative could play the popular abortion tunes.  

They could shake them to tunes like, ‘Even in the case of rape, its God’s baby, not YOURS.’

A snappy death rattle dance for a sick mother who dies in childbirth, inside a holy maternity prison.  

The maraca became the symbol of holy beans baking in the oven,  not the tough job of motherhood.

Free range women were the wrong kind of chicken.  

The law would be open to rapists getting  visitation rights to their children.  

In the case of charismatic rapists who paid their prison dues, it would be a done deal, with church support and attacks on the mothers character.

Guess who is coming to dinner? 

However looking closely at conservative men shaking their maracas, many of them are not wearing pants.

Conservatives who cannot find the Mittle ground on this issue, and dream of a Christian Jihad in the womb territories, are often naked from the waist down and stupid from the waist up.

 

 

Print Friendly

Mittle Eats Rash Limbach’s All Day Sucker

There are men who are all day suckers for money. They will tell you what to think. They will tell you what to  put in and out of your mouth.  

Men like Rash Limbach will tell you to get down on your knees and lick his sucker. 

Its called performing ‘Ditto Head’ 

They think if you do enough ‘ditto’ you will be a real man.

The new conservatives told Mittle to lick the all day Rash Limbach sucker till his moderately conservative face died.  

He had never sucked a toad or licked a dead jellyfish in poisonous sauce or licked a Weasel that had taken up residence in a polecat house. 

He had licked a few racist congressmen of late.

There were a few things he had not put in his mouth, but after performing ‘Ditto’,  he thought that perhaps he could lick damn near anything.

It was building up your immune system to be immune to beauty and even a thin diseased fiction that leans toward truth hoping it does not fall down.

When you suck too much sucker punch, its not really good old Southern Sweet Tea.

Its performing ‘Ditto Head’.

Print Friendly