All posts by Joe

The Real McCain.

Look out, folks – here comes the straight talk express, charging down the track straight toward you. For what seems like the twelfth time in as many months, John McCain has launched (or re-launched) his presidential bid, trying to trade on any of his former selves that the public will buy – Mister Independent, Mister Inevitable, Mister Iraq Victory, etc. Pick your favorite McCain… or collect all three! At this stage, the Arizona senator’s flagging campaign appears to be centered on his dogged support for the Iraq project, albeit a “better managed” variant of that catastrophe. The calculation is a simple one – McCain supports the troop increase because he believes it’s right, even though it’s unpopular; a position that is supposed to lend him an aura of integrity and moral authority. Everyone else is playing politics with the war, but not McCain. That’s his card, and he’s playing it for all it’s worth, equating troop withdrawals with “surrender” and any war funding conditions with abandonment of our troops (mainstream G.O.P. positions, in essence).

Okay – so here’s my question. How is McCain’s position any less “political” than anyone else’s? He’s just betting on “war futures” like all those who voted for this policy in the first place. If in nine months Iraq is even marginally more quiet, McCain can claim vindication. If things go even more septic and Congress forces even a partial withdrawal of the additional “surge” forces, he will be able to claim that the continuing disaster is the result of not following his sage counsel. And if the American project in Iraq ultimately succeeds (i.e. if a government congenial to U.S. influence and permanent military bases ever takes hold), it will be good news for McCain, though decidedly not for the U.S. troops and Iraqis who will have died in the meantime, not to mention the millions of Iraqis who will have had their national sovereignty compromised by a foreign power, and the millions of Americans who have been made demonstrably less safe because of this stupid war. In other words, no one benefits from “victory” except politicians like McCain.

McCain talks as though he has the right to speak for everyone in uniform. Frankly, I don’t see why. He is not the only person who suffered during the Vietnam War, not by a long shot. Plenty of Americans had a rougher time of it than McCain, and something like 58,000 never came back at all. That’s to say nothing of what the Vietnamese and other southeast Asians endured during that war. From what I’ve seen, I doubt very many of those incarcerated by the Saigon regime or the U.S. military / C.I.A. during those years are now trotting around the countryside angling for votes. (Most are in unmarked graves or sleeping with the fishes, as they say.) Just this week I ran across an article about how the enormous tonnage of high explosives we dropped on Cambodia in 1965 – 1973 was in fact a gross underestimate – a number now revised upwards to more than 2,756,941 tons. Needless to say, that relentless campaign of terror bombing did not lead to peace and prosperity, nor was it intended to. The same may be said of the conflict in Iraq.

War clearly has its uses. For some.

luv u,

jp

Surrounded.

Spacemen to the left of me. Spacemen to the right of me. Spacemen above my head. And beneath my soles? Astroturf. That’s right… astroturf.

Welcome back, Big Green-ites, to a world turned upside-down. Well, not upside-down exactly… probably more like 180 degrees clockwise, with a slight southward dip on the “y” axis. Either way, things are not what they used to be. This neighborhood has gone downhill fast. Jeebus christmas – just three weeks after the first spaceship arrived and we’re practically the only people in this village who were born on the planet Earth. (All except Big Zamboola, of course, who was born on… on… well, on himself, because he is, in fact, himself a planet… or planetoid.) Those strange, lawn-obsessed space people have brought their interstellar modular homes to our sleepy little town and set up their own community superimposed over ours. WTF!

You know, it wouldn’t be so bad to have all of these new neighbors if they had taken up residence the normal way: the way we got here… find an empty house and squat. No, that wasn’t good enough for them. They had to bring their own houses. And before you say anything, no, I don’t have a “problem” with space people. In fact, some of my best friends are from far beyond the confines of our little solar system. Did I mention Big Zamboola? I did. Okay. Well, there’s also sFshzenKlyrn, our perpetual sit-in guitarist. He, of course, is from the planet Zenon in the Small Magellanic Cloud, a galaxy far, far, away. sFshzenKlyrn and I go way back, so you can’t say I don’t like space people, even if they do keep me up all night with their smelly lawn mowers and their noisy stellar infrarometers running incessantly over the same measurements. (Ooooooh, I hate them, I hate them!) Don’t listen to Mr. Subliminal. I love those dang space people, I really do. (RRRRrrrrrr)

Not that there aren’t remedies open to us. Sure, I know – we’ve been squatters here at the Cheney Hammer Mill for more than six years. And yes, we have run afoul of the law one, two, or perhaps a dozen or more times. But we do have some items in the plus column. For instance, Marvin (my personal robot assistant) did serve with distinction in the local constabulary. And we have, in fact, generated a little bit of economic activity in the area with the occasional payout we receive from our new corporate label, Loathsome Prick Records, which has been willing to advance us a bit on our upcoming release (still in the mixing stage – arrrrrghhh). Yeah, we help keep the pizza joint and the pub in business, so that’s probably worth an ordinance or two from city hall about unauthorized extraterrestrial housing and landscaping. (Turns out, it isn’t even real grass. It’s like a freaking lawn toupee, man!) So one would expect a little cooperation from the authorities, eh?

Well, if one were to expect that… one would most certainly be mistaken. When we made our way over to city hall, we couldn’t help but notice the flawless green carpet of newly installed lawn on either side of the walkway. And the mayor has a strange unearthly glow about him. Don’t know about you, but I think the fix is in.

Nutsville.

It’s one thing to try and scope out why someone would want to gun down dozens of people in cold blood; it’s quite another to consider how so clearly disturbed an individual could get his twitchy hands on such deadly weapons in the first place. The first problem is one experts, talking heads, journalists, psychologists, etc., will be grappling with on television and in print for years to come. The second is a bit simpler: mail order, gun shops, and Wal*Mart. Obviously if you haven’t yet killed anyone or committed a serious crime but are, in fact, dead set on annihilating a whole building full of people, it’s not so hard to procure military-grade weapons designed to mow down as many folks as possible in the least amount of time. And you can even buy your ammo within easy walking distance of campus in Virginia and elsewhere in our bullet-headed nation.

Sure, we have a culture of violence. It’s not something primarily driven by media consumption – it’s more a matter of policy. But our solutions many times deal with the more superficial aspect of violence. Pretty much all of the major broadcast news outlets have pulled the self-made video of the shooter Cho’s lunatic paranoid rantings; I can’t say that I disagree with that decision. But one piece of video I think they should broadcast again and again is the one documenting his firearm purchase – I suggest a super that reads, “See how easy this is.” And while I’m offering suggestions, how about a cable channel that shows how over-the-top these legally obtainable weapons are. Remember – these are offensive weapons. They’re easy to fire, easy to reload, and carry high-capacity ammunition clips that hold 33 rounds. Not exactly what I’d call a reasonable means of self-defense. The gun dealer in Roanoke said he was a good mannered, “clean-cut” college kid. I suppose we should be grateful the guy doesn’t sell rocket-propelled grenades or TOW missile launchers.

This is indeed a time to grieve. A lot of shooting going on – here in my hometown, another cop was shot (young guy doing a traffic stop). My feeling, though, is that the thing that is killing all these folks will once again go unaddressed, particularly since our political culture is so cowardly on this topic. I’ve heard some tepid discussion thus far of re-regulating assault weapons, but it seems like you can only hear that kind of talk when it’s balanced out by some right-wing nut job who wants to arm ALL students so that they can shoot back. (I’m not making this up. Hey dumbshit – Cho was an armed student.) And while boneheads on CNN and Fox debate the merits of facilitating schoolhouse shootouts, over in Iraq incidents like Virginia Tech happen on a daily basis. It’s hard to imagine how soul-crushing that must be.

So while Dubya offers his words of consolation, just remember – what he’s set in motion overseas is Cho times 20,000. Welcome to nutsville.

luv u,

jp

Facedown.

Whoa – that didn’t take long. Is it Saturday already? Guess those orgone energy waves have an affect on your sense of time. As Dylan once sang, now things just keep getting uglier, and I have no sense of tiiiiiime…..

Well, now, those gall-dang other-worlders who came here to steal our land, take our jobs (they took our jobs!) and plant genuine Kentucky bluegrass turf all over our courtyard just couldn’t take the heat from Trevor James Constable’s orgone generating machine. What happened? Well, I’m gon’ tell yuh. That unearthly contraption started shakin’ and shakin’. Then it began to hop around like a Mexican jumping bean. I could hear little yips emanating from inside, and I could swear I saw someone waving a small, sucker-ended middle finger at me from one of the portholes (it may have been an optical illusion – no one else saw it but me, I guess….). Well, now, the hops got higher and higher, and at one point it just hopped clear out of sight. Damnedest thing. The way that fucker was pummeling that courtyard you’d think even god’d be a-feared of it.

Next thing I knew, something hit me square on the back of the head. Youch! Everything went black (actually, it was kind of a midnight blue, really, with orange and yellow sparkles – very nice). Not sure how long I was out, but when I came to, I had a headache and something Mitch Macaphee calls “frontier accent syndrome” – a dreaded disorder that people in the mad scientist community have been grappling with for nigh onto a hundred ‘yar. Dag nabbed syndrome makes yuh talk like a gall dorn character actor at least every other sentence that festers outa’ yer gob. (I have a particularly strange variant that appears to incorporate some elements of archaic British slang… most curious… dash it all….) Mitch and others tell me that I was struck by the hull of the bouncing ship driven by our turf-obsessed space invaders – apparently the fucker busted through the roof and into my private study… and dang near knocked my fool head off. (Haw…)

Let me tell you, friends – it was pandemonium around here for a stretch of minutes, right up until that highly agitated space vehicle bounced off the property entirely. Someone called upon Trevor James to pull the plug on his orgone generator before it burned a hole in the courtyard and cracked through the arches below into the drainage system of this quiet little upstate village. (Quiet though it may be, there is a lot of sewage that runs through this place – just ask the DEC… if you can catch them not hunting…) Though my head was, well, a bit more dented than before (dag nab it!), our little experiment appeared to be a success. But as you know… appearances can be deceiving. Within the next couple of days, similar mysterious space ships had appeared in the courtyards of many of our neighbors. Lawns were soon sprouting up all around us…. green, carpet-like landscaping. It was terrifying!

And me, well….. my frontier accent syndrome has calmed down a bit. But that extra dent in my skull seems to have affected my balance, so I’m typing this column face down on my bedroom floor. Yes, I type that well in the prone position… especially with Marvin (my personal robot assistant) at the keys. (Handy little critter.)

Whose side?

Explosion in the “Green Zone” this week, and a good number of the news accounts I’ve read have referred to the relative calm of the last few weeks in Baghdad. This is another one of those “flare ups” they’ve been referring to over the last four years; or worse, an attempt to keep the Iraqi Parliament from negotiating through key issues, such as the petroleum law. It bears pointing out that these are issues key to us, not them, and that if these people represented the vast majority of Iraqis, they wouldn’t be substantially made up of recently arrived exiles and wouldn’t have to meet in a fortified pillbox. Be that as it may, the finger of blame on this attack points inevitably to the “friendly” Iraqis. I heard one pundit opine (when she managed to tear herself away from talking about Don Imus) that this was an “inside job”. What that means I’m not certain (they only discussed Iraq for about 30 seconds), but as I’ve said before in these pages, when this Iraq policy is finally over, its failure will be the Iraqis fault… so much so that you will think they had invaded us.

From the beginning the onus has been placed on them. They were a rogue state menacing their neighbors. They were an existential threat to the United States. And yet, what the hell kind of way is this to defeat an existential threat? The last time one could claim our nation was engaged in a war with an enemy who could possibly destroy us was World War II. That brought about a national mobilization – young men were drafted by the million, many others volunteered for or were pressed into stateside service, legions were employed in war related industries, and people were taxed and had their consumption of essential goods regulated accordingly. If we are, indeed, fighting for our lives right now, why are so few of us actually involved in the fighting? Why aren’t we all being asked to sacrifice something for the salvation of America, just as the “greatest generation” was asked to do by their elders (the, I don’t know, “not-so-greatest generation”)?

Give up? Well, I’m gon’ tell yuh. It’s because we aren’t fighting for our lives. Not really. Sure there’s danger – there was danger during the cold war, too – but that danger is being aggravated by the war in Iraq, not reduced by it. There is no clear existential threat to the U.S. posed by the Iraqi insurgency, and that’s why our government feels it has the luxury to play only the safest political cards and avoid all the dicey ones. Draft? No need – we’ve got an all-volunteer force we can deploy again and again (and again…). Taxes? We’ll cut those and just borrow the billions we burn in Iraq – free money, folks! Vote for me!! Rationing? That’s just plain unAmerican and unnecessary… unless you’re (wait for it) under attack, which we plainly are not. We’re not fighting the Nazis across a 1,000 mile front. We’re not withering under the Luftwaffe’s nightly terror bombings. We’re fighting a war of choice, with the objective of securing a pro-western government in Baghdad and opening the Iraqi economy to the kind of extreme neoliberal exploitation that must surely inhabit Paul Wolfowitz’s piratical dreams.

Why can’t we trust Iraqis? Because they can’t trust us. This they know from experience.

God bless you, Mr. Rosewater. Just a word for Kurt Vonnegut, who passed away this week. Great thinker, great writer, great humanist. This old interview on Fresh Air gives you some idea why.

luv u,

jp

This land ain’t yer land!

Got a bead on it yet, Trevor James? Try 16 degrees azimuth something-the-fuck… you know what I’m trying to say. Ready? Steady…. Fire rockets! No rockets? Well, then, let’s just settle for etheric energy waves.

Hello again. Yes, who would’ve thought it would come to this? Big Green fighting for the very ground we stand on. (We’re standing our ground!) That’s right – Big Green, the pacifist band; least rowdy motherfuckers on this rowdy motherfucking street we call music. Us… fighting over a broken down mill that isn’t even ours. Oh, the shame of it all. (Somebody hand me a bar rag – there’s a good chap.) But you know what they say – possession is nine-tenths of the law. (That’s why exorcists do such a cracking good business ’round these parts.) What’s that? No, we don’t count the Cheney Hammer Mill amongst our possessions, strictly speaking, in as much as we don’t “own” it. (Like that guy said on Kung Fu – “You can smell hell, but you don’t own it.”) However, you’re forgetting that remaining tenth of the law that isn’t possession: murder. (Or, as they say in Brooklyn, moy-duh.)

Well… not moy-duh, er, murder, exactly. Repulsion is more the word. Let me back up a bit. As you may recall (by simply scrolling down a little further on this page), some strange other-worldly aliens landed in our courtyard last week. We began to get the distinct impression that they were planning to stay a while when they somehow generated a rich carpet of suburban lawn in the area immediately surrounding their vessel. Now, we’re not fond of grass, okay? Marvin (my personal robot assistant) particularly loathes the stuff, and he’s not alone. (I think it’s the sound of lawnmowers and sprinklers – reminds him of the primordial shop floor from which his ancestors emerged, their brass knuckles scraping the cobblestones as they slouched toward the homes of their new owners. Just a guess.) I’ll tell you, these fuckers must be from a whole planet of lawn freaks – they never stop working on that thing.

Funny thing is, we haven’t actually seen the space people. I mean, they fire up their robo mowers, roll out their crawling sprinklers, occasionally call in the Chem Lawn guys to putrefy the neighborhood with their toxins… but they never actually come out of that ship. Even so, it was clear that they had to go before our entire squat house was converted to suburban domestic sprawl – a nightmare in ubiquitous green. Matt, resourceful fellow that he is, thought to ask Trevor James Constable to train his patented orgone generating device on their craft. Matt’s theory (totally unencumbered by scientific validity) was that the etheric energy would excite the atoms of the unearthly metal in their hull, generating an uncomfortable temperature within. (Hot? Cold? Not sure about that part….) That was good enough for Trevor James (or T.J., as I call him) – he duly positioned the array and flipped the “on” switch.

What happened then? Well…. not much. At least, not yet. We’re patient over here at the Cheney Hammer Mill. What the hell – it might have taken them decades to make the trip from their home planet, for all we know. This could take time. Hey, T.J. – can’t you crank that thing up a bit? Mister Chem-Lawn’s coming up the street again…

Success without the suck.

Perennial presidential candidate John McCain made his way to a Baghdad market this week, surrounded by a phalanx of U.S. soldiers, security guards, and kevlar body armor, then returned to the nearby Green Zone (i.e. crusader castle) alive. God be praised! What are we to make of this great triumph? That the incalculable suffering of the past four years has somehow been worth it now that McCain and some other bonehead politicians can go shopping in downtown Baghdad under heavy guard? Not sure, but I think they could have done that more easily before they started this stupid war. (One can only hope they’re not planning any shopping trips to Tehran in the near future.) It’s obvious that McCain is playing to the idiot Republican base – those folks that would support Bush if he knifed their grandchildren in front of them. And the administration, desperate for any sign of success in Iraq, is more than glad to glom onto the senator’s grandstanding.

Watching all this, you have to think that our leaders take us for abject morons. They assume that we remember none of the wild flourishes of rhetoric with which they regaled us four years, four months, or even four days ago. When we invaded Iraq, it was to advance a bold agenda of remaking the middle east, so we were told. Now the objective is holding Haifa street long enough for a senator to go sight-seeing. When the Mahdi army and the Sunni guerillas make the strategic decision to allow our troops to operate relatively unmolested in central Baghdad, we act as though we’d just defeated Pompey’s legions. For chrissake – surge or no surge, we’re only able to move an inch in that city because its inhabitants have chosen to tolerate our presence for the time being, probably in the hope that this will make us leave sooner. It’s not our city, nor will it ever be, and as a saner Republican senator recently observed, Iraq just doesn’t belong to us. Probably best to remember that as we ponder what to do next.

Perhaps there’s an opportunity for the anti-war movement in all of this happy talk. What the hell – if it’s going so well over there, why don’t we leave? Let’s call their bluff. Baghdad is safe? Fine! Everybody go home. That’s what a majority of Americans and a supermajority of Iraqis want, right? There’s one way to make everybody happy. Of course, that would bring us down to the core issue of this whole bloody enterprise – our government doesn’t want to leave Iraq. They didn’t go through all the trouble of contriving and sustaining this invasion just to be pushed out a measly four years later. For all intents and purposes, America is in Iraq to stay, which means we won’t leave until there is simply no other alternative. I happen to believe only Americans can bring and end to this, but so long as we as a nation behave as though the war doesn’t exist, it will go on and on and on.

That’s what the administration calls success. And friends… it sucks.

luv u,

jp

Minor invasion.

What the….? Marvin (my personal robot assistant), is that you? No, wait… you’re over there. Well then, what the fuck is causing that glow if not your power-on indicator? Why it’s… well… unearthly.

This started to be just another week here at the Cheney Hammer Mill. Giving rudimentary philosophy lessons to the man-sized tuber. Producing anvil-shaped holograms with Trevor James Constable’s orgone generating machine. Playing Stratego with Lincoln and his evil anti-matter counterpart, anti-Lincoln. Mixing (at a snail’s pace) our sophomore album. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then, out of nowhere, an unanticipated wrinkle in our otherwise smooth existence. It happened early yesterday morning, in fact. Matt heard it first – something that sounded like a laundromat dryer winding down. The power went out… and there was this… strange…. glow….. emanating…. from…. the… courtyard……

(*whew*) Are you sitting down? Okay, good. Clearly, someone needed to see what was up outside. And just as clearly, that wasn’t going to be me. Or Matt. Now John, maybe, but he was otherwise occupied, so really… not him either. My vote was for Marvin to do the recon, which of course he more or less willingly acceded to, being a soulless machine with no overriding inclination towards self-preservation. Yes, he did need a brisk push out the door, but I attribute that to my laziness about oiling his foot-casters. (The yodeling and frantic arm waving might have been the result of some kind of computer error – I’m having Mitch Macaphee look into that now.) In any case, the intrepid Marvin cantered out into the cobbled courtyard, while we watched on his chest-mounted Web cam. (The view was momentarily obscured by one of his robotic fingers… I think it was the middle one… but pretty soon we had a look at what was happening.)

What did we see? Well…. I’d have to say it looks a bit like a large football. An enormous, glowing football, with windows on the upper flank. Stranger still was the racket it was emitting – sounded like a lawn mower more than anything. We tried to get Marvin to circle around, but there appeared to be something wrong with his audio receiver – he turned on his heel and sprung through one of the mill’s cellar windows. (Definitely a software glitch – gotta be a patch available online somewhere….) Well, it took about an hour and a half to convince him, but we eventually got Big Zamboola to float himself up above the mill and get some pictures. And what we saw… astounded us. (Well… me, anyway. I admit, I’m easily astounded.)

Okay, so let me tell you what those fuckers in the football are up to. They rolled out some turf onto our courtyard, set up a little fence, built a swing-set, and now one of those freaks is mowing the lawn…. in our squat yard! Bad enough we have to fight the locals to live here for free – now people are horning in from other planets. What’s this world coming to?

Off the table.

Things heated up this week in our serial overseas conflicts, to be sure. As of this writing, Iran is still holding some British soldiers, and there appear to be some flourishes of diplomatic activity in and amongst the public posturing. Though Bush and friends (including the ever-reliable Joe Lieberman, peace be upon him) engaged in some highly qualified pre-gloating over the “progress” being seen in Iraq as a result of the “surge”, people are still dying by the score over there. As Juan Cole points out, figures from the Iraqi government on February casualties ran somewhere around 61 deaths per day – that’s just slightly fewer than in January. Progress, Lieberman style! (What have you got for the health care crisis, Joe?) It makes you wonder if any U.S. politician really has any idea what a statistic like 60 deaths a day means in human terms.

As a consequence of this cock-brained optimism, the U.S. is alienating the few corruptible friends it has in the Arab world. One by one, Gulf states are making it known that they won’t play any role in an invasion of Iran. Even Saudi Arabia – second only to Texas in the Bush family’s desiccated heart – took the opportunity of this week’s Arab summit to call the American occupation of Iraq “Illegitimate.” Mildly put, but accurate, at least, and that was not the Saudi king’s only criticism of U.S. policy in the region. There were also a few words about that other occupation… the one that turns 40 this year. Abdullah reintroduced the Saudi plan for an Israeli-Palestinian settlement, based upon Israel’s withdrawal to its 1967 borders. Basically the same formula that’s been on the table since, well, 1967, and the basis of a longstanding international consensus on the question from which only the U.S. and Israel have consistently dissented. Bush must have seen this as a bit of a poke in the eye, particularly now that he’s staggering around, punch drunk.

Not to worry – the mainstream media, including the wildly left-radical (note: irony) NPR, have identified this solution as a non-starter, nothing new, off the table. Sure it is – because it’s the only plan that has a prayer of working. Still, it helped make for kind of a bad week for Dubya… not that he knows what a bad week really looks like. That takes being on the receiving end of his foreign policy, or being one of the poor sods tasked with carrying it out. Like most of us, Bush is pretty far removed from the experience of a National Guard member or reservist sent back on his/her third or fourth tour of duty; soldiers who’ve been wounded in Iraq, then denied proper care back home, discharged for “personality disorders” when they’ve obviously got PTSD and even serious physical injuries, some even having to pay back part of their signing bonus. Now, that’s a bad week.

All I can tell you young folks out there is – no matter how much they promise you, how bad the job market looks, how sorry your money situation is – listen to what Marvin tells you. Don’t. Sign. Up.

luv u,

jp

Mister nobody.

Listen carefully, tubey. These deer are very small. These deer… are far away. These, very small. These… far away! Get the idea? No? Hoo, boy. Let’s start again…

Ah, it is you, my friend. Welcome to the Cheney Hammer Mill one-room school house, here in the hinterlands (or, more properly speaking, the hinder-lands, since you can do nothing here). Just trying, in my own sorry way, to give the denser among us some semblance of an education. Why? Simple… they’re simple. And they live with creatures of quite enormous intellect. I refer not to myself, of course, nor to brother Matt or Johnny White – we’re all thick as posts compared to Big Green‘s scientific contingent. You know who I mean… your Mitch Macaphees, your Trevor James Constables… your doctors Hump. The brain guys. Stubborn as hell, they may be. One is mean as a snake (Mitch). But intellectually, they outpace us by leagues.

So here I am, trying to explain complex spatial relationships to an overgrown sweet potato. (I can hardly wait to show him two-point perspective!) Like most potatoes, the man-sized tuber has eyes, but he cannot see the difference between a porcelain miniature and an 800-pound buck. That will likely be a problem for him as he moves through the world of men. Sadly, there are other dead spots in his noggin, as well. The whole math thing is a big mystery to tubey. He can count the hairs on his tap-root up to the lower double digits, but that’s about his limit. And even with the full support of Marvin (my personal robot assistant) as a teacher’s aide, I can’t get him to recall the six major continents by name. (He calls Australia “Big Zamboola”. I mean, that’s like calling the Chrysler Building “Fred McMurray”.)

Is there anything more depressing than a cruciferous vegetable that will not learn? Of course there is. But that’s not the point here. Think of all that the man-sized tuber is missing as a result of his ignorance. Think of the ridicule and degradation he must endure from his more learned colleagues. And anti-Lincoln – what about him? He’s as dense as the rest of us. Where the hell is he going in this hyper-competitive world of ours? When society demands success, all he can offer is failure. Like the tuber, he’ll be a nothing, a nobody. (Arrogant as he is, of course, he will insist on Mister Nobody.) Hell, don’t even get me started on Big Zamboola. He isn’t even allowed on public buses, let alone elevators. (Though he can defy gravity, so that’s not as much of an issue…)

Back to the books. Damnit, Marvin – what did you do with my third grade primer? Holding up a hot plate? But it’s flammable, you imbecile! That’s it – take that open seat in the third row. Christ on a bike – we’re moving backwards.