Date: Thu, 27 Sep 2001 21:12:41 -0500 From: Tom Emerson Subject: Blissy's Song - 16 Blissy's Song -- 16 (M/f, inc., rom.) by Feather Touch Nothing is implied by use of media personalities. Chapt. 16 Carol studied her husband across the chess board. Before he'd been perhaps a bit bunny; now she couldn't help wondering if he was too much tiger. She was glad to be sitting. Athletic young woman that she was, her gams were not what they'd been last night. He'd been tenderly insatiable for two full hours. Left her swimming, a pure old puddle, again and again. Pills in the toilet, and off to bed. He'd been with her half an hour before he found himself enough to rip her bra off so she could feel the friction of his power against her special tenderness. Alice entered and Steve looked at her. Now there was a woman who didn't need to say anything. And she didn't. Just handed a file and poured fresh coffee. Steve was glad of the diversion. He needed a little time, confidence or no confidence. The file diverted him. Hell, it was half Plunkett. He blushed. "What," Steve, Carol asked. Now this he could do. In fact... He didn't finish the thought, but turned the file to his wife. "If you think you're going to get me wandering around and a big old tin-roofed, sagging porch rattle trap, all barefoot and pregnant," the pretty blond began, her face neutral, her husband sucking in his breath, Alice peering openly, life more or less stopped while and she finished her deep breath, "then we better get moving." Steve lunged across the chess, catching a flicker of Alice as she left to shoe kids. In a way it was biblical because Yae-eth, and verily did the new warrior lay seed as he lay, and she received her husband's sacred purse and all its coins and jewels therein, and thus did wise men drop task and drop glass and drop all in unity as they wandered now directed forth by the very whisper of almighty god. If I can write crap like that, who's to say a Jew couldn't imitate me five thousand years ago? Chair? Carol was no longer fit for a chair. She settled on the sofa, next to this tiger she had not married but now seemed very married to. "It's perfect!" she called to Alice and there was a good old Brady moment as all came to see Alice's contribution. "Instead of fixing it up," the Brady architect stated after looking at the photos and lot plan, "were going to excavate in from the street, and under. Then it will sit in a field of grass, nothing to distract or detract." All the Brady's whistled, Marsha seeming to follow, seeming tentative. "No flowers," Carol breathed. "Not a square foot of anything but grass." His eldest step daughter didn't begin it, but Steve felt she'd come close. "No flowers, how am I going to dazzle without flowers..." something along that line. In a sense, he thought the less of her for not wailing and whining her objections. "So the Jaguar goes under the porch?" Bobby asked "Can we have sheep for the grath?" Cindy piped up. "Not more than thix," her dad said. "And we get to eat the wambs," Bobby intoned. "You're a freak," Marsha finally loosed off. She ran from the room and the Bradys huddled closer as Steve sketched on the sheets before them and they resumed their first New-Brady Sunday morning. The lot was huge, the neighborhood, horrific, and the price manageable. Watch out world, the bunch was out for much more than a hunch. "Fifteen should be way against the law," Steve thought to himself as he glanced at the Tomcat's wife beside him. She was only there because of the car. There was once a news anchor in Albuquerque who was said to be able to strut and sit and the same time. Marsha was flouncing and sitting. He thought of overtaking a tanker truck and passing it at one-sixty. Give her something else to think about, though Marsha Brady might turn out to be indomitable competition. He went by at one forty, and did shut her up. Yes, he'd thought of the tame animal farm. Not. She didn't need taming, few marshmallows do. She needed her walking papers. They were in Steve's jacket pocket. Carol had agreed on a thousand a month simply because it was unfair to deny the others much of anything just because Miss Fairy Princess wanted to rule the land of sugar and the kingdom of spice. Carol had instigated one last talk. Voting had been lopsided, with Alice abstaining. Steve found the new Brady castle and was half afraid to leave the car and open the gate. As the property became plainer, the princess elevated herself. An iron key. Hadn't seen one of those for awhile. Very good sign. "Marsha Brady is not living here," came the imperious and inevitable whine at their first sight of the chaos of the interior. "We didn't even want you to visit," Steve said, pushing the girl through the door and onto a dilapidated sofa. "Keep your hands off me!" the girl shrieked, apparently practicing for marriage. "Keep your mouth of me. Shut up." "Make me," Marsha spat. "You're a cotton candy bird brain, what the fuck would I make you into?" "I don't give a fuck," the fifteen year old screamed, "as long as it's scarce around this dump." Steve had always thought if he'd had an autistic or anorexic child, as a last effort, he would beat the child savagely. No broken bones, but everything else. A final effort to get through akin to reaching into a burning auto with bare hands. A mint julep in frothy, expensive green she was already dusty and down a peg. Steve slapped the cheesy plastic face from his heels out to his wrist. Balance, perfect, timing perfect, aim, perfect. It was a rifle shot, followed by the whole fucking clip. One for Carol, for Gregg, for Jan, for Steve, for Cindy and for Bobby. Quickly she became a gasping fish, and Steve availed himself of the quiet to plan and execute a lightning body slam, crashing her from the couch, over his right shoulder, and full length and flat "You're killing me!" Marsha screamed. "You're doing that to yourself, Marsha Steve growled. "You've been a prig up to now, and now you're a pig. The whole family is ape about getting out of gyprock city, and you could give a shit. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the one, hated by all? "You're crazy!" damn could this kid make with the mouth. Steve doubled his fist and drove her hard, dead center. How the hell was she going to listen if she persisted in talking? It worked better than the blazing Jaguar. Knocked the wind right out of the whiffenpoof. Marsha made like a Now she really wasn't moving. That was good. As an architect he was acutely aware of engineering structure on an unsure foundation. Nice and still. Alice had described the place well, and Steve soon had a picture of water to dash on Marsha. She didn't like it and sputtered back to life. "I'm going to call the police!" she screamed. "Call them what?" he retorted in an icy voice. "Call them here. You're going to jail." "Before you say something you might regret," Steve intoned in a voice she'd never dreamed of, "it might interest to know that there were four votes to kill you, outright. We have a new family now. We don't love each other, we adore each other. We're going to lead a very affectionate life. "Yeah! I knew you were sick! Affectionate you call it, then what? Then my dad, that's what! Oh, Marsha, this, and oh, Marsha, that. Then Mom's screaming, then it's so weird I don't even remember anything except Jenny Parker coming up and trying to be friends and I couldn't figure out why she was even near me." "So what?" Steve spat at the huddling wreck in front of him. "So mother of god loving what? Have you ever looked at the kids on television? Or do you just go back to you fingernail paint? You live like the fattest grape in a champagne vineyard. You get more fiddle and faddle in a week than half the kids on earth get in their lives. You haven't read a book since I've known you, you haven't made an intelligent contrition or a caring contribution, since I've known you. And you blame it on your father?" "I blame it on myself!!" Marsha shrieked. "It was me, it was me, it was me!!" "It was just something that happened," Steve retorted, now licking his chops for the kill. "You're a narcissistic, self centered freaking Looney Tune, painted like a page in the comic from hell, and tormenting everyone around you with dialogue from its southern neighbor. "Yes things are happening between us that none of us ever dreamed of. But the world's gone upside down. The hoopla and dancing days are over. We are in for a savage winter, very likely not survivable. But we're the New Brady's now. Jan's going to have a baby, so's ;your mom. From one of us. Me, Gregg, Pete. From a buck she picks up poolside. She's going to have one and have one fast. And we're going to live here in this funky Sixties throwback with all it's weird rooms and we are going to adore each other, night and day, because it's the best thing we can do. And as to what happened with your dad, it happens to one girl in five. Twenty five million of your sisters." She was at the gulping stage, hiccups, mucus, eye water. Steve let her bubble down, finally sitting down gently beside her. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his paperwork. "You're free, Marsha," he said. "There's five thousand in cash to get set up, and you'll be getting two-hundred-fifty a week from your mother and me. We'll keep you on our medical policy, which is a good thing judging by your face, but other than that you're on your own. Buy ten mirrors and live with them." Sobbing now. A vast improvement on the screeching which had surely tested the boundaries of the huge two acre lot. "It's all so weird," the girl finally whispered. "The sky was literally blue, then boom. And now what?" "With any luck, a new and better way. More books, more neighborhood, less mad waste, less mad people. Maybe. And maybe a downward spiral tight, or a downward spiral, loose. The drain. All we can do is live smaller, much smaller. It won't cost twenty thousand to run in an underground drive and parking area slash basement. Then we'll see." Had he hit her hard enough? Spankings were tough things. A patty-patty was a joke, the count down to the patty-patty a theft of the child's soul. Three, two, one -- nothing. To such an extent millions of kids never recovered from the confusion. A spanking had to be real, it had to be fast, and it had to be very fast. Otherwise, boundaries became muddled and life an unending torment of rejection and isolation. Marsha wasn't there yet, but she was closer than Gregg, and he'd been within an eyelash. "You'd pay all that to get rid of me?" the girl sniffled. "That was the opening offer. Why, do you want more?" Was there a giggle in there? Steve sat silent for several minutes. Should he touch her, huddled at his right arm, hair a mess, face swollen, makeup like a PNW mudslide. She was shivering and whimpering. Yes, the spanking had to be an equal mix of terror and pain, but what came next? He'd never conceived of hitting another soul, should he live to be a hundred. He'd meant every savage blow, and didn't want to retract a single one. "Tell me about your dad," the young step father whispered. "No," Marsha gasped. "I'm too tired to beat you again," Steve said, lying through his teeth. He could beat her five times without coming up for air. "Well, what?" "Marsha," he whispered, "if you ever use that tone with Brady, friend or stranger, again, I will put you in the hospital and you can explain to the psych staff how you ruined a beautiful family, lucky enough to be alive, well off, and who adore each other. Now tell me about Jonas. Did he rape you?" Marsha sat another minute. Steve let a smidgen of hope creep in. Many at the bottom of the towers much have felt almost a panic of raging hope, and then, and more, and then, and more, and then. It was best hope chicks had grandchildren before one counted them. "He was gentle," Marsha finally whispered. So were Ken and Adam. His friends. Then the flight got turned back, and the stupid cell phone didn't work, so Mom just sashayed home fat, dumb, and happy and poof. Marsha ends up dunce of the world." "And topping it by being a clown, or at least appearing one, to others, was your way of getting back? That's because you don't read. You're empty headed. Any breeze blow, away you go. You need to be cured of that. You can start by eighty-sixing the big neurotic secrets. You're dad, his friends." "I started dreaming about Dad when I was seven," Marsha began. "Then it was every night. Then it was his co-pilot and engineer, Ken, he was twenty three, so was Adam. Then I saw them once, spying from the hamper. I was nine, Dad was thirty. They all looked like boys and when I saw them together, peaking through the straw, I thought they were doing boy things, you know, trading something. Then it was different, so I didn't look, I just hid my eyes and hoped they wouldn't look in the big basket we had." "How did you feel, Marsha?" Steve asked. This was the moment. The last deep reach of the scalpel. Sharing the outline of a secret was a small step, and it needed to be followed. Bigger steps. "He was so beautiful," the girl sighed. "Six five. Had to fly transports. They were all beautiful. Ken looked like a boy. He was the cutest. Adam was the nicest. Once I got to know him, I flirted with him the most." Cool, he'd won. Much more than a hunch, but wow, what if... Victory repeated is victory assured. Double checking was everything or, in his business, you ended up with pancakes beside a sidewalk and lawyers grinning in the chop houses. "Marsha," he said softly, "if you're on some kind of rebound jag, or feeling confused or even half knocked out, I can take you home to your mom and we'll give you another chance. If, on the other hand, you want to stay, then it's going to be new between us. Physical. Illegal. Immoral." And there was a flash of the mother. A teasing behind a deadpan face. A look that deliberately said one thing, and a mouth that came up with the opposite. She literally glanced at the telephone, managing a frown serious enough to frightening, then delivered herself of her ultimatum. "It sounds like a way to stay slim," she said, almost slowly. "Not," Steve whispered, finally daring move near her. "You have to have a baby. Race your sister for a tootsie roll. That's the New Brady thing. Adoring each other. Making our share of babies that do go out into the world with an education, and not some trained test taking mongoloids who's knowledge of history spans four golden years of Germanic history and clouds in the blue that not only preceded New York, but far surpassed it in both magnitude and duration. Only they teach it the other way around, as if there were something wrong with protecting one's ancient and highly successful culture from vermin." "Will it do any good," the teen whispered. "It's always a joy to learn of the Anglo Saxon race," Steve said. "Once you're comfortable with that, you can cope better with the barrage of Harry Emerson Winchester stereotypes, identify nice people, regardless of fucking anything, and you don't have to go around being a phony because of some muck on the politically deadly tube." "I always smile to much at this girl," Marsha said. "She's Italian, Fifi Bonavechio. Every time I do it, I feel bad. Like why is she getting the extra Marsha treatment, when she's just a kid on the playground." "Not a problem," . Steve said with a chuckle. "I don't want you going to school here, but you can bring friends over to read and hang out. Fifi Bonavechio is going to seem like tame stuff. That's why we're here." "I thought is was to make babies for the boys," she, actually, this time, giggled. "Well," Steve whispered, "that brings up a first-things-first issue." "The first thing I want to do," her eyes were huge, and where the hell had they been, "is call you daddy." Damned, fleeced, hog-tied and thrown, if she wasn't one of the family. Steve's fingers ached, undoubtedly some minor strains, but it was a good kind of ache." "Can I tell you about my dad?" the girl was now whispering, and leaning against him, her left breast to him, not estranged, not against a foreigner." "Yes, darling," he whispered, "but only if you want. Kinky in the family is as you want to be, always kiddy's day at the beach. Kinky in the family is as you want to be, always kiddy's day at the beach." "Daddy," the fifteen year old whispered, "this kiddie declares the beach, Clothing Optional." "And kiddie," Steve whispered back, "Daddy declares that the girl on the beach may look a little beat up, but underneath the puffy flesh and bruised skin she is growing more beautiful by the minute, and she looks happier, too." "Just overdressed, is the problem." Marsha giggled. Imagine Marsha giggling unless it was at someone else's discomfiture. The times, they were a-changin' Marsha stood, turning to present her back. So much for the calculated, pedigree look with its maddening hours of treacle and fluff. Her dad unzipped her, she shrugged off her slip. He unfastened her, and she shrugged of her bra. There was the old Marsha Brady on the funky old couch, a heap of torn, bloody clothes. Here was the new Marsha Brady, breasts naked and swollen, working on the belt and zipper of a mature male as the male stripped his shirt. They sat closely, side by side and navigated the embarrassing shoes-and-socks issues, then it was off to find the shower Alice had described as working. Sometimes it was fun just to hold hands, and so they did, like fourth graders, exploring their weird new house. "Lots of room for babies," the young bride commented. Lots of room for mysteries, too. No wonder Alice had loved it. She would never know where anyone was, so couldn't be responsible for where everyone was. One less care in the world. Even the towels. Cheap ones. Not clean. Well, that was symbolic. There was going to be a lot of cheap and unclean in the Brady future, they hoped to enjoy every minute of it, and, in the eyes of Steve and his banged up step daughter there was no time like the present to begin the first day of the rest of their lives. "You don't have to be gentle or anything," Marsha whispered as the bathroom door swung closed. They were both now naked, the male behind the female at the door mirror, staring into the beaten face that had obviously been softened in the attack." "Were your dad and his friends rough with you?" Steve asked the girl. "More like athletic. I'd tease and flirt, then they'd compete. Not for money, or bragging rights. Call it girl stuff, that was the prize. And very friendly competition, but, still, you know, a little glow in the eyes of the winner." "They sound pretty macho." "Yes," Marsha chortled. "basically children. Built like men, which was fabulous, but, in their hearts, little boys. Cute, and huge, and little, all at the same time." "Sounds like a heritage group," Steve quipped to his new friend. "Preserving the rites and passages of the Flying Circus.' "You're funny, Dad," the girl purred, lolling her head on the male's right shoulder and arching to his strong hands now approaching her bare, swollen nipples. "There's more to humor than giant Jew faces yammering for bucks," he explained. Having said it all, he guided her to the shower. Hot, wet and steamy, clean, she whispered. "Dad, she said, "I was too young, you know, with Dad and Ken and Adam, to, you know, do something grown-up. Can I experiment with doing it with you? I can't get pregnant from it, but I still want to do it with you. Please." "No knives, eh? I hit your pretty hard back there." "I was pretty sound asleep," Marsha acknowledged. "And I have a better revenge than chopping you up. You're much too beautiful. It's called the two a.m. feeding. And I just know what's going to happen when you bring nipper to mommy and tickle her little feet." "What, smarty no-pants?" Steve whispered into the ear at his chin. "You're going to want another one," the chic answered knowledgeably. All-the-answers Marsha had had the crap slapped out of her, but she knew a thing or two, yet." "Sounds like a trap." "Elvis survived his for years, and he took drugs like candy. You shall abide." So saying she turned to him and kissed lower and lower. "Turn off the water," she whispered, and then she was softly, hesitantly, experimentally on him, simultaneously easing him back and against the wall and being experienced enough with males to nudge his legs apart by stroking him high on his inner thighs. Remembering the look in Jan's eyes as he and the boys had postured, Steve laced his fingers behind his neck and strained in an arch from his toes to his neck. The girl stared up at the rippling, slim athletic male towering above her and now towering against her soft lips and tongue. Had her bio dad been this huge and swollen? He'd been so beautiful, but he'd never let her do this. Rules. Rules sucked. She was soft, she was wet, she was eager to the point of being wanton, but no stunts, nothing from the movies, just a will and an urgency for a strong ending, while they were still young. Steve was shocked at how his body roared approval. How could it? Impossible! Jan yesterday, Carol all night, and a torrid affair over the new house. While it was physically impossible, there was an emotional side to the situation. So emotional it was less than five minute of what Marsha was doing to him before he shuddered and began flowing hard into her mouth. The girl squealed with surprise and hot excitement, her soft mouth not breaking its greedy-child rhythm. Marsha had an embarrassing though about her own past self as she went faster and further down the sperming male. "Greedy," she chastised herself. Bad Marsha, but a happy lass with the brightest possible future in a nation well into the first round of simply festering, twiddling and dithering itself to death. The place needed a mauling, to be hit so hard it was knocked flat. Until that happened, there would be a distinct joy to watching the hicks of Manhattan cope with silly cops in their ever longer blue line. Hey, they were the finest. The city should be in seventh heaven. Get his boys off the books, keep them off the books. Live low, live quiet, live small and live `hood. Hope someone killed Rumsfeld before Rumsfeld killed his sons, maybe his girls, too. Indeed, America was dead on course to kill its entire citizenry without any help from anybody, but the Bradys would be among the last and happiest. It was the only fight left, and it was bound to be the greatest thriller, for pure scale, in history. Was it possible to lose a fight everyone lost, because wouldn't that change the very definition of loser? Steve thought of the Pristine Bullet. It had started the whole spiral. It wasn't pristine, it was bent. Slightly bent, distinctly bent, coincidentally, exactly as it might have been bent by impacting a human rib at five hundred miles an hour. The tip was pristine. It had happened to hit no bone at high speed, so the tip, at least in a photo, was, okay, maybe, pristine. The blob. The plunkett. The tiny little squib that, properly hyped, could sell millions of books and magazines. Perfect food for the peasant mind. And eighty percent of his countrymen bought into it, even though the slightly bent bullet was displayed in almost every published article, book, story and documentary. It was like the emperor's new suit. Machiavellian. Any language so long as it stroked the masses. The clodhopper was king of the clods, and schmoes had been unsurpassed as clodhoppers, however veiled in dripping scholarship, for five thousand years. It was going to be good to live partially underground. Marsha finally rose from him, glowing like a fresh lily. Dewy, dripping, craven with the hot joy in her eyes. Her kiss on his lips was obscenely carnal. As his tongue entered her now swollen and beautiful lips to find her sweetness and treasure it met a garish salty gush from her girl mouth to his man mouth. It wasn't as shocking as what the Arabs might achieve if they rented dozens of apartments in urban high rise building and knocked them all down, time zone to time zone, on New Year's eve. Boy, would that be boner time at CNN. Would it end up ten million cops protecting the rights and liberties of a single mecca mushroom? Nah, nothing was that predictable. Look what a single bullet had done? "Is Jan in the baby race?" Marsha whispered, her voice silky and sexy, if sputtering a bit. "Duly noted," Steve comforted the girl. "You're handicapped by twenty four hours. We'll write it down so there will be not quarreling." "But, you can't," Marsha pointed out, a new patience and tolerance -- a new friendliness -- obvious in her voice as she now explained where she once would have whined. "I can't get pregnant from what we just did." Then try something else? Duh'uh. She leapt on the tall male, his hands found her, instantly, and helped. Together they let her slide down a few inches, then they froze. In the cheesy little shower they were braced by tin walls, and both giggled at the light booming noise they made when pressed. Then they stopped giggling, and were together. "Make the clock start soon, Daddy," Marsha whispered, her voice choked with lust from his entry and tender thrust to the hilt. Still a remnant of the competitive Marsha, but that was not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, before he knew it, it was making him cum in her. Or maybe is was the full, rubbery, hot wetness of her big girl breasts. Or her slobbering at his left ear and what she was doing with her tongue. Anyways, he was cumming beyond any sense to it. Freshening her like a cow in a meadow. Freer with every staggering seizure in cadence to their will, free, Bradys all, of a drag-tail bitch and cumming in a happy little mom. All this, and Cindy, too. They napped. Steve called Carol. "Guess what," he laughed into the cell phone, "I'm bringing home a pet." After he hung up he wondered idly if he might not have a story to tell down at The Tame Animal Farm, or maybe it would be simpler to take her and let Marsha speak for herself. "Dad?" the girl asked, cuddling warmly against Steve as he kissed the back of her neck, making her giggle by overdoing the rooting through the hair like a snuffing armadillo, "you know how we Old Bradys were always coming up with schemes to make money, you know, and help with the bills?" "Not very helpful, but very thoughtful," her father recalled with a chuckle. "Say no more," she chuckled. When she did this, her pretty teen breast surged in his hand and Steve had to really focus and the girl's words. "Well," the sweetie began, "you know how things are now, right?" "Nobody does," he whispered, "but I get the point." "Okay. There are probably going to be more attacks. Probably bigger ones, right?" "Don't see why not," Steve answered, "nothing to prevent it." "Okay," she explained, "more attacks. Thousands killed. Tens of thousands killed. Right?" Steve replied that he thought about ten thousand might be the maximum body count from any single amateur event, but acknowledge these could be sequenced " "And you know some people in Hollywood. Producers. Right?" "Not a who's who, but, a few." "Okay," Marsha said. "They like to keep in stop with the times. You know, like if someone uses As If in a movie, everyone likes to use it, right?" Steve didn't really care where this was going. It was delicious to hold her like a young wife, listen to her prattle on about something other than girlish malarkey. He did wish she'd laugh again." "Yes," he answered the question. "Being modern is very important." Marsha completed her thought: "What my ideas is, is a new channel for cable. `The Closure Channel.' Do you like it?" If this were a film script the directions would be for the camera to dolly back, dolly left to the exterior wall adjacent the bedroom window, hold, sound up. A few tentative squeaks are heard, bedsprings, then a deliberate rhythm, rapidly rising as we FADE OUT. It only needs to be added that Marsha's injuries were attributed to the neighborhood, and healed as quickly as a Daffy bump, and we can fade into our traditional end-of-chapter tirade. Kill numbers in Marsha and Steve's final dialogue may be optimistic. It is now presumed a number of stocks were shorted, by numerous traders, not just UAL, by one. Figure it out.. Quickie thought. Enough with the facial hair. If you want me to stay in Belize and keep writing pornography, keep wearing those stale old beards, mustaches, sideburns and all you can grow. Every hombre a Santa. Shave, asshole. Really want to piss me off? Own a big mad dog. The size of the brain is always inversely proportional to the size of the canine. From the more things change, the more they stay the same department we have the news that the president has a ninety percent approval rating. Knocking off fifty or sixty points will only take a few initial reports on economic setbacks. After that it's watch out below. His dad knows the story. Fickle ingrates. And the trash votes. Go figure. America has become an MP3-128 country. This is a computer music standard that sounds good over small systems at low volume, but is in no way suitable for serious entertainment. There he is. The Taliban wants to negotiate with the black to whom the world is a camera. America deserves to pay a heavy, heavy price for its greed and generic stupidity. This giant bland pie face is too high a price. Let them love each other. Run, run, run this schmo out. Or do you really want to find out how much absolute ugliness there is in the world? And a reminder that the fundamental fly in the ointment is democracy, itself. It is simply not a Jew-proof institution. There's a great line in "Death of a Salesman" about whistling whole songs in the elevator. Now Drew Carey is playing whole songs on his show. And look, clapping over the head, just like they did twenty or thirty years ago. Somebody must be looking for a writer. How does a bill become a law? A rich white man pays a lobbyist. Quote, unquote. The punch line will come when the rich white man gets sued into submission. Remember, he who dies of laughter, laughs last. Poor throttle jockeys. Talk about a wakeup call. The crawler on MS NBC says 133.000 laid off. Let's examine an airline pilot in some superficial detail. He was not only trained, but stroked, petted, and very well paid by the taxpayers to do exactly what they make movies of. He serves minimum time. He goes to the airline and goes on strike, as close to Xmas as possible, if there is any chance he might be blocked from an annual income of one quarter million dollars, plus benefits writ large. He sits there burning away his life with all that kerosene. He went to college, he did well. Now look at him. Doing the job of a boy. Flying an airliner is fucking nothing compared to weaving through urban traffic on a bicycle. Bright kids, OJT, and all those cigar tube jet jockeys could be out doing something with their privileges and opportunity. CBS's "America Rising". Isn't Iowa designated corn country? The only thing this hombre sees rising, is smoke. Regrettably, this smoke is mixed with dust at they tear down the remaining skeletal steel. It's pretty amazing how we'll go far and wide to see the ruins, north, south, east and west, and bulldoze the grandest of all time to find a wallet or a finger. When I call New York a den of witless schmoes, I'm not just talking about the dread quality of the media output they finance and promote, nor the towns ruined by industrial shopping dumps, I'm talking about their shortsighted, low quality thinking, period. It's a town with a little architecture, and "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" now playing. How stale is that? We have been done a great favor. Do not rebuild lower Manhattan, disperse it. Surely if CBS can come up with its hick, po' boy, "America Rising," the slickers need some time with the rubes. Maybe they can follow the bustling moron man in the Minute Maid commercial to Ottumwa. One voice among the many commented on why New York is New York. Here is the answer. Huge natural harbor, huge river, huge deep sound, surrounded by sand. That's it. Our quality to be wrong. Pearl Harbor. We should have retreated to Hawaii, thence to the mainland, if necessary. In I 1943, or even '44, we should have returned with one thousand subs, one hundred carriers, in broad daylight, with not a single coded message. The resources squandered stroking admirals and the general would have made this not only easy, but fun. In the current Pearl Harbor, our retaliation should have been instant, simply because we have adequate firepower. If the president is going to sit on a stack or ordnance and watch young men die, he should be impeached by acclimation. You seem to think you're playing a game. Wrong! And a note here about hydrogen bombs. Hey, I'll admit it, maybe I have a fetish. The only interesting thing I ever recall my mother doing is keeping me out of school so we could watch the first H-Bomb detonation, incredibly, in those days, live on television. Fishermen who were actually burned by the heat of the bomb recovered. Bikini is now one of the world's premier as-was fisheries, because lingering radiation kept it free of habitation. Today it is back to normal, though, truth to tell, there is a hell of a new lagoon between the two tiny atolls. It seems to me any fetish I have is for life as it was on Sept. tenth. You're all three, flock, subjects in audience. Since you have so much power, and I have a keyboard, it's up to you to think it through, impeach your leadership, and save your fat necks and dumb heads. No one is going to do it for you. If you want to call it an act of civil obedience, go right ahead. You know how you always think of the clever phrase after you've mailed the letter? That happened to me. Hemmingway. A particular line should have read: "Old Man and the C.C." I'm trying to complete a logic chain here. If bin Laden's a Jew, then does it not follow that all these events are in retaliation to the sincere and enduring joy millions on millions of Anglos feel over the holocaust? This brings up the only non-thermonuclear response. Clear Palestine of Jewry, and isolate it on Long Island. As long-time readers will know, we have Newfoundland for agitators and subversives, of any kind, but maybe all the kikes could end up on the potato fields where we could keep an eagle eye on them. "Give a spud a day." A nationwide response might mean perpetuation of what's his name's amalgamation. Given a thousand years right, they might amount to a tribe, after all. Has anybody enlisted? All quiet on the recruiting front. That's how it sounds on my television. Seinfeld meets Friends. I like New York quality humor. Never quite as savage as Mom, it earns a slap on the ass and "Good effort, kid," you know, like in the ad for the cable dish? Good teacher, that apple. Bad for the country, real bad, as they say in the Bronx, but manna for a practicing clown. This is a mushroom. This is Mecca. This is a mushroom in Mecca. Any questions? Posted by Thomas@btl.net xxx