Oh, Them Poor White Farmers in Zimbabwe

The bogger goes on the record. The stance of Free World – i.e., the World of Two-Party Democracy in which Mrs. Teasdale chooses the candidates of both parties – concerning Zimbabwe is instructive and illuminating. Cheque it out:

What Really Pisses Us Off

1. We’re awful offended that the Remarkably Productive and Utterly Civilized and Beneficent Giant-Farm Farmers of Zimbabwe (né Rhodesia, named for the Great Benefactor of Unwhite People for No Selfish Motive Whatever) are being deprived of their hard-earned sweat, or somebody’s sweat, and investment, or somebody’s investment, and county-sized landed estates, or somebody’s land. So we want to force Zimbabwe’s President to grovel and restore the Status Ante-Independence.

2. Two million people have died in the Congo is the past few years, and God knows how many millions during the 35-year rule of Leader for Just Short of Life Mobutu, hand-picked for the job by Mrs. Teasdale and Leopold II, King of the Belgians. The West’s response to the predicament of this huge nation in the middle of Africa, victim of the worst and most genocidal colonial rule of all (1885 to 1960, after which the method was modified to “neo”-colonial – nothing neo about it at all, actually), whose people are dislocated, dispossessed, and starving when not being gunned down: We do not mince our words: we yawn.

3. Hundreds of thousands dead and millions dispossessed in Sudan, and that’s only in Darfur (i.e., we’re not even thinking of the 20-year war for freedom waged on behalf of the suffering people of southern Sudan under the leadership of the sainted John Garang): By God, we’ve wrung and wrung our hands, and by God we’ll wring them some more.

4. Further really outraged hand-wringing over genocide and plain old mass murder in Sierra Leone, Ivory Coast, and Liberia. Damn, that’s ugly, we say. And don’t ask about Biafra: that was a lifetime ago. A whole shitload of lifetimes.

5. Shall we even mention the West’s unflagging support for the colonial masters against freedom-fighters in Angola, Mozambique, Namibia (né Southwest Africa of Boer mandate)?

6. Shall we even mention the West’s unflagging uninterest in mass destruction and genocide in Rwanda, Burundi, Somalia, Ogaden, Ethiopia, Eritrea, Central African Republic, and so on? Well, out of sight, out of mind.

Now: what do the suffering people in Nos. 2 through 6 have in common that the people of No. 1 on whose behalf we’re so currently outraged do not? Why, is it possibly skin color? Not us, surely not us.

A Few Q’s (Supply Your Own A’s)

1. This bogger keeps reading that, because of the policies of Zimbabwe’s Leader for Life-Plus, Robber G. . Mugabe, Zimbabwe has gone from one of the strongest economies in Africa to one of the weakest, that a country that exported food now must import it, that southern Africa’s breadbasket is now its basket case.

Queue – Do y’all really think that the great white-owned farms of Zimbabwe were producing grain so that Africans at home could have full bellies? I’d like to see statistics proving that white-ownership of 70 per cent of the land (that percentage was reserved for them by colonial law throughout the 20th Century, even after independence) was for the purpose of feeding African Zimbabweans and that the white farmers exported their grain and meat only after every Zimbabwean was nourished.

Queue – Do y’all really think that white farmers were so well to do in Zimbabwe because of the expenditure of their own sweat and “inputs” of their own wherewithal?

2. This bogger also keeps reading that this situation must be fixed, and that other African countries must step in and fix it. Why is it their responsibility? Well, the color of their skin is largely the same. America used to expect that colored community leaders should keep the other colored folks in line.

Queue – Why don’t the Blairs and Browns and Cheneys of the Anglo-American Empire read some history? Why shouldn’t the people who caused the problem be the ones to solve it? – viz., the Latter-Day Gangsters of the Cecil Rhodes Hegemony.

Queue – The African National Congress was formed in 1897 and fought against the Boers and the whole white world’s support for them for a century just to gain minimal political rights in their own country, and they still fight for a fair share in the economy. Now the A.N.C. should ride to the rescue of the poor white farmers of Zimbabwe?

A Piece of the Solution

There are two problems, the economic one and the political one.

1. I propose that all white farmers inside the borders of Zimbabwe be allowed to stay and farm the thousands of acres they have enjoyed calling their own for all or most of the 20th Century, exporting everything for their own profit, so long as they can prove both of the following:

First, that the land was obtained through payment of a fair price directly to Africans and not by payment of a fee, if any, to Cecil Rhodes’s company or to the British colonial government, and

Second, that they developed their tens of thousands of acres per farm through the sweat of laborers who were paid a fair wage and worked under fair and humane conditions, and secondarily were not forced into virtual slave labor by government taxes that could be paid only through low wages from forced employment on white farms.

This also applies to the ones who fled or were forced out: they can come back and take up where they left off if they can pass the tests above.

2. What to do about Robber G. Mugabe? Well, not much. It’s a shame that a century of theft and oppression by white farmers has been replaced by the rule of a corrupt and selfish dictator apparently in his dotage. But Africans around the continent, many of whom think little these days of Mugabe, still note that his economic policies are dispossessing Unafricans of land that they had stolen from Africans and then developed through a modern, advanced system of slave labor.

Mugabe’s become an octogenarian counterpart to America’s venal Real President, older but equally as selfish as that American shame and his (its?) supporters and peers, oil barons and financiers and polluters who toil not, neither do they spin, yet all things are added unto them, in the Freedonians United in Can-do and Know-how Party and the Radical Imperialists Party. But there’s one major difference, among other lesser ones: Mugabe was a brave man, a hero, one who fought for the freedom and advancement of his people, and succeeded against not only the armed cruelty of Ian Smith’s Agrarian Plutocrats and Slavemasters but in fact against the might of the Anglo-Saxon world.

Advice From the Bogger

Don’t comment on Mugabe and his Land Reform until you read the history of white colonization of southern Africa. Know your Boers: that’s what the white Rhodesians were even if mainly Anglo-Saxon. If you want to say Mugabe is a Brave Freedom-Fighter turned Asshole, a Washington become Cheney, I won’t dispute your statement.

Why We Fight III: Our Negotiating Positions

Continuation of Politik by Other Means*

S T O P

If you’re a Congressperson or a news medium, you must stop reading and close this bog immediately. If you fail to heed this fair warning, the Gugol boys and Yahoo!!!!!!!! will tell Beloved Braveheart on you.

The Order Goes Out

Soon after the Bushmen took office, there was a brief meeting of the Triumvirate to consider how to go about waging aggressive war against Sylvania. This is a transcript, reconstructed from this bogger’s notes kept for The Real President in his office on the ground in real time and extracted from his Awful Secret files, by permission( please note), much later yet still in real time:

The Beloved Real President – Shut the *uck up and listen to me, God damn it. I want you sh*tas*es to tell me immediately how we can get Freedonian fu**in boots on the ground and up Sylvania’s ass without delay.

Call Rover Shifty-Eyed Goddam Liar – We already have a plan to do just that. I call your attention to the memorandum of January 25, 2001, from the M.I.S.S.A.S.S. to the Beloved [See Why We Fight II: An Ax of Evil– bogmeister]: I think it’s time for an ultimatum. We give Antichrist Evil Evil Incarnate Gases His Own People and Occasionally Other People's People, Too two choices: (1) to be overrun by our brave troops or (2) to get stomped by our boys and girls. Either way, we get boots into the quagmire.

Beloved – How to fuck*n do it?

S.H.F. – Send an emissary, someone who is a skilled negotiator and master of nuance and camouflaged compromise, and a man (no woman need apply) who is open to all points of view and interpretations, and who listens and considers all without any rush to judgment.

Liar – Horstwessel Wolfshits?

Me – Precisely.

Beloved. Fu*kin do it. Send the s*i*as*. I’ll have that f*c*in Bushbush sign the God-damned order now.

Liar – He can’t sign his name. Or make a mark, either.

Beloved – Christ. Write the Goddam order. I’ll sign his fuck*n to it.

Then . . .

The Wolfman Goeth

The following is the transcript of the negotiations between Wolfshits and Antichrist Evil Evil Incarnate Gases His Own People and Occasionally Other People's People, Too, the Dictator and Murderer of Sylvania.

Wolfshits: You keep saying you've got oil for us, and you’ll kick Eye Ranie’s ass.

We pay you to destroy Eye Ran, but you’re the folks dismissed.

You send your oil to China, and your people get the gas.

You sometimes do talk ugly, and we’re really getting pissed.

These boots are on the ground, and you are whom they’re gonna pound:

These boots are gonna grind your ass right down into the ground.

You keep balkin when you fuggers really ought to genuflect.

You keep insisting that you will fight all the battles’ very moms.

You don’t give us unlimited respect, something that we expect:

Now we will shock and awe you with a shitload of smart bombs

These boots are on our footsies, and will soon be on the ground.

These boots are gonna stomp your toes, smart bomb your cities down.

You keep playin as if you were the gov’nors of your land.

What we want you to do is whatever we decide.

We say that you’ve got axes of the awfulest evil known, and

The final word on your poor country’s gonna be “It died.”

These boots are on the ground, and you ain’t left with a hope.

The boots are on our footsies, and your neck is in a rope.

Are you ready, Boots on the Ground? OK, start stompin.

D.M.S.: Oh, oh, yeah-ah!

Who do you think you are?

Mr. Brave Hawk,
Who do you think you are?

Mr. Big Stiff
You're never gonna get my oil.

Now, because you have those
fancy bombs (Oh, oh, yeah-ah)

)
And have a big, fine humvee, oh yes you do now,
Do you think I can afford to give
you my oil? (Oh, oh, yeah-ah)
You think your turds don’t stink,

but I think they surely do.

Mr. Big Sneer
Who do you think you are?
Mr. Big Dick
You're never gonna get my [you know what].

. . . Or my land.

Wolfshits: We don’t want to fight**, but by jingo if we do,

We’ve got the men and money, and we’ve got the smart bombs, too.

. . . So: watch it. Bravehawk’s hungry for the blood of other people’s children.

*Not really a fn., so pay no attention.

** What kinda fool – tell me what kinda fool – what kinda fool believes this?

Why We Fight I: The Bravehawk Imperative

The Bravehawk Imperative

After deciding that Freedonian Leader H.E. Rufus T. Firefly must go, Mrs. Teasdale turned to the one man who she thought had the drive to, once and for all, utterly destroy the nonexistent Sylvania Alliance: the Beloved Student Deferment Bravehawk. He accepted the appointment on the condition that he be allowed to search for, find, and put into office someone else who would speak nothing except what had been approved by the Beloved and would think nothing at all, in fact be incapable of thought. Mrs. Teasdale agreed.

After the Beloved outlined his program to pretend there was such a thing as the Sylvania Alliance and to raise bloody hell in every corner of nthe world, Mrs. Teasdale invited Doctrix Candalabreeza Cruella de Vile, Professor of Anatomy and Silly Walks at Huxley College, where she studied under the fabled Prof. Wagstaff, to submit her ideas for the implementation of the Bravehawk Plan directly to the Beloved himself.

S T O P

If you’re a Congressperson or a news medium, you must stop reading and close this bog immediately. If you fail to heed this fair warning, the Gugol boys and Yahoo!!!!!!!! will tell Beloved Bravehawk on you.

TO: The Beloved S.D. Bravehawk, Nascent Real President and Chief 5-Percenter for Hallitosis Gummint Contracts

FROM: Candalabreeza Cruella de Vile (Dr.), Would-Be Advisrette to Anyone Who Might Pretend to Listen

SUBJECT: It’s Not Always Academic

DATE: Sept. 10, 1999

Revered Hon. Beloved Sir:

At Mrs. G. Teasdale’s suggestion, I am submitting these views to you in response to your request to her to find someone who “has some good ideas on how we can either tell the whole world to go fuck itself or in fact ourselves totally fuck up them that don’t go fuck themselves.” I believe I have some good ideas, which involve two approaches: (1) to make the minimum number of decisions and actions that will cause the maximum number of governments and peoples to hate us, and (2) to change every regime possible including those – especially those, in fact – that might support us.

I think the most promising area of the world for a start is the Middle East, because there is already a vast potential for us to make people hate us – i.e., it will take very little action to turn not only nearly everyone in that region against us but hundreds of millions, maybe billions, of people elsewhere. No place else could we get as much buck for our bang.

What we have to do is invade somebody. If we go after a Muslim country, there’s a good chance we could make enemies of all Muslims everywhere, even inside our own country. Now anybody might do: Algeria, Mauritania, Somalia, Indonesia, Pakistan, Malaysia. Well, maybe Spinach Sahara wouldn’t do. But I think we would be most successful if we chose a country right in the thick of the Muslim world. Saudi Arabia is obviously not a good target, nor any of the Gulf states, since Hallitosis has important assets there. But we could take on the Eye Wrackies, the Assyrians, or the Jordanaires, and no one except the Muslim world and everybody else would even notice. The exceptions would be your fellow Freedonians, who would either not notice or be gratified that we were kicking the turd out of people with extremely limited ability to defend themselves, whereas your Base would certainly notice and be proud of you. I speak, of course, of the Retro Radicals and the faith-full membership of the Freedonians United in Can-do and Know-how.

At the same time, my calculations suggest that we could cause regime change in such Western countries as Spain, Italy, and Echolalia.

In summary, we must consistently seek out and discover the moral, fair, legal, intelligent action or policy and then do the opposite. And, above all, we must not talk to anybody, friend or foe, about anything.

For, you see, Beloved Bravehawk, people will never care about what we do, only what we say.

I would very much like to sit down with you, or have your people meet my people, except that I don’t have any people, so we, or somebody, could discuss my ideas in greater detail. Also, what salary would you pay me? Anything like what you make for Hallitosis?

Your More Obedient Than You Can Possibly Imagine Servant,

Candalabreeza Cruella de Vile (Dr.)

Who? What? Bog Readers, and this means you, will want to know who these people are and what they’re talking about. There are two tools of non-pareil importance in following the history of the Bravehawk Conspiracy: “How We Talk,” a Bushmanese lexicon , and “Dramatis Personae,” a Registry of America’s Bushmen: The Harmful People . Czech ‘em out.

Where Did He Get These Guys? – Xxqxcxqx I

A Bushman Cometh: Plorogue

The following is an account written by this very bogger from diaries he kept in real time on the ground, if you will, during his service in Freedonia’s cabal-in-waiting, The Triumvirate, as junior member to Beloved Bravehawk and, hold your nose, Call Rover Shifty-Eyed Goddam Liar.

The bottle skydived gracefully, occasionally turning slightly as it forced its way down through the ever-increasing density of Earth’s atmosphere. Had it been falling through a vacuum, it would have been falling at the same rate of descent as a horsefeather or a page torn from D.P. Kniksen’s memoirs. However, it wasn’t falling through a vacuum. It was shoving itself through hydrogen, oxygen, methane, and other stuff, all mixed up in a gasful soup. Thanks to gravity the bottle was attracted by the Earth at a much greater rate, and by a more direct route, than any feather or A5-size sheet of paper, compared to which the bottle was an express rather than local train.

It hit the ground with a whumpp, startling the turd out of a short, skinny, pretty much naked ned with a disproportionately big ass who was jogging nearby.

Having recovered from the turd’s being startled out of, the ned circled the bottle, seeking the most auspicious direction from which to approach it. He kept expecting the bottle to spin so as to continue to point at him (despite his having never seen a bottle before, he was acquainted with Charlie Chaplin’s The Great Dictator). This was not the first time he had seen things fall from the air. Leaves and rain and hail and dust, for example. And he had been personally acquainted with a chicken whose noggin was bonked by a falling acorn. (A similar accident later happened to Freedonia’s Minister for Waging War, Übermensch Rumsfool.)

He squatted beside the bottle and examined it, afraid to touch. It appeared to have certain of the crystalline properties of hail, at least parts of it, because its color was something like very dirty water (he never seen any other kind) so he waited for it to melt. But it didn’t. Then he tapped it. It was harder than any rock he had ever touched, and smooth. It had what seemed to him a curious shape, since it seemed to be governed by a Straight Line God, sideways and up and down, except for a cylinderish section at the top, its glans, whose form and shape were something like his forearm only shorter and narrower and of a different color and texture and kinda pleated. It had a picture on it of a ned wearing a curious animal on his head and fur or something on his face, under his nose. The picture was a far better likeness of a human visage than any that he or his friends or antecedents had ever finger-painted onto boulder or cliff wall.

Once he had determined that, in its present condition, it was unlikely to hurt him, he picked it up and judged its weight by flipping it from hand to hand. It had a little round thing on the top, whose diameter was about the same as the length of the last segment of his thumb and appeared remarkably like the caps that he had seen atop the heads of bearded men wearing long white robes, although it was black and the things those men wore were white and much larger, big enough in fact to ride on a head. The little round thing seemed to be sitting on top of the bottle, so he tried to pull it off, but it wouldn’t come. It did, however, twist a bit, so he played with it and found that if he twisted it this way rather than that it would come right off. He sniffed at it, and the smell smote him like the jawbone of a you know what, and he fell right over backward, dropping the bottle but retaining the cap in his hand.

He took the bottle to his village, where he and his family discovered it had dozens of uses, amusing and instructive, and it quickly became the Best Thing of everyone around. Other naked little neds came from miles around to see it, smell it, test it, and try to steal it or borrow it or play with it under supervision.

You could fill it with water, if you could find any, and carry it for miles and then have the water there in your hand to drink or cook with, or even splash on someone, just for fun. You could take it to bed with you at night in your grass wickiup, piss in it to save going outside (although, in fact, there wasn’t a whole lot of distinction between inside and outside), and then go pour it onto the ground or on someone’s head, just for fun, the next morning. For pissing, it was just the right size to put the head of your item into, but Xxqxcxqx’s wife found it very difficult to use and in the end had to p. in a coconut shell and then pour the resulting tinkle into the bottle, which seemed to them both, as well as their neighbors when they told about it, a goddam shameful waste of time and effort. It was just as easy, or easier, to go outside and piss on a sleeping neighbor.

More: You could pound stuff with it, grain, for example, or seeds, or dandelion fluffs, but it was a complete failure as a rolling pin. It lacked the attribute of roundness.

Xxqxcxqx found quite a few things that you could do with the bottle. But the bottle became a source of trouble. If you held it while standing and dropped it, it could make your toes hurt like hell. Or, to cite an additional example, if your item were small in diameter yet disproportionately long (apparently true of many Qicxq males), it might get stuck in the neck of the bottle, and, moreover, unsticking it hurt like hell and and required a community effort.

The bottle’s usefulness came to an end, though, when a visitor, having been told of the bottle’s properties as a portable urinal, stick it up his be-hind and did Number Two in it, on it, and all around it. After that no one would drink from it, smell it, make it whistle, or even p. in it. So Xxqxcxqx decided to throw it off the edge of the Earth.

Xxqxcxqx was on his way to perform this task – the safari to the end of the Earth, which was the southern, i.e., right, bank of the Red River – when our operatives found him, seized him, bagged the bottle he was carrying, stitched him into an orange jumpsuit, and brought him in.

When I received the news of this catch, I fairly flew on wingéd feet to my Triumvirate colleagues to tell them our prayers and beseechings had been answered and unto us had been vouchsafed an In-Charge for Freedonia. Ah: kudos from Mrs. Teasdale in the offing!

Who? What? Bog Readers, and this means you, will want to know who these people are and what they’re talking about. There are two tools of non-pareil importance in following the history of the Bravehawk Conspiracy: “How We Talk,” a Bushmanese lexicon, and “Dramatis Personae,” a Registry of America’s Bushmen: The Harmful People. Czech ‘em out.

How We Talk

I Wanna Talk Bushman

The following are some selections from the Official Government This Is How We Talk Lexicon, Chapter I, “Good vs. Evil,” issued by the Office of the Real President on Jan. 21, 2001. Although the Real President, Beloved Student Deferment Bravehawk, has retained the copyright for his own profit, this bogger is extremely proud to assert his right to be identified as author of this work in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act, 1988. However, notwithstanding this assertion, the bogger (it is I, you know) does not intend in any way to infringe on, deprive, or place limits on the Beloved’s right and ability to make a minimum of $36 million p.a. in connection with sales of copies of this lexicon to the billons of people who need to know what he and other members of his regime are talking about.

This bogger has not made no attempt to boggify the entire lexicon, which is much larger than the Oxford English Dictionary, all of whose definitions have been modified to reflect the New World Order and, anyway, does not contain vocabulary that is peculiar but crucial to the Bushmen, including, for example, remarkable words such as Decider and Newcolor . However, this bog will provide definitions to other words in response to queries from its readers, presuming there are such things, and consider any submissions from people who believe the Bushmen have left something out, which would be a most uncharacteristic oversight by such thorough and careful operatives as the Bushpeople. All contributions will be credited, if the contributor has no shame.

Pay Attention to What We Say, Not What we Do

Abduct – What they do.

Ax of Evil – (1) Ungodly weapon for possible use against us (e.g., r.p.g., AK-47, mortar, pistol, Improvised Unexploding Device such as a rock or club); (2) any weapon for possible use against us that is not store-boughten (e.g., roadside bomb, car-bomb, U-Haul truck bomb, trip-wire).

Capture – What we do (contrast abduct, kidnap).

Civilized World – Var. of International Community, which see.

Collateral Damage – Dead folks, casualties of all kinds, and every tribe of destruction inadvertantly - oops! - caused by The Good – i.e., us. Well, not really by us: our boys and girls followed correct procedures and rules of engagement so no blame attaches to them, us, our friends and allies, and most decidedly not to our Government, led by Real President Student Deferment Bravehawk. And, in any case, if they hadn’t acted so ugly anyway, we wouldn’t even be there dropping smart bombs on them.

Compassionate Conservatives – Obsolete term for a group of serious and really, really, deep thinkers of great judgment who were dedicated utterly to opposing all forms of nation-building and to supporting every kind of nation-destroying. All known to this bog have become Radical Imperialist People, having transferred their core principles to the R.I.P.

Confession – A reasonable response to our interrogation techniques.

Consequences – What happens when fledgling democracies choose leaders of whom we do not approve (e.g., Haiti, Palestine); Cf. Democracy, Spread of.

Cowards – What they are, as evidenced by their sneaking up close to kill civilians instead of doing so from seven miles up or from inside Gladly Killing Vehicles.

Criminal or Other Charges – An unnecessary formality (see Guilty Verdict).

Crusade – The Good, marching as to war. Onward Xian Soldiers!

Decider – The Vice President.

Democracy, Spread of – An exercise in which we expect and require that other countries will exercise total and unfettered freedom (which see) to select leaders of whom we approve.

Detainee – Lifer. var., a suspected militant.

Dissenter – (1) An unpatriot; (2) A settler in Freedonia who has moved there seeking religious or political freedom, archaic.

Eminence Grise – Pretty much every Bushman with the exception of the Nominal Leader.

Evil – Them.

Foreign fighters – Evil, evil incarnate except for Mujahaddin or anyone else fighting Godless Commies on our nickel in Poppiestan during the 1980’s, and except for Freedonians in the R.A.F. fighting Nazis before 12/7/41; or for Freedonians driving ambulances for the Allies in WWI (e.g., Papa Heminghaw), or for anyone else through history if their Goodness is subsequently validated by our entering a war on the side for which these foreign fighters were fighting. However, if they fight for a team of which we do not approve, or later decide to disapprove of, they are evil, evil incarnate. God damn them.

Freedom – The right to choose between two political candidates chosen by Mrs. Teasdale. Unrestricted choice is mere license. Ugh. (2) Also the right to export profits from your labor, industry, and natural resources to Freedonia and / or G-8 friends of ours.

Fundamentalists – (1) Christians dedicated to family values, Crusading, and the immutable, precise, and literal meaning of every Word of the Holy Scriptures, according to the King James Version or a different version, or any other Holy Word or Idea or Imperative that, even though it cannot be found in the Holy Bible, as it now stands, it would be there if today’s Fundamentalists had written the book, so it can (i.e., should) therefore be accepted, followed, and practiced as scriptural; (2) Muslims who want to protect their religion and culture and who hate Freedom and God-ordained Crusading.

Gathering Shitstorm – The events leading up to Freedonia’s unprovoked invasion of Sylvania.

Good – The Bushmen, i.e., us.

Guilty – (1) Suspected; (2) accused.

Guilty Verdict – Unnecessary formality (see also Criminal Charges); syn., arrest.

Gunmen – What they sometimes are, although they’re more often just terrorists.

Habeas Corpus – Unknown to this lexicon.

Hero – A Freedonian casualty in Eye Wrack or Sylvania.

If You Will – Abbreviated form of “I know neither of us understands the locution I’ve just used, but please give me a free pass anyway”; cf. as it were.

Improvised Unexploding Device – A type of Unstore-boughten weapon, an ax of evil, that can be used against us but does not explode. Known by its initials.

In Real Time – (1) At this point in time; (2) At that point in time.

Innocent Life – Dead folks who were not actively fighting against us and whose deaths cannot be directly attributed to or blamed on Our Brave Heroes.

Intelligence Community – No.

International Community – An exclusive but ever-changing club in which Freedonia has the sole vote on the Membership Committee.

Justice – (1) Punishment; (2) revenge - esp. for those under accusation or suspicion.

Kidnap – See abduct.

Lawful Combatant – Any fighter or soldier, whether in mufti or uniform, of whom we approve.

Light at the End of the Tunnel – Absurd Viet Nam-era concept that has taken on the patina of Utter Truth in Eye Wrack as applied to the Good Guys and their war, especially the Splurge.

Militant, Plain Ol’ – Evil, evil.

Militant, Suspected – Corpse. Cf. Taliban, suspected; insurgent, suspected.

Moderate Arabs – Middle Easterners uninterested in killing us just now.

Negotiations – A species of interlocutory exercise in which we make demands and they submit to them.

Neocon – A mythic Combo Beast with the body of an elephant, the head of an ass, a concave tail, the heart of a Chicken Little, the brain of a scarecrow, the instincts and habits of a lamprey, the conscience of a defense contractor, and boots on the ground. No such creature has ever existed, but all of its attributes are to be found in a species of Bravehawk Yea-Sayers known as Radical Imperialist People.

Newcolor – Adjective describing a type of w.m.d.

Obligations – Anything we want them to do or stop doing.

On the Ground – (1) Meaningless punctuation required by law to appear at least once in each sentence; (2) the place just mentioned or about to be mentioned (e.g., troops ~ in Iraq; troops in Iraq ~).

Patriot – A living member of the Freedonian Armed Services or anyone who wears a flag pin or belongs to the downsized organization We Support the Bushmen’s War in Eye Wrack.

Patriot Act – The 28th Amendment to the Constitution, eliminating and replacing all of the previous 27, at the discretion of the Lawyer General.

Sacrifice – What the Bushmen expect and require of you in waging their war.

Soldiers – What our boys and girls are (contrast Gunmen, Terrorists, Militants).

Splurge—Viet Nam-style escalation.

Surge – Human-caused tsunami.

Torquemada – Roll model.

Torture – (1) Q and A; (2) Pastime.

Unlawful Combatant – Anyone in mufti fighting against us or against anyone we like anywhere (contrast lawful combatant).

Unpatriot – (1) Neigh-sayer; (2) cut-and-run Mr. Milquetoast; (3) pure evil on the hoof; (4) Democrat.

Unstore-Boughten Exploding Thing – (1) Exactly; (2) Any ax of evil that can be detonated. The phrase is much praised as one of less than a handful of Bushman terms that actually bear a relationship to what the physical thing or idea they refer to actually is. Known by its acronym, U bet.

Victory – (1) Mythical place; (2) Bushmen’s El Dorado.

Wedding Party – Target.

Dramatis Personae

Antichrist Evil Evil Incarnate Gases His Own People and Occasionally Other People's People, Too – Dictator and Murderer of Eye Wrack and / or Sylvania.

Bravehawk, Student Deferment – the Beloved Real President and Decider; senior member of The Triumvirate.

Count Me In, Tonypony – H.M. First Minister of the United Thingdom of Echolalia and Perfidia, whose regime was changed after he joined Freedonia’s War Team, the Coalition of the Wilful.

Cruella de Vile, Candalabreeza – Ministrette of International Signal Sending and Administrix of Silly Steps,

Dumbya – Fond nickname for the Nominal Leader.

Gobblesnot, Scootiewootie Chipperskipper Good Boy – Equerry, dogsbody, factotum, and bagman to the Beloved.

Great Benefactor of Unwhite People for No Selfish Moltive Whatever – Cecil Rhodes (first syllable rhymes with first syllable of “bestial,” not first three letters of “beast”).

Marionetty, Bushbush – Nom de Politique of Xxqxcxqx of Qicxq, the Nominal Leader of Freedonia, but in fact the Voice Box activated by the Beloved Decider, Bravehawk.

Refuse, You Made Me an Offer I Couldn’t – Self-Selected Dictator of Terrorstan.

Robber G.. Mugabe – God-awful leader who cruelly makes thieves return their stolen goods.

Rumsfool, Übermensch – Minister for Waging War Weakly

S.H.F. – The present bogger; reformed Bushman and junior member of The Triumvirate.

Shifty-Eyed Goddam Liar, Call Rover – Hold your nose, deputy senior member of The Triumvirate.

Wolfshits, Horstwessel – Deputy Minister Waging War Mindlessly in charge of Aggression Against Countries Unable or Unwilling to Defend Themselves and diddler of the help.

Xxqxcxqx of Qicxq – Former name (i.e., né) of the Nominal Leader, Bushbush Marionetty, a.k.a. Dumbya.

Count Me In, the Unfreedonian Bushman

Commentary: Blair’s New World

Let’s say your father is a plumber with very strong wrists and forearms, possibly shoulders, too. So you want to imitate him, and you raise and lower and curl dumb-bells: set after set of reps and more reps. Eventually, you believe you have stronger wrists and forearms, possibly shoulders, too, than Daddy himself, and indeed you manage to tighten more elbow joints in a timed 10-minute period than he had ever done. You’ve replaced him on the Strength of Wrists and So On List, right?

Only temporarily. Because Daddy will now hit the weight room until he can disassemble the entire plumbing system of a duplex in five minutes. You ain’t got a prayer, Blair.

Does this scenario sound unlikely, even silly? No! We have seen a precisely parallel example this week. For several years, Tonypony Count Me In, Prime Minister of the United Thingdom of Echolalia and Perfidia, has been studying (and worshiping) at the feet of the designated spokesned for Student Deferment Bravehawk, a person (more or less) named Dumbya Bushbush. Count Me In has been hoping – hoping – for an opportunity to show off to his political daddy, to demonstrate he had equalled – neigh, surpassed – his master. The sector of Statecraft he chose was Sensitivity.

Count Me In, who was preparing to leave office as part of the original Bravehawk plan of “Regime Change Everywhere,” chose that moment of fair fondwell to demonstrate he had absorbed a deep, deep understanding of Sensitivity by requiring the Queen, Protectrette of the Faith, to grant a knighthood to Salman Rushdie. Take that, Bravehawk! Top that, if you can!

Well, Bravehawk turned to the brightest minds on which, or maybe whom, he could call, all of them lobbyists for the oil and gas industry. This Train Bust immediately came to an agreement that Bravehawk could reclaim his title for Sensitive Statecraft with a stroke masterful in its conception of undiluted Irony: He would make Count Me In . . . get this! . . . Ambassador at Big to the Middle East. ! ! !

Brilliant!

As the lobbyist for one Oklahoma oil and gas giant put it, “He couldn’t have done better if he had made Custer Peace Negotiator to the Cheyenne Nation just after his massacre of Black Kettle’s band on the Washita River in 1868.”

“No, Sir,” ejaculated another Oklahoma oil and gas Moghul: “I can top that comparison. It was in fact better than the Custer appointment and comparable to Dulles’s appointment of Anthony Eden as Honest Broker between Nasser’s Egypt and Whoever’s Israel.”

This bogger prefers the Eden comparison, especially since waging aggressive war in the Middle East cost both these neds their day jobs. (Such invasions had no such effect on Palmerston or Disraeli or Salisbury or Asquith or Lloyd George or in fact on any pre-Eden imperialist P.M.)

A nice parallel. And Strokes of Geniuses by Bravehawk’s neds.

Who? What? Bog Readers will want to know who these people are and what they’re talking about. There are two tools of non-pareil importance in following the history of the Bravehawk Conspiracy: “How We Talk,” a Bushmanese lexicon (category: “In Their Own Words”), and “Dramatis Personae,” a Registry of America’s Bushmen: The Harmful People (category: “Bravehawk’s Team”). Czech ‘em out.

Give Him Death, or Give him Life

Gobblesnot’s Commutation in Perspective

For y’all bog-readers who are outraged to the point of spitting over the commutation* granted Scootiewootie Chipperskipper Good Boy Gobblesnot, I say the problem was that he had been convicted of the only crime that the Bushmen regard as not just forgivable but in fact praiseworthy in a Team Player: lying. Had he killed someone, even an Ordinary Citizen, he would now be counting the steps up the scaffold or the straps on the gurney.

The chance that he would be the beneficiary of commutation in that case can be precisely measured: 1 in 152. That was the number of commutations / executions performed by the Texas governor whose identity was stolen by Real President Student Deferment Bravehawk and then used as a back story for his chosen voice box, Xxqxcxqx of Qicxq [See “Where Did He Get These Guys – Xxqxcxqx I“].

A brief, very brief, excursion into the In-turd Net, with a Searching Injun as guide, will turn up all sorts of interesting information about that Texas guv and his blood lust.

The article that this bogger found most illuminating and instructive (though all were useful) was by Sister Helen Prejean at http://www.nybooks.com/articles/17670; Sister Helen is a leading campaigner against the death penalty and a principal subject of the movie Dead Man Walking, which I’ve never seen but know in my hearts of hearts would be a good nickname for Gobblesnot if he had been accused or suspected of killing Innocent Life.

She retells the story of Ms. Karla Faye Tucker, which had first been related to this bogger by the late Molly Ivins in Shrub, her laudably objective biography of that Texas governor / back-story-model. The soon-to-be-dead Ms. Tucker appeared on the Larry King show while she was on death row. Mr. King asked her a number of relevant questions, one of which was what she would say to the governor if she could speak to him. In 1999, two years after Texas had done away with Ms. Tucker, another person with that exceedingly strange name (which in Strine means “food”), Mr. Tucker Carlson, a reporter, interviewed Gov. Back Story and the Guv told him that he had indeed seen the King interview. The reporter asked him how Ms. Tucker had responded to that question of King’s. Here it is, from Sister Helen’s piece:

“ ‘Please,’ Bush whimpered, his lips pursed in mock desperation, ‘please, don’t kill me.’ ”

Now some of y’all might find that offensively heartless, but for the Bushmen her fate, and the guv’s view of it, would in fact be a model of sympathy and mercy. They would normally have smart-bombed or bulldozed her home town, and seized anyone who had ever befriended or helped her, stuffed him or mayhap her into orange gunny sacks, and hidden the Perp in a secret offshore dungeon.

And now I hear my devoted readers asking, “But, please Sir: why wasn’t the chance of commutation zero in 152?” Because Gov. Back Story did commute one death sentence of one of the 152 carried out on his watch. That case followed an outcry from every corner of Freedonia, even though the country is circular, when it was discovered that the man he was so looking forward to killing, Henry Lee Lucas, could not have committed the murder for which he was convicted because he was in prison in another state at the time it occurred. Since the ned could not have committed the crime, Gov. Back Story determined that death was an excessive penalty and commuted it from The Gurney to life imprisonment (a sentence that the Bushmen later renomenclaturized to “detention”).

There are two lessons we may learn from this brief history:

1. Life imprisonment is surely a reasonable and merciful sentence for a man convicted of a murder he couldn’t possibly have committed, and,

2. those calling for revenge against Gobblesnot will have to convince this Good Boy to be suspected of killing innocent life, for then punishment is certain: death if he might have done it, or life imprisonment if he couldn’t have done it.

* To be fair, it must be noted that the commutation left in place a harsh punishment: fines almost as large as Bravehawk’s lunch money, which will leave the Beloved hungry one day when he foregoes the noon repast in order to secretly pay Gobblesnot’s fines. Also, Gobblesnot’s forever-damaged reputation will have long-lasting consequences : namely, a rise in his speaking fees for colloquies and symposiums of the party faithful of Freedonians United in Can-do and Know-how from the standard $150,000 to only $250,000 and a job for a party donor with a salary of possibly less than $1 million p.a., unless the job is with Hallitosis, in which case it will be $36 million p.a.

Who? What? Bog Readers, if there are any, will want to know who these people are and what they’re talking about. There are two tools of non-pareil importance in following the history of the Brasvehawk Conspiracy: “How We Talk,” a Bushmanese lexicon, and “Dramatis Personae,” a Registry of Americas’s Bushmen: The Harmful People. Czech ‘em out.

The Regime-Change Scorecard

Crisis in Terrorstan

In line with Freedonia’s policy of changing the regime in every Muslim country except those that sell us their oil at Guaranteed Prices, and / or which allow us to install military bases on their territory, and / or whose armies do not actively take the field against us even if their citizens do, and also the policy of changing regimes in every other country of the world that we like or don’t like, the Ministrette of International Signal Sending and Administrix of Silly Steps, Candalabreeza Cruella de Vile, in her weekly public performance for reporters on the subject of Why Every Not-So-Bad Thing That Has Happened Recently Is Further Evidence of How Our Policies are Succeeding and Every Bad Thing That Has Happened Recently Is a Problem and / or Task That We Fully Anticipated and Planned For and Which Is Therefore Also Evidence That Our Policies Are Succeeding revealed to us that President You Made Me an Offer I Couldn’t Refuse of our marvellously close ally, Terrorstan, was entering the final few minutes of his lifetime employment as Dictator.

Extract From the Weakly You-Know-What Performance:

Q – Madam Ministress, can we really have faith that President Refuse will remain committed to Our Just Cause despite his recent State of the Dictatorship Address in which he made it clear that some other country would have to guard his borders so long it wasn’t Poppiestan or Freedonia or someone else?

C.C.d.V – The President has been very dependable in Our Just Cause and has never broken any promise he has made, except the one in which he said Terrorstan would stop cross-border traffic of terrorists and Enemies of Freedom . . . And the one in which he said he would close the terrorist training camps in his country . . .Yes, and the promise to close the madarasa that teach hatred of the West, blind obedience to designated mullahs, Holy War vs. all infidels, how to make exploding things, how to make exploding people, and how to distinguish infidels from the Faithful by silhouette.

Q – Yet in his speech he said, and I quote, “Terrorstanis must realize Freedonia could smart bomb us to Lithic Age, so I lie at them.” Hunh?

C.C.d.V – [sighs] You’re losing all sense of proportion. His speech was an hour long, and you are singling out that one sentence: it’s just sixteen words, for goodness’ sake. Please try to keep things in perspective, as I do.

Q – Whaaa?

C.C.d.V – We here at the Ministry of International Signal Sending know how to interpret signals from Unfreedonian governments, unlike you and your pack of scandal-seekers and neigh-sayers who are just looking to sell newspapers or soap or something, whereas we’re trying to protect the Free World against those who hate us for no good reason except that we invade their countries and kill their citizens and / or co-religionists. So why don’t you shut your trap and leave the professional diplomatology to those of us who, although we’re amateurs and ideologues, do in fact hold office? Hear?

Q – One last question, Mistress Ministrix: Do you put the accent on the name of the President of Terrorstan on the first syllable or the second?

C.C.d.V – [In her patented whiny voice, as if speaking to idiots, which she usually is] Well, I never . . .

At that, she gave them the finger, pursed her lips, and exited the podium by means of her much-envied and frequently emulated (e.g., Gabrielle Solis) silly steps, adapted from Bette Midler except that Bette didn’t use Crazy Glue to keep her buttocks tight as the Ministrix did. Also, Bette shook her ass a lot, but then she would: the shameless hussy eschewed Crazy Glue.

Update and Progress Reports

On World-Wide Regime Change

Regimes About to Be Changed – Lebanon, Terrorstan, Turkey.

Regimes Changed – Italy, Spinachia, United Thingdom of Echolalia and Perfidia.

Regimes Changed but About to About to Return to the Ancien Régime – Eye Wrack, Poppiestan.

Regimes Changed Into Nothing – Haiti.

Regimes We Tried to Change but – Oops! – Made Stronger – Philistia.

Regimes We’d Just Love to Change – Bolivia, Brazil, Venezuela.

Regimes We’d Just Love to Change But Are Too Afraid Of to Try – Assyria, Eye Ran, North Megalomania, Russia.

Regimes We’d Just Love to Change But Owe Too Much Money to to Try – Bahrain, Catarrh, China, Kuwait, Oman, Saudi Arabia, United Ay Rabb Emirates.

Who? What? Bog Readers, if there are any, will want to know who these people are and what they’re talking about. There are two tools of non-pareil importance in following the history of the Brasvehawk Conspiracy: “How We Talk,” a Bushmanese lexicon, and “Dramatis Personae,” a Registry of Americas’s Bushmen: The Harmful People. Czech ‘em out.

Why We Fight II: An Ax of Evil

The Big Smokin’ Gun

This bogger has, as y’all must know if y’all’ve been paying attention even a teenyweeny bit, been given access to all the public and private papers and records of the Beloved Student Deferment Bravehawk on the condition that the bogger not share them with Congresspeople or the news media, who are therefore kindly requested not to read them. This extremely important memorandum outlined the plan for making possible and justifying war with Eye Wrack. Note that the Beloved had actually ordered it up in July, 2000, shortly after Mrs. Teasdale had designated him as successor to Rufus T. Firefly, who had utterly failed to realize all of his campaign promises to marry Mrs. Teasdale and therefoire had become Excess Baggage and Persona Ungrata.

S T O P

If you’re a Congressperson or a news medium, you must stop reading and close this bog immediately. If you fail to heed this fair warning, the Gugol boys and Yahoo!!!!!!!! will tell Beloved Braveheart on you.

M E M O R A N D U M

FROM: Candalabreeza Cruella de Vile, Ministrette of International Signal Sending and Administrix of Silly Strolling

TO: Beloved Student Deferment Bravehawk, The Real President

DATE: January 25, 2001

As per your assignment last July, I’ve found the casus belli for invading Iraq. I feel certain you’ll agree as soon as you’ve read the report from my source.

It’s contained in the investigative-reportage, tell-all book Fist of God, by Frederick Forsyth, which was published in 1994. I have the Corgi paperback version, published the same year and based, the cover blurbs informs me, on Foysyth’s “awe-inspiring research” and “his incomparable authority.” The book is all about the dangers of a remarkable Ax of Evil, a Weapon of Massive Destruction that is be delivered by a gun whose barrel is 156 metres in length and one metre in calibre. That’s a long barrel. It could fire a w.m.d. just about anywhere, maybe even to the moon, as Jules Verne suggested. I don’t see how we can face posterity and explain why we left such an ax of evil in the hands of such an evildoer, even if we had urged him and helped do all the evil he did in Eye Ran and then given him free rein to do all the evil he could against his own people.

Forsyth reveals exactly how and where Saddam and his Minions have hidden their Axes-of-Evil factories, stocks, raw materials, etc. Forsyth knows where they are, and, thanks to him, we do, too. On these grounds we can easily defend the invasion you so dearly desire. But we mustn’t tell anyone, in my view, where the w.’s d.m. are until we can hold them in our hands and present them to the world’s news media under a banner that reads “MISSION ACCOMPLISHED,” or maybe “SHIT HAPPENS.” Nosy bloodsuckers of the press may try to find out where these Axes of Evil are being fabricated and stored, but we’ll just tell them we have proof that we cannot share with them because the telling would compromise our secret sources, namely, Forsyth. It seems to me it would make sense to classify the book as Awful Secret and forbid anyone to read it or, for those who have read it, forbid them to mention it, discuss it, refer to it, acknowledge its existence, review it, think about it, or write a book report on it. We could easily identify everyone who had bought a copy or checked it out of the liberry. We could then issue each a Keep Securely Silent on Pain of Being Orangely Jumpsuited Letter outlining the stuff they are forbidden that they not do.

Forsyth has lots of advice about the diplomatic moves we should make leading up to the war. Most relevant to your purposes, he says Freedonia mustn’t give a damn about the hearts and minds of the International Community. But we should pretend to.

Below is his outline of the steps we should take by way of sending signals to the Civilized World. For security reasons, I think we should adopt his code words, viz.:

State Department instead of Ministry of International Signal Sending and Administration of Silly Sauntering ;

U.S.A. instead of Freedonia

British Allies instead of United Thingdom of Echolalia and Perfidia All Lies.

Saddam Hussein instead of Antichrist Evil Evil Incarnate Gases His Own People and Occasionally Other People’s People, Too.

Liberating Kuwait instead of changing the Eye Wrack regime.

Forsyth prefaces his recommended course of action / inaction by noting that Saddam [sic] has established “an awesome stock of Weapons of Mass Destruction, coupled with continuing plans for even more.” Here then, his recommendations (p. 234, if you can get a copy before we burn them all):

“U.S. [sick] policy [Forsyth writes], in alliance with our British Allies [sick], must therefore be dedicated to four goals:

“(a) Insofar as it is possible, covertly to present provocations and arguments to Saddam Hussein [sick sick] aimed at causing him to refuse to pull out of Kuwait [sickle].

“(b) To reject any compromise he may offer on as a bargaining counter for leaving Kuwait [tsik], thus removing the justification for our planned invasion and the destruction of his war machine.

“(c) To urge the United Nations [?] to pass without further procrastination the long-delayed Security Council Resolution 678, authorizing the Coalition [of the Wilful] Allies [All Lies] to begin the Air War as soon as they are ready.

“(d) To appear to welcome but in fact to frustrate any peace plan which might enable Iraq [sic] to escape unscathed from her [whaaa?] present dilemma [w.w.]. Clearly the U.N. Secretary-General, Paris, and Moscow [fictional orgs. and neds] are the principal dangers here, likely to propose at any time some naïve scheme capable of preventing what must be done. The public, of course, will continue to be assured of the opposite.”

Now look what happens with the following changes, from code words to right words:

(a) Substitute “disarm” for the final four words.

(b) Substitute “disarming” for “leaving Kuwait.”

(c) Substitute “whatever” for “678.”

(d) No change in this item.

These are his recommendations for a signal-sending push to get our war under weigh, and I concur in each and every one.

Lovingly Presented by

Your Humbly Obedient Servantess,

[signed] Candy-Wandy-Poo

Who? What? Bog Readers, and this means you, will want to know who these people are and what they’re talking about. There are two tools of non-pareil importance in following the history of the Bravehawk Conspiracy: “How We Talk,” a Bushmanese lexicon (category: “In Their Own Words”), and “Dramatis Personae,” a Registry of America’s Bushmen: The Harmful People (category: “Bravehawk’s Team”). Czech ‘em out.

Where Did He Get These Guys? – Xxqxcxqx II

Mouth Farts and a Crackstring

That bottle might have been thrown out of an airplane, or it might have been hurled from a giant slingshot, or maybe God Himself tossed it down into the middle of His Creation. Whatever, it set in train events that would culminate in the Freedonian Empire’s reaching out and touching, even goosing, nearly everyone in the Known World. The incident itself, the bottle business, came to our attention a few weeks later when, Beloved Bravehawk’s equerry, Gobblesnot, knocked diffidently at the Great Man’s office door, wherein the Triumvirate was dividing Freedonia into Spheres of Influence, and begged permission to enter. Bidden to get his ass in, he entered with the short, skinny, pretty much naked ned. Gobblesnot was carrying a paper bag with the pinched top that suggested he was carrying a bottle of some alcoholic substance, street-wino fashion.

“Here we have the kind of thing you instructed me to be on the lookout for,” said Gobblesnot with a touch, albeit an insufficient touch, of obsequiousness. I was, of course, fascinated by the little ned and, presuming it was unlikely a person of his diminutiveness and nakedness would have any English, I signaled for him to turn around for inspection. He was wearing a triangular money pouch of some sort over his personal items. The top of it was secured to a leather string around his waist, and the bottom of the pouch – which seems to me rather large and heavy for such a teeny-weeny person – was secured by a string that ran between his legs and up between his buttocks to its juncture with the beltstring, much like thongish bikini pants you might see on a girl from Ipanema. I asked him, in English, why he wore the thong up along his crack, since it didn’t protect his ass from view; in fact, you couldn’t actually see the crackstring except at the top where it emerged to join the beltstring.

My first guess about his linguistic accomplishments was right, though he wasn’t as stupid as you’d expect from someone with no English; by that I mean he was at least able to recognize that I was addressing him. In response, I presumed, to my question, there ensued a medley of sounds like chicken clucks, door-latch clicks, bubblegum pops, and polite little farts. I told Gobblesnot I couldn’t understand that shit.

“Who could?” he asked, then reddened (for he, like me, was a white man; still is, in fact, as am I) in confusion as he realized the inappropriate brusqueness of his response. “I thought it might be a problem,” he said, taking a half step backward and bowing slightly, “so I brought a man who can speak this person’s lingo.”

“Well done, in a general sense.”

Gobblesnot introduced a grizzled white man, as short and skinny as the dark-skinned fellow (for such indeed was the short, skinny, pretty much naked ned: reddish brown, or possibly brownish red) but wearing clothes, dirty ones. He had a slouch hat on, which he didn’t remove. I considered how I might invite the black ned to sit (he seemed clean enough, and in any case his wouldn’t be the first naked buttocks to touch the sofa cushions in Bravehawk’s office) yet keep the dirty white son of a bitch standing, but Gobblesnot solved the problem by bringing a pair of straight-backed chairs from another office. The grizzled white ned sat in one chair, but the black fellow squatted where he was, his feet perfectly flat and the splayed segments of his ass half an inch off the carpet. How do they do that? I wondered for the thousandth time: I had seen it before.

So the little person told his story with his clucks, clicks, pops, and mouth farts, and the grizzled guy translated, and I then put it into Language for my report with certain modifications, amplifications, and emendations [see “Where Did He Get These Guys – Xxqxcxqx I].

The part of his narrative about the airborne bottle got my attention. I asked if he still had the item from Heaven, and the grizzled ned repeated the question in Qicxq, and the pretty-much-naked ned answered by pointing at the paper bag Gobblesnot had left on the sofa when Bravehawk dismissed him. The white ned gave it to me, and I opened it. Sure enough, it was a Jack Daniel’s bottle, unfortunately completely empty of anything except the faint remains of that famous Jack Daniel’s fragrance, mixed with odors I was unable to identify until I had heard more of the narrative. It smelled not quite bottled in bond, but OK.

It turned out that his name was Xxqxcxqx (I’m using the standard Qicxq language orthography). If you actually pronounce this name, which the grizzled white ned could and did, you could cut through the clucks, clicks, pops, and mouth farts and distinguish four syllables something like Pori Nyika.

“What in the fug does that mean?” demanded Bravehawk.

“Vell,” said the grizzled white ned, “pori mean rough, unclearéd country.”

“OK,” said I: “Bush. So what does nyika mean?”

“Vell, nyika mean rough, unclearéd country.”

“Bush – again? That’s his name? Bushbush?”

“Ya.”

Who? What? Bog Readers, if there are any, will want to know who these people are and what they’re talking about. There are two tools of non-pareil importance in following the history of the Brasvehawk Conspiracy: “How We Talk,” a Bushmanese lexicon, and “Dramatis Personae,” a Registry of Americas’s Bushmen: The Harmful People. Czech ‘em out.