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 .


Thursday, July 26, 2007

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?

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