Thursday, April 19, 2012

Levon Helm, Ad Astra…

Hey-ho, Mr. Helmsman           ©April 19th, 1:58AM, 2012 by S. Solomon

Hey-ho, Mr. Helmsman
Heard your ship has been run aground
Heard you that have bought Maggie’s farm
That juke box don’t no more turn around
Yeah, old Mr. Richard no longer come to town

What’s in the music
What’s in the rhyme
There’s more to the beat
than just keepin’ good time

Hey-ho, Mr. Helmsman
Carnival wheel run off the rails
The weight just got much too heavy
No common sense to keep her steady
But you and the boys remained rough and ready

Hey-ho, Mr. Helmsman
So, now where do we go from here
The coliseum all broke down
The ghosts are stumblin’ all around
Your masterpiece is revealed hidden underground

What’s in the music
What’s in the rhyme
There’s more to the beat
than just keepin’ good time

Hey-ho, Mr. Helmsman
Now, tell me the ways of this road
Please tell me the way to the creek
I need to get somethin’ to drink
I need to know what I’m supposed to know and think

Hey-ho, Mr. Helmsman
Now you’re sleepin’ with Ophelia
beneath the wondrous Northern Lights
Plenty of time to the still stage fright
you’ll have no bothers on the wide Endless Highway

What’s in that music
What’s in that rhyme
There’s more to the beat
than just keepin’ good time

You had your last waltz
You took your best shot
You spoke for the mute
smithing iron words
You met extinction
with right distinction
You done it right
You done it right
You done it right
You done it right
You done it right…
Thank you, Levon Helm!

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Demon in My Marrow…

Dear Friends,

Here's a little gospel inspired drivel soon to be set to music. You know what all it's about…

Res Ipsa Loquitor,


Got The Demon in My Marrow      ©Solomon 2012

Whoa-oh. Got the Demon in my marrow
Whoa-oh. Got it climbin’ up my spine.
Oh, no lord, got no respite from this craving
So, lord do let it ride. Do let it ride. So fine. So fine.

Whoa-oh. Got a notion rollin’ my mind
Whoa-oh. Got it wrestlin’ in my heart
Oh, my lord, give me a little more reason
So, lord do let it ride. Do let it ride. So fine. So fine.

Whoa-oh. Got passion crazy in my heart
Whoa-oh. The last time I say goodbye
Oh, my lord, got the devil in my marrow
So, lord do let it ride. Do let it ride. So fine. So fine.

Got that demon in my bones
Sunk so low it’s in my bones
So tight with my marrow
So thorough in my bones
So complete I got nowhere to go
Got that demon in my bones

Whoa-oh. You think you know and how it goes
Whoa-oh. Got her climbin’ up yer spine
Oh, it gives you no pleasure your desiring
Your lord do let it ride. Do let it ride. So high. So high.

Got that demon in your bones
Sunk so low it’s in your bones
So tight with your marrow
So thorough into your heart
So complete you got nowhere to go
Got that demon in your bones

Get some love in your marrow
Rise so high love’s in your eyes
Get tight with your visions
Soak them into in your loving bones
So complete that you need nowhere else to go
Got that demon in your bones
Tell the devil where to go…

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Mitt.V.2x and His Rise and Demise…

Dear Friends,

As we left Mitt V.2x, he was ready to join the campaign in the guise of Mitt V.1. Nobody should be the wiser, or so it is supposed. There were, admittedly, some kinks to work out, but things seemed to be sailing smoothly until a stop at A.B. Won Pat International Airport, Island of Guam for a little meet and greet with the local League of Women Voters prior to the upcoming Republican primary, now an apparent cinch. Little Ricky was out of the race and likely headed toward an anguished end after thorough debriefing on that cannibalism incident. Word has it that “Uncle Dick” himself, fresh from his deal with getting a working heart from that kid dead in the mysterious car wreck mix-up, was going to personally supervise. Anyhow, Newt is the only remaining trouble spot, though surprises can always pop up on the trail to The White House. Options have to remain open. ~ Ed. Note.

Mitt.V.2x is now on wheels and ready to roll. He is poised at the edge of the runway after being debarked from his private jet, having been borne prostrate and in servo-lock mode by his manservants before greeting the press waiting on the tarmac. Once made erect and placed on his robo-motorized skateboard, he was activated with an injection by Doctor Wellbody: 120mg of WhooHooYeah® (Adrenochrome HCL), a fine product from the good folks at Phiztter Pharm® (a wholly owned subsidiary of Bain Capital, Inc®). Administered directly to the base of his skull and into the brain stem of the marginally mutant replicate human, the effect was immediate and electrifying.

Apparently extensive company funded and FDA approved field tests of the medication on cloned human beings of perhaps inbred genetic inheritance from generations of polygamous sires of a common and deeply weird great-great-great grandfather had not been conducted. Who knew that the fervently enthusiastic banjo playing genes of old Parley P. Pratt would suddenly engage and their impulses emerge with such gusto as the inanimate Mitt clone sprang to life with the giddy zest of a good ol’ time picker. Mitt seized the plinky-plink meskeeter-box from a young Biff Puddfusser. There Biff was, the son of steely eyed Rear Admiral Puddfusser (thrice decorated former quartermaster of the USS Brigham Young) in shock in the front row of the Yellow Hollow Pacific High School Blue Grass band as the stately handsome and likely Republican candidate for President of these United states come over on a CREDO Model 7 Board® to swipe his instrument in a swoop with a whoosh.

Next thing you know, Mitt.V.2x is wranglin’ with those silvery strings, liquid notes are a’flying as a crazy drizzle of mercury from some heavenly cloud wreathed like it was smiled upon by god’aw’mighty. And, he’s a’yoddlin’ like what’all!!! “Yo-dee-lae-hee-hoo-hee-ha-ha-ha!!!” It was grand, alright!

Then the drug wore off. Mitt.V.2x got stiff as a board, turned all greenish, the Nutty Putty plugs in his head popped out of his fevered skull. His brain was boilin’. The straw cowboy hat flew off his skull like a skillet top on firecracker. The speech program chip melted back to its “normal” or default state and Wiilard, er, Mitt.V.2x could only be heard to gasp and murmur as he drooled to repeat again and again, “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me. I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me.” Next, the projectile vomiting and profound flatulence started. Must have been those Micronesian spicy wild boar hot dogs with Cycad relish that set off his ill-trained sphincters and tender digestive glands.

The entire crowd, the ROTC cadets, Reserve troops and their officers of the Joint Force Headquarters-Guam at Fort Juan Muna, that little band, all their teachers from Freaklin HS, even the cops and Secret Service guys run for cover. But, the candidate is frozen stiff as a toad under a rock in February up in Wasilla, AK, near where you can see Siberia (that’s in Russia, y’know) on a clear day.

Next, a fearsome gust of ocean wind came up. It was all downhill from here for Mitt V.2x… indeed it is! His undead frame slowly animates under the meteorological pressure of tropical breezes and slowly, then more swiftly, he rolls and accelerates on his rubber wheels along the sloping grade of the runway toward a providently placed gap in the fence. Disaster is averted as the fake Mitt skid-addles just so fine into the marshy rift between old and indigenous farmer Hector Hoothefukahwey’s place and the airport runway strip. Fortunately for the phony Romney, Hoothefukahwey was nearby, slopping his hogs, as he heard a “splursh” sound, some subsequent gurgling and ran to investigate what all was going on at the edge of his small farm.

He discovers a man lashed to a skateboard, dressed in a nice pair of overalls but with holes in his head. The apparent corpse is as firm and upright as a plank of Ifil, the official state tree of Guam. The tall and handsome greenish creature startled Mr. Hoothefukahwey in saying: “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me. I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me.”

Of course, Hoothefukahwey understands that he is presented with perhaps both an opportunity and a burden, here. He opts for the former. “Can ya slop the hogs?” The reply, “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me.” The wise farmer takes that for a yes. This specimen is fit to slop the hogs alright and likely will work for vittles and a stay in the barn. Hoothefukahwey has such accommodations in the stall next to the old barrel where Bossie’s noggin is cornin’ to make the head cheese. Hoothefukahwey’s a generous man so he fixes a fresh pile of straw a’top the manure and sets up the “presidential candidate” on his skateboard for a night’s rest before turning in himself. He carelessly leaves the wick on the kerosene lamp on the sill still lit before heading in to get some few hours of dreamless slumber ‘till the sun comes up.

Hoothefukahwey awakes before dawn to a horrible fire in and out and around the barn. Pigs are running every which way. His prize and only goat, Eulie, is perched with all fours atop the slender fence post by the corner of the barn as flames lick her ankles and she bleats terribly. Through the smoggy, cindered smoke of the dung fed pyre, Hoothefukahwey can see the silhouette of a large man erect and with an odd emerald glistening goop slathering from his ears, bubbling, frothing and seemingly with a life or energy of its own. This figure is apparently immune to the scorching flames engulfing his limbs. The strange man again slowly murmurs the phrase “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me. I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me…” over and over as the conflagration consumes his fancy-pants overalls and his skin peels away from the undying body in rags of flesh burning in its own fat.

As the sun finally rises over farmer Hoothefukahwey’s small slice of island paradise, now a smoldering wreck reeking of pork renderings and sizzled excrement, his hovel a pile of ashes, his livestock barbecue, the corpse of the stranger that came to him with so much promise of low-cost labor still looming upon his skateboard, standing tall, quietly, gently, reasonably pleading “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me. I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me.”

“By the gods Puntan and Fu’una, by all the gods of The Chamorro!”, weeps poor farmer Hector Hoothefukahwey, “Take this beast from my life! He has laid waste to all that I have owned, taken my livelihood, my pigs, my only goat, and my home. And, he won’t shut the fuck up!!!”

The Mitt.V.2x continues to intone “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me. I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me.” Hoothefukahwey can only weep.

Hic Finis Est,


Sunday, April 8, 2012

Mitt the Undead…

Dear Friends,

Editor’s Note: As we left off in our last post, the Romneys had quite a situation on their hands. Young Willard “Mitt” Romney was a corpse, nice hair cut chewed off, brain devoured by the insane beast Santorum. Little Ricky was now in the hands of “The Law’, sequestered and out of touch with his handlers and the press in a secure location in the bowels of a secret Federal prison below one of many cloud hidden mountains hollowed by centuries of coal mining in the wilds of Montana. Per Executive Order sDC143593.B-45045.a539G he would likely not be heard from until a Marshal Court convenes at US Base Alpha Omega in Senegal in 2013, if ever. There is a history of military planes mysteriously disappearing en-route to undisclosed locations, all hands lost over the vast mid-Atlantic.

Of course, the Romney family was not entirely unprepared for the demise of young Willard, er, Mitt, his skull gnawed, his scalp ingurgitated by the demon possessed Catholic cannibal Santorum. They had seen their plans to arm The Church of Latter Day Saints with atomic weapons thwarted more than once before. It was old George’s 1968 campaign for the Republican Party Nomination against The Devil Nixon, that Quaker snake in the grass, that yanked the football out of their hands. Then, as Willard, er, Mitt, competed with John McCain in 2008 for his own nomination, the foreign born and Episcopalian menace cheated the elders yet again from their true destiny as the most powerful and ruthless rulers of The World.

This time, nothing would stand in their way. The clan leaned back and stared at their great progenitor, Parley P. Pratt. He was the wily great-great-great grandfather of Mitt, and his life and demise stood today as yesterday as a beacon of hope against hope and perverse cunning in the face of doom. The inspirational tale is inscribed in the margins of the old family bible, or as it secretly known among The Select, “The Great Book of Hoohah”.

While returning from a horseback missionary trip to the southern United States in 1857, Parley was being tracked by one Hector McLean, he the legal husband of one of Pratt's then fourteen wives, Eleanor McLean. Pratt had met Eleanor in California, where Pratt was presiding over a church mission. In San Francisco, Eleanor had joined the LDS Church and had also had her oldest sons baptized before running off to Salt Lake City with the not so right Reverend Pratt. 

Hector’s belly was swollen with murderous rage at his now former wife’s conversion and elopement, termed a “Celestial Marriage” with Parley and his harem. Oh, there was also the small issue of Pratt kidnapping Hector’s kids.
Now, things did not end well for Parley. Eventually he got shot up good by Hector and took a full two and half days to die in agony, slowly bleeding to death amidst much praying and wailing by the righteous of his community, as there was no doctor within two hundred miles. Still, he made it two years between stealing the wife and getting caught up with in Utah. In the meanwhile, he had sired about a gross of young Pratts and therein lies the inspiration for the Romney Mob’s grand plan. Always have a backup!

See, after taking a whopping mess o’ ass whippin’ from the treacherous Nixon Monster, old George did not slink off to merely lick his wounds whilst enjoying the boobie prize of being appointed his new boss’ Secretary of Housing and Urban Development. No, he set his staff busy organizing a secret plan at the behest of his true overlords back at The Tabernacle. Romney had sired a son back in 1947. Yes! Willard “Mitt” Romney would be cloned in a secret installation powered by mystically inspired technology deep in the bowels of the most Holy of Holies, far underground and secreted from spying eyes by the Great Salt Lake. There the clone had gestated for the past sixty-five years, naked in an artificial womb, fed a nutrient slurry by tubes drilled into his skull, waiting for the day he might be called upon should disaster again strike The Romney Mob and their Mormon Mafia. That day had come!!!

Now, the Mitt V.2x was physically identical to the V.1 model in physiognomy and stature, indeed in every obvious detail, except… well, the creature had spent six decades submerged in a giant tube of formaldehyde and peroxide perfused gelatinous aspic (six tons were allegedly hoisted by the Romney Mob from the old Meyerson & Lipschitz Gefilte Company back in 1947, but the charges were never proven). Thus his complexion was rather sallow. But, artificial tanning lotion gave the new model a “good enough” tangerine look for the campaign upcoming in Florida’s primary. There were also those vacant skull plugs for the nutrient broth that had to be piped into his skull. Those could be plugged up with Nutty Putty®, so that was not a major problem unless his brain started to a’fever.

More of an issue was the fact that the “New Mitt” had never eaten solid food in his entire six-plus decades. Doctors for the Double Secret Tabernacle Celestial Medical Cooperative knew that this would ensure that their creation would be entirely incontinent and prone to shitting his pants in the face of all the corn dogs, blueberry pancakes, cheese grits, peppered mac n’ cheese, raw oysters, fried grasshoppers and various other regional delicacies that must be consumed on the campaign trail. Thus he was equipped with a state of the art and scientifically designed odor-neutralizing full body diaper. From neck to ankles, cuff to collar this brand new Republican front-runner would be swathed in yummy, fragrant warmth. Both the candidate and his electorate would be protected for up to one full month from poop and urine flowing effulgently from the Mitt V.2x Artificial Candidate Alimentary System®. However, this solution presented yet another challenge to getting the newly minted man out on the road.

You see, the full body diaper was rather bulky. The New Mitt looked like the Michelin Man once the dang thing started to expand all full of Contained-fragrance/Fragrance-Enhanced® potentially presidential excrement. The top Mormon Costume Engineers, the guys (they’re all guys) who design the vestments and sacred underwear for the lady folk to sew, they got to work on Double-double Super Secret Project X-M2 (The New Body). It produced, after an intense two weeks without sleep in their underground lair a very stylish set of XXX-L farmer’s overalls. The Elders deemed them perfect for the upcoming Romney campaign stops throughout southern and western states, and the Romney Mob Board of Misdirectors approved the final design for production.

Yet again, however, a roadblock to getting their new man into action loomed. The human-like, though handsome blob that emerged from the gelatin tank had never spoken nor even learned to speak in his nutrient rich but soundless incubation. This situation was addressed with the implantation of a small digital chip, modified from a talking greeting card purchased at the local Piggly Wiggly®. He could now say, “Hello. I am Mitt Romney. I am Mitt Romney. I hope that you will vote for me. I hope that you will vote for me.” over and over and just flawlessly.

Still, he had also not learned to walk, use a pen to write, nor understand that a pen was, indeed, to write with. They went through a gross of Bic® pens as Mitt V.2X chewed and sucked on them, occasionally stabbing himself or his tutors in the face with the sharp end. As a result, the entire project was delayed for two additional weeks as the candidate was fitted with a glass eye and crowns on his front teeth. Eventually, in exasperation, the team went back to the drawing board.

There was sufficient room in Mitt’s sacred overalls to conceal a mechanized armature, a wearable robotic skeleton, developed by Top Secret Super-Duper Secret Mechanized War of The Angels Team Yoo-Hoo. Visionary scientists worked in the sub-sub-sub basement lab below the cave beneath the Tabernacle’s lower basement sub-floor. Again striving relentlessly without sleep in total darkness but for the light of Divine Inspiration, their prototype was refitted for rapid deployment in support of the Mitt V.2x campaign. With this complex device and remote robotic control, the faux man could manipulate, albeit crudely, writing implements and be of no danger to himself nor others when handling such things as forks and corkscrews. The only thing missing was the walking module.

Now, here’s the brilliant part! With the extra-extra-extra large denim hick outfit he was starting to look the part of a real conservative candidate with appeal in cowboy, cotton and petrochemical states. The team solved the problem with the Nutty-Putty oozing out of the holes in his head by duct taping a straw hat down just over his ears. That nicely completed the ensemble. What was needed now was to garner the attention of the youth vote, you know, the hep crowd.  A remote controlled skate board would not only solve the walking problem and get him out to meet and greet and mechanically shake the hands of regular folks who had no money, but really get the attention of those chicks who dig rebels on skinny rubber wheels. Some of them are old enough to vote, even.

Stay Tuned…