This Bloody Episode of Four Who I Could Understand Better Dead

I think this why, when I use my complicit access to Kids in the Hall Season Six (as they call it), though the nostalgia rushes pop and who am I to complain about about recurring gags, the times, they've out run Kids in the Hall (though Motormouth and Melanie I thought A+)
NO WAY OUT BUT WAR!
⇪	"The United States, as the near unanimous vote to provide nearly $40 billion in aid to Ukraine illustrates, is trapped in the death spiral of unchecked militarism. No high speed trains. No universal health care. No viable Covid relief program. No respite from 8.3 percent inflation. No infrastructure programs to repair decaying roads and bridges, which require $41.8 billion to fix the 43,586 structurally deficient bridges, on average 68 years old. No forgiveness of $1.7 trillion in student debt. No addressing income inequality. No program to feed the 17 million children who go to bed each night hungry. No rational gun control or curbing of the epidemic of nihilistic violence and mass shootings. No help for the 100,000 Americans who die each year of drug overdoses. No minimum wage of $15 an hour to counter 44 years of wage stagnation. No respite from gas prices that are projected to hit $6 a gallon."						⇪
American Times, Roman Morals
Shitlords preparing for your anger at your worsening precarity
Misinformation on misinformation
Selling the story on disinformation
⇪	Like other pathological reactions to trauma						⇪
Destroying Florida's ecology for profit
The direct correlation between white supremacy (and patriarchy) and American/Western shitlord warlordism, you're soaking in it (who am I to complain about old gags?)
Did the Democrats fuck it up?
Destroying public education the neverending fuck you
Yinz really don't like it when I rag you about helmetball and your complicit addiction to it, he types into free shitlord blogging platform obsessively
Capitalism's self-preservation society
Ranking the GOP 2024 Potus field
⇪	Virginia's Youngkin already cracker-branded a rino forever because he didn't order state police to beat the shit out of protesters outside a scotus house, and my governor, Larry Hogan, a popular Republican in a reliable Blue State with presidential aspirations as The Sane Republican didn't break the Top Ten						⇪
FRESH HELL				Maggie's weekly
I have been asked to serve on *Library Staff Excellence Awards Selection Committee,* it's as horribly uncomfortably judgy as it sounds, the email went out to ten of us, the chair needs three (disclaimer: I like the chair), I wrote back, E, laugh, surely three of the nine will leap to join you but if no then yes, I know that would delight you, I trust you not to deny a third to make me
Local radio news anchor versus Ric Flair
The principle of assholsity must stand		Mike Davis interview				25th Amendment problem
Stone Age Brain				{ feuilleton }'s weekly
I Am Small, Season 62, Episode Whatever: The Nationals suck, the Lerners must be bleeding out, while Dave on local pxp still gives a professional fuck, Charlie mailing it in, here's rooting for the Lerner's to bleed out
Someone has been reading Elkin and wrote about it
The local helmetball team relocating to Prince William County will save me in Maryland one-hundreth of a penny on the dollar, bye! it's my smallness, Season 62, Episode Whatever
Mark Ford reviews the Collected Letters of Thom Gunn

THE ENTERTAINMENT OF WAR

Roy Fisher

I saw the garden where my aunt had died

And her two children and a woman from next door;

It was like a burst pod filled with clay.

 

A mile away in the night I had heard the bombs

Sing and then burst themselves between cramped houses

With bright soft flashes and sounds like banging doors;

 

The last of them crushed the four bodies into the ground,

Scattered the shelter, and blasted my uncle’s corpse

Over the housetop and into the street beyond.

 

Now the garden lay stripped and stale; the iron shelter

Spread out its separate petals around a smooth clay saucer.

Small, and so tidy it seemed nobody had ever been there.

 

When I saw it, the house was blown clean by blast and care.

Relations had already torn out the new fireplaces;

My cousin’s pencils lasted me several years.

 

And in his office notepad that was given me

I found solemn drawings in crayon of blondes without dresses.

In his lifetime I had not known him well.

 

These were the things I noticed at ten years of age:

Those, and the four hearses outside our house,

The chocolate cakes, and my classmates’ half-shocked envy.

 

But my grandfather went home from the mortuary

And for five years tried to share the noises in his skull,

Then he walked out and lay under a furze-bush to die.

 

When my father came back from identifying the daughter

He asked us to remind him of her mouth.

We tried. He said ‘I think it was the one’.

 

These were marginal people I had met only rarely

And the end of the whole household meant that no grief was seen;

Never have people seemed so absent from their own deaths.

 

This bloody episode of four whom I could understand better dead

Gave me something I needed to keep a long story moving;

I had no pain of it; can find no scar even now.

 

But had my belief in the fiction not been thus buoyed up

I might, in the sigh and strike of the next night’s bombs

Have realized a little what they meant, and for the first time been afraid.