"Call this a govment! why, just look at it and see what it's like. Here's the law a-standing ready to take a man's son away from him -- a man's own son, which he has had all the trouble and all the anxiety and all the expense of raising. Yes, just as that man has got that son raised at last, and ready to go to work and begin to do suthin' for him and give him a rest, the law up and goes for him. And they call that govment! That ain't all, nuther. The law backs that old Judge Thatcher up and helps him to keep me out o' my property. Here's what the law does: The law takes a man worth six thousand dollars and up'ards, and jams him into an old trap of a cabin like this, and lets him go round in clothes that ain't fitten for a hog. They call that govment! A man can't get his rights in a govment like this. Sometimes I've a mighty notion to just leave the country for good and all. Yes, and I told 'em so; I told old Thatcher so to his face. Lots of 'em heard me, and can tell what I said. Says I, for two cents I'd leave the blamed country and never come a-near it agin. Them's the very words.
"Oh, yes, this is a wonderful govment, wonderful. Why, looky here. There was a free nigger there from Ohio -- a mulatter, most as white as a white man. He had the whitest shirt on you ever see, too, and the shiniest hat; and there ain't a man in that town that's got as fine clothes as what he had; and he had a gold watch and chain, and a silver-headed cane -- the awfulest old gray-headed nabob in the State. And what do you think? They said he was a p'fessor in a college, and could talk all kinds of languages, and knowed everything. And that ain't the wust. They said he could vote when he was at home. Well, that let me out. Thinks I, what is the country a-coming to? It was 'lection day, and I was just about to go and vote myself if I warn't too drunk to get there; but when they told me there was a State in this country where they'd let that nigger vote, I drawed out. I says I'll never vote agin. Them's the very words I said; they all heard me; and the country may rot for all me -- I'll never vote agin as long as I live. And to see the cool way of that nigger -- why, he wouldn't a give me the road if I hadn't shoved him out o' the way. I says to the people, why ain't this nigger put up at auction and sold? -- that's what I want to know. And what do you reckon they said? Why, they said he couldn't be sold till he'd been in the State six months, and he hadn't been there that long yet. There, now -- that's a specimen. They call that a govment that can't sell a free nigger till he's been in the State six months. Here's a govment that calls itself a govment, and lets on to be a govment, and thinks it is a govment, and yet's got to set stock-still for six whole months before it can take a hold of a prowling, thieving, infernal, white-shirted free nigger, and -- "
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
Pottymouth Responds to a Question
Pottymouth in Iraq
''From our perspective, we don't see much as far as gains," said Marine Corporal Bradley Warren, the first to question Cheney in a round-table discussion with about 30 military members. ''We're looking at small-picture stuff, not many gains. I was wondering what it looks like from the big side of the mountain -- how Iraq's looking."
Cheney replied that remarkable progress has been made in the last year and a half.
''I think when we look back from 10 years hence, we'll see that the year '05 was in fact a watershed year here in Iraq," he said. ''We're getting the job done. It's hard to tell that from watching the news. But I guess we don't pay that much attention to the news."
Let me explain.
What I mean is, Georgie-Porgie and I don’t watch the news. At least we don’t watch the news together. Maybe he watches the news from time to time, I wouldn’t know. And every once in a while if there is a nice human interest story on lesbians or may be on “Brokeback Mountain, I’ll watch, so I can have something to talk about with the girls.
But I don’t watch these depressing stories about casualties and roadside bombs and Frist and DeLay, goddamn assholes, gonna fuck the whole program, and the goddamn New York toilet paper, all the news that’s shit to print, they’re tearing this country apart. Aid and comfort to the enemy, and demoralizing to our courageous troops. And now the terrorists know that we listen in on their communications for god’s sake. You know that “Roll Call” on that goddamn radical liberal NPR, probably has a lot of that goddamn Soros money behind it, and Buffet actually going with Sam Nunn and Turner to see that movie by those radical liberal environmentalists, who the hell do they think they are, and this Jim Liar or whatever ought to have his ass rendered unto Caesar in a casa I know about in Libya--Libya, for god’s sake, which is little enough in return for what we did for that towelhead Muamarr. And now we’ve got that yarmulke-wearing whore who will say anything he needs to say to save his sorry ass, and lose the majority in Congress, and when that levee gives way there’s no telling who is going to spend time in the slammer, along with Scooter and a dozen other decent, patriotic guys who were knocking themselves out trying to bring freedom and democracy to these camel-fucking bastards.
Excuse my french. But I feel a lot better now.
''From our perspective, we don't see much as far as gains," said Marine Corporal Bradley Warren, the first to question Cheney in a round-table discussion with about 30 military members. ''We're looking at small-picture stuff, not many gains. I was wondering what it looks like from the big side of the mountain -- how Iraq's looking."
Cheney replied that remarkable progress has been made in the last year and a half.
''I think when we look back from 10 years hence, we'll see that the year '05 was in fact a watershed year here in Iraq," he said. ''We're getting the job done. It's hard to tell that from watching the news. But I guess we don't pay that much attention to the news."
Let me explain.
What I mean is, Georgie-Porgie and I don’t watch the news. At least we don’t watch the news together. Maybe he watches the news from time to time, I wouldn’t know. And every once in a while if there is a nice human interest story on lesbians or may be on “Brokeback Mountain, I’ll watch, so I can have something to talk about with the girls.
But I don’t watch these depressing stories about casualties and roadside bombs and Frist and DeLay, goddamn assholes, gonna fuck the whole program, and the goddamn New York toilet paper, all the news that’s shit to print, they’re tearing this country apart. Aid and comfort to the enemy, and demoralizing to our courageous troops. And now the terrorists know that we listen in on their communications for god’s sake. You know that “Roll Call” on that goddamn radical liberal NPR, probably has a lot of that goddamn Soros money behind it, and Buffet actually going with Sam Nunn and Turner to see that movie by those radical liberal environmentalists, who the hell do they think they are, and this Jim Liar or whatever ought to have his ass rendered unto Caesar in a casa I know about in Libya--Libya, for god’s sake, which is little enough in return for what we did for that towelhead Muamarr. And now we’ve got that yarmulke-wearing whore who will say anything he needs to say to save his sorry ass, and lose the majority in Congress, and when that levee gives way there’s no telling who is going to spend time in the slammer, along with Scooter and a dozen other decent, patriotic guys who were knocking themselves out trying to bring freedom and democracy to these camel-fucking bastards.
Excuse my french. But I feel a lot better now.
Pottymouth Gets a Letter from the CIA
Hey, sir,
I can’t tell you my name because I’m UC for the CIA, just like the Plame dame. I’m not even writing this letter. I’m dictating it to a machine that garbles all the sounds so nobody can recognize my voice, then puts them back together and sends them to a computer, and the computer . . .
Well, you get the idea.
But you already know one thing about me. I’m from the South. You know that because I said “Hey” and not “Hi,’ the way they do in the North.
But the reason I’m writing you is because I want to thank you for trying to help us with the torture business. No easy job, I know, with Mother Teresa McCain making such a stink, throwing his POW weight around, and all that holier-than-thou crap. Makes me sick just to think about it. Whose side is he on, anyway?
So anyway, thanks a lot for your help. And if you think a goddam piece of paper is going to make a whole helluva lot of difference, you’ve got another think coming.
But there was one other thing I wanted to tell you.
Here at the CIA we do a lot of gaming--and I don’t mean five card stud. I mean, if we’ve got a problem we make a game out of it, and play it out. So in the Iraq-game we have three sides, Sunni, Shia, and Kurds. But there are two or three different kind of Sunnis so we have people who play those different kinds, and behave as if . . . well shit, I can’t remember it all, but you get the idea.
So a couple of weeks ago, right around Christmas, we played the “ticking bomb” game. You know, a terrorist has planted a “dirty bomb” in New York City, and it’s due to go off in an hour. We’ve captured the terrorist, and we know he knows where it is. (Don’t ask me how we captured the dude, or how we know he knows where it is. We were just following the story Charles Krauthammer wrote in The Weekly Standard.) So do we torture this guy until he tells us what we want to know? You bet.
So we set up the game. I’m one of the torturers. We’ve got a bomb squad ready to go. And for the terrorist we get this really good looking broad we’ve worked with before. She speaks French so we name her Maham-ette. We pretend-string her up by her thumbs or whatever, and she plays along with it for a while and says “Nevair!” a lot, but finally she says, “OK guys, this isn’t fun anymore, in fact it’s beginning to hurt,” so we pretend-cut her down, and we yell, “OK, Maham-ette, where’s the Bomb?” And she’s like, “It’s in locker 666 on the second floor of Ali-ben Gold’s Gym in Jackson Heights.” The bomb squad takes off like the Bears’ linebackers blitzing Favre, but just as they get to the door the broad screams, “Stop! Wait! Come back here. Dumb me, I forgot to tell you something.” We all stop, and wait for her to start talking again.
“You assholes,” she says. “We terrorists were smart enough to build the bomb, and smart enough to disassemble the sucker, and air-freight it over a period of two years, from Hamburg and Kuala Lumpur and Allah knows where to Kennedy and Dulles and Miami, and then smart enough to reassemble it in Jersey City, and smart enough to drive it through the tunnel and stow it in the locker in the gym. But we’re not smart enough to give it a fail-safe trigger? The puppy is spring-loaded. You open the door to locker 666, or even bang it around a little, and that is the end of New York City as we have known it.” She paused, then she said, “My advice to you is, get in your squad cars, turn on the sirens and the flashing blue lights, and head for Chicago.” She looked at the hairs on her wrist. “You’ve got forty-three minutes.”
And then Patty--that was her real name, Patty--Patty looked around the room at us, and then she looked down at the floor, and then she, I don’t know, she started to cry. . . .
Well sir, I didn’t mean to make such a long story of this, but I thought you ought to know what we are thinking about over here in Virginia.
Patriotically yours,
I can’t tell you my name because I’m UC for the CIA, just like the Plame dame. I’m not even writing this letter. I’m dictating it to a machine that garbles all the sounds so nobody can recognize my voice, then puts them back together and sends them to a computer, and the computer . . .
Well, you get the idea.
But you already know one thing about me. I’m from the South. You know that because I said “Hey” and not “Hi,’ the way they do in the North.
But the reason I’m writing you is because I want to thank you for trying to help us with the torture business. No easy job, I know, with Mother Teresa McCain making such a stink, throwing his POW weight around, and all that holier-than-thou crap. Makes me sick just to think about it. Whose side is he on, anyway?
So anyway, thanks a lot for your help. And if you think a goddam piece of paper is going to make a whole helluva lot of difference, you’ve got another think coming.
But there was one other thing I wanted to tell you.
Here at the CIA we do a lot of gaming--and I don’t mean five card stud. I mean, if we’ve got a problem we make a game out of it, and play it out. So in the Iraq-game we have three sides, Sunni, Shia, and Kurds. But there are two or three different kind of Sunnis so we have people who play those different kinds, and behave as if . . . well shit, I can’t remember it all, but you get the idea.
So a couple of weeks ago, right around Christmas, we played the “ticking bomb” game. You know, a terrorist has planted a “dirty bomb” in New York City, and it’s due to go off in an hour. We’ve captured the terrorist, and we know he knows where it is. (Don’t ask me how we captured the dude, or how we know he knows where it is. We were just following the story Charles Krauthammer wrote in The Weekly Standard.) So do we torture this guy until he tells us what we want to know? You bet.
So we set up the game. I’m one of the torturers. We’ve got a bomb squad ready to go. And for the terrorist we get this really good looking broad we’ve worked with before. She speaks French so we name her Maham-ette. We pretend-string her up by her thumbs or whatever, and she plays along with it for a while and says “Nevair!” a lot, but finally she says, “OK guys, this isn’t fun anymore, in fact it’s beginning to hurt,” so we pretend-cut her down, and we yell, “OK, Maham-ette, where’s the Bomb?” And she’s like, “It’s in locker 666 on the second floor of Ali-ben Gold’s Gym in Jackson Heights.” The bomb squad takes off like the Bears’ linebackers blitzing Favre, but just as they get to the door the broad screams, “Stop! Wait! Come back here. Dumb me, I forgot to tell you something.” We all stop, and wait for her to start talking again.
“You assholes,” she says. “We terrorists were smart enough to build the bomb, and smart enough to disassemble the sucker, and air-freight it over a period of two years, from Hamburg and Kuala Lumpur and Allah knows where to Kennedy and Dulles and Miami, and then smart enough to reassemble it in Jersey City, and smart enough to drive it through the tunnel and stow it in the locker in the gym. But we’re not smart enough to give it a fail-safe trigger? The puppy is spring-loaded. You open the door to locker 666, or even bang it around a little, and that is the end of New York City as we have known it.” She paused, then she said, “My advice to you is, get in your squad cars, turn on the sirens and the flashing blue lights, and head for Chicago.” She looked at the hairs on her wrist. “You’ve got forty-three minutes.”
And then Patty--that was her real name, Patty--Patty looked around the room at us, and then she looked down at the floor, and then she, I don’t know, she started to cry. . . .
Well sir, I didn’t mean to make such a long story of this, but I thought you ought to know what we are thinking about over here in Virginia.
Patriotically yours,
Pottymouth Visits Walter Reed Hospital
Pottymouth at Walter Reed
“Hey, soldier, that must be a serious head wound. I can hardly see your face. And I see that you have lost a fucking leg.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh Christ. I didn’t know you were a woman.”
“Yes sir, I am. But it’s all in a good cause, isn’t it, sir. Freedom and democracy, I mean.”
“That’s right, ma’am.”
“‘Course, I won’t be able to get married and have kids now. Nobody will have me, looking the way I do.”
“Oh, I’m sure . . . “
“But that’s all right, sir, because Jesus is coming back real soon, and He’s going to make everything all right. Isn’t He, sir. . . . Isn’t He?”
“Well . . .”
“But sir, if Jesus don’t come back . . . if Jesus don’t come back. . . I don’t want to live anymore.”
Pottymouth pats the child’s remaining foot, says, “Hang in there, kid,” moves to the next bed.
“Hey, soldier, that must be a serious head wound. I can hardly see your face. And I see that you have lost a fucking leg.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh Christ. I didn’t know you were a woman.”
“Yes sir, I am. But it’s all in a good cause, isn’t it, sir. Freedom and democracy, I mean.”
“That’s right, ma’am.”
“‘Course, I won’t be able to get married and have kids now. Nobody will have me, looking the way I do.”
“Oh, I’m sure . . . “
“But that’s all right, sir, because Jesus is coming back real soon, and He’s going to make everything all right. Isn’t He, sir. . . . Isn’t He?”
“Well . . .”
“But sir, if Jesus don’t come back . . . if Jesus don’t come back. . . I don’t want to live anymore.”
Pottymouth pats the child’s remaining foot, says, “Hang in there, kid,” moves to the next bed.
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