- Send blogbud Wis[s]e Words good thoughts please.
- Some (day after) Veterans Day reading.
- Lovely, wonderful thoughts.
- Nature is the 99% too.
- Wall Street v Elizabeth Warren.
- Why YFWP won't fire the World's Second Shittiest Human.
- The lighter side of incitement to genocide.
- The case for knee-jerk anti-interventionism.
- No flag large enough.
- Beware divide and conquer.
- If you see a guy in a United sweatshirt and hat at McPherson Square and Freedom Plaza this afternoon, say hi please. Thanks to L for the coats and blankets.
- Urban roots of the financial crisis.
- It's the only thing.
- Jesus Christ's half-brother is....
- How's Klinsmann working out?
- Reconstructive post-modernism.
- [Response to the loyalty oath]
- Don't save us from the flames.
- Sign of love.
I AM AN ATHEIST WHO SAYS HIS PRAYERS
I am an atheist who says his prayers.
I am an anarchist, and a full professor at that. I take the loyalty oath.
I am a deviate. I fondle and contribute, backscuttle and brown, father of three.
I stand high in the community. My name is in Who’s Who. People argue about my modesty.
I drink my share and yours and never have enough. I free-load officially and unofficially.
A physical coward, I take on all intellectuals, established poets, popes, rabbis, chiefs of staff.
I am a mystic. I will take an oath that I have seen the Virgin. Under the dry pandanus, to the scratching of kangaroo rats, I achieve psychic onanism. My tree of nerves electrocutes itself.
I uphold the image of America and force my luck. I write my own ticket to oblivion.
I am of the race wrecked by success. The audience brings me news of my death. I write out of boredom, despise solemnity. The wrong reason is good enough for me.
I am of the race of the prematurely desperate. In poverty of comfort I lay gunpowder plots. I lapse my insurance.
I am the Babbitt metal of the future. I never read more than half of a book. But that half I read forever.
I love the palimpsest, statues without heads, fertility dolls of the continent of Mu. I dream prehistory, the invention of dye. The palms of the dancers’ hands are vermillion. Their heads oscillate like the cobra. High-caste woman smelling of earth and silk, you can dry my feet with your hair.
I take my place beside the Philistine and unfold my napkin. This afternoon I defend the Marines. I goggle at long cars.
Without compassion I attack the insane. Give them the horsewhip!
The homosexual lectures me brilliantly in the beer booth. I can feel my muscles soften. He smiles at my terror.
Pitchpots flicker in the lemon groves. I gaze down on the plains of Hollywood. My fine tan and my arrogance, my gray hair and my sneakers, O Israel!
Wherever I am I become. The power of entry is with me. In the doctor’s office a patient, calm and humiliated. In the foreign movies a native, shabby enough. In the art gallery a person of authority (there’s a secret way of approaching a picture. Others move off). The high official insults me to my face. I say nothing and accept the job. He offers me whiskey.
How beautifully I fake! I convince myself with men’s room jokes and epigrams. I paint myself into a corner and escape on pulleys of the unknown. Whatever I think at the moment is true. Turn me around in my tracks; I will take your side.
For the rest, I improvise and am not spiteful and water the plants on the cocktail table.
To his credit, Pexton had previously condemned Rubin on his Ombudsman blog, writing: “in agreeing with the sentiment, and in spreading it to her 7,000 Twitter followers who know her as a Washington Post blogger, Rubin did damage to The Post and the credibility that keeps it afloat.”ReplyDelete
That credibility is gone and The War Criminal Post lives at the bottom of the swamp.
They ought to fire Fred Hiatt and Jackson Diehl, followed immediately with the rest of the bloodthirsty liars those two have hired over the decades.
This comment has been removed by the author.ReplyDelete
Hell with carving a Thanksgiving turkey, checkers would drawn blood at the Abrams' house.ReplyDelete