Introducing a New Art Form: The Bog

Actually, this art form is isn’t really new, and maybe not even an art form, because everyone is already familiar with The Bog, which is located just south of Quagmire, well west of Plain Old Mire, next door to Muck, and across the way from The Fens. All these places are now well known, since the U.S.A.’s Cheney Administration (i.e., America’s Bushmen, a.k.a. Swamp Things) dragged us into and through these locales and then abandoned us, up to our ass in you know what.

This web bog is devoted to understanding how and why the American people, justifiably admired by everyone, including you and me, for their talent and devotion to profitable effort, nonetheless keep electing venal, inept, stupid, and / or uneducated “leaders” such as Disgraced President Kniksen and Real President Cheney

It is my intention (my referring to me, the bogger) to do as much original research and investigation as my time, ability, and connections will allow me to. Granted, I have little ability and no connections whatever, but I have shitloads of time, and expect to use it (them?), though probably not immoderately.

I’ve already scored some major investigative successes, which I intend to inflict on y’all over the next handful of periods of time. For example, I have been given access to all the public and private papers and records of Real President Cheney on the condition that I not share them with Congresspeople or the news media. But he didn’t tell me I couldn’t put them on the in-turd net.

You have the opportunity to taste the first fruits of this Scoop on this very day. I hope it will be a small contribution to our understanding how we got bogged down in these mirish quagmirable fens, the Eye Wrackie wetlands and drylands.

A final note before sharing the first of these papers: I have hitherto been using made-up names to protect the sensibilities of people who might throw up hearing the real names. By this I mean that Kniksen and Cheney are fake names. Well, not Kniksen. But "Cheney" is a Nom de Bog. There’s no one, or at least no human being, by this name. However, I will make no attempt to disguise the names in any of the documents that I boggify or those from which I draw vitally informative vital information.

N.B. – This bog will make slightly more sense, insofar as it makes any at all, if y’all readers acquaint y’all’s selves with the who and what, which y’all’ll find under the postings “How We Talk,” a Bushmanese lexicon , and “Dramatis Personae,” a Registry of America’s Bushmen: The Harmful People .


Saturday, July 21, 2007

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.

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