Party Member Resorts

The Labor Day Weekend brings a tear to this Old Socialist's rheumy eyes. Memories of May Days of yesteryear, the barricades, 1789 which I remember as though it were yesterday. Dear Danton and Robespierre--such good company, always buying drinks for me with other people's money. Why once we ate so much rich food that we used Louis's lace to wipe our bums. Ah. Oh those were the days.

Ah. Those were the days. Versailles had its points, sure, and once I had the Hall of Mirrors reglazed to suit me I liked it a lot better, but I must confess that it did set a standard that I have come to expect, one that is fitting to un membre de partie de good standing, and one who has survived by the usual means while others have not. And there's the problem; more anon. The really difficult thing about la Belle France then was Marie Antoinette--Bruneau Gâteau de Boeuf got bitch-slapped by that silly little tart when he was trying on some of her gowns and the silly BEQ burst some of those seams. They didn't have good Chinese slave tailors then. The shrieking--quelle horreur! and Marie was nearly as loud. I had to be very firm with them both. Finally I'd had it with Louis, since he couldn't control that silly little tart--Roi du soleil shines out my ass--and gave my approval to Danton. A rather humorless chap you think at first, but that's before you get to know him. Why, his plans for a large gallows--24 gibbets, no waiting--wasn't improved on for centuries. And he only needed a little nudging, you know. At first it was le Compte this, le Duc that, heads will roll, yak, yak, yak, but soon I had convinced him that people with really bad hair ought to go too. And people who name their dogs Buddy or cats Soques.

(I just realized. Is Bruneau why Marie Antoinette said "Let them eat cake?")

But the fruits of those gibbets. How fat the birds got then off the carrion. The French will eat anything, you know. I spared some of Louis' chefs just for that purpose. Chickens fed on blueberries have nothing on this.

I know that you must think me remarkably well preserved, to have seen all this, but Vlad Tepes, the Impaler, and I ain't talking John Holmes, while he was having such a jolly time with those Ottomans, bodies on pikes you know, told me a secret while we were feasting in his castle redoubt, "It's the blood, Theocritus; it's the blood." Actually he had a pet name for me, Digiti Glutinosi because for some reason while we were wandering over all those Transylvanian mountains, the gold cups kept disappearing, but I didn't do it. I swear one of these days I'll get rid of that silly tart Breaucesceu. One day, while we were beating a hasty retreat, er, going to a vacation home, Breaucesceu had five pack horses so laden that two of them died but I fed them to the peasants who were so grateful for fresh meat that there is a stone cairn in a mountain pass praising my beneficence to this day.

Anyway, Vlad of Wallachia told me how to keep young, and I've followed his advice religiously, and I do mean religiously for if there's one thing that I'm religious about it's the great me; but for me the earth would fall into the sun and the galaxy would collapse into the black hole at its center and so far it's resisted that temptation with Rosie but that's just because I've kept her busy with a Needless Markup arc-welder.

It is the blood, you know, and the more the better and the more virginal the better. The equation is pretty simple: one rich white Republikkkan trust-fund heiress is worth a thousand Madonnas.

I passed this on to Countess Elizabeth Bathory--and it worked. But the silly woman just didn't go far enough afield for her peasant girls, and when she got the best maids on my Hungarian estate, I didn't care if she was a Bathory, I had her immured. Bathory Schmathory. Poach my proles, will you? But for me she'd have gotten away like Teddy K. I will not have my proles poached and I give fair warning to all of the Party Members.

But I still love you all. With the finest of Socialist Love. Come sit next to me. Bring your wallet.

It's this knowledge, hard won, but not for me of course--I'm a Party Member, perhaps the Party Member--Bruno what the hell did you put in that Harvey Feirsteinbanger?---that I'm now passing on to Our Many Titted Empress Hillary, a favor that I'm sure she will not forget after she is elevated to the godhead, with encomia showered on her by the Moonbat Flight. Yellow Rain. For after all, how else can she be Emerald Empress for Eternity for Ever and Ever? E5 has promised me my pick of the extras in Hollywood; she's very chummy with Michael Moore, you know, and he doesn't care because eating them doesn't interest him.

I went to Dallas over Labor Day to stay at the Adolphus and was horrified to find that they had actually booked other people while I was coming. Now I ask you: is that the way to treat The, er--Bruno! Goddamn it!--this lowly Party Member? The brass balls. I know how to stay at these places; that old fool Lawrence Walsh was just a piker. He'd book rooms over and below him, and on either side to cut down on the noise, but what about people walking in the hall? That's disturbing too especially if the carpet is thing. And also, what about the servants? I personally insist on ball gags so that they do not accost me with unwelcome sounds. Ask me if I've had enough? Don't they breed them to know anymore? Fortunately Bruno always travels with a large assortment of ball gags.

I was looking for granite for the Rancho del Rio Grande's tables. I got all of that gemstone-quality stuff that they had in Florence and Venice, but I just couldn't make the patterns work. Too busy, you know, and I tested the porosity. I really don't think that I could get them cleaned up after Mr. Reno, H8, Rosie and Babs Mikulski had a feast. Anna Quindlen was sobbing in a corner, but come to think of it she may have seen a dead fly and felt so sorry for it that it meant the world As We Know It would end and it was part of the Reagan/Gingrich/Bush/Ashcroft/Motel 6 terror. She's like that. The last time the Hag Ladies they came over for a feed, Bruno was sniggering about Skeksis but he'd just watched The Dark Crystal but I gotta hand it to them: there weren't any more coyotes to knobble my Limousin calves, but then there weren't any more calves to knobble either. Something there, I think. Must consider it when Bruno hasn't been serving me so many Kopechnes. (That's a drink dear Teddy taught me: Everclear and cubic zirconium served in an Oldsmobile-shaped shot glass. Utterly lethal.)

Anyway I got the granite, convincing them with my great powers of persuasion, and threat of suit if they didn't hold it, and soon it will be installed, if I can get the coyotes to pack in those stone masons from Oaxaca.

And this is a standing invitation to drop in. And I've even invited Barbra to sing. Bruno utterly hates that--her voice makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up but then it sure does clean out the rats and the roaches, and if you saw the state of the play room after the last usage of the Hildo Hydra 7.1, you'd really appreciate that. Of course the rats were looking a little peaked and beneath their usual form, but still, if it works, it works.

Y'all come!

I've even invited Barbra to sing. Bruno utterly hates that--her voice makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up but then it sure does clean out the rats and the roaches, and if you saw the state of the play room after the last usage of the Hildo Hydra 7.1, you'd really appreciate that. Of course the rats were looking a little peaked and beneath their usual form, but still, if it works, it works.

Eeewww....

Not a rat left in West Texas. Except of course the two-legged ones in Austin on my payroll.

I'm surprised there's anything left living in Austin....

<character off>
It is a question of debate if there is sentient life in the People's Republic of Austin. As an old friend of mine said, while he was dean of the Texas House of Representatives, "Neither your life nor your property is safe when the Texas Legislature is in session." And he is the one who called it the People's Republic of Austin.

He is, by the way, the only Democrat above county level that I have ever voted for.

I hate to sound like a common prole, but I have seen this used in other posts, and for the life of me been unable to find out what BEQ stands for?

Indeed, I tried to Google it (after waiting in line 12 hours for my state-allotted time to log on to the public CCCP (Communal Coleco Computer for Proles), but found nothing that might fit the context of Commissar T's entry.

Bachelor Enlisted Quarters
Binge Eating Questionnaire
Bursal Equivalents
BLAUPUNKT Equalizer
Business Ethics Quarterly
Best Estimated Quality/Quantity

In fact, the closest fit I could find was that "beq" is Klingon for "crewman."

*sigh* Once again Pinkie has failed in her quest to please and be helpful. I guess today won't be the day to get that shiny new shovel.

Maybe we need "Cuben Dictionary"

BEQ = Bug Eyed Queen. A Rainbow Warrior from the Rump Ranger Division whom Theocritus beat the crap out of and dumped at a seedy hotel.
Mulva = Second rate troll, aka Alva Goldbook: https://nitwitplanet.blogspot.com/2006_ ... chive.html (See "I Have Cancer and Three Kids, Please Help") The comments are a must. Retaliation was swift and quick by the Cube and Mulva quit allowing posts and pretty much gave up blogging and trolling. Wimp. Either that or his parents kicked him out. He's pushing thirty.
Mime = King of the Insane Trolls, a real mime named Mikael Rudolph whom every old time Cubist misses dearly and wishes would came back but never will: https://www.impeachforpeace.org
Cap'n Crunch, Crunchie, The Beingist = Jodin Morey, the Mime's limo driver and fellow perp at the above mentioned impeach dweeb site.
The Hildo Hydra = just use your foul imagination and be prepared to purchase a lot of carbon offsets once that bugger gets fired up.

Ah, many thanks!

I know we are all awaiting the Hido Hydra to "crank up." I suspect global warming will go up another degree or so.

I'm so grateful to you, O Mighty Empress, for favoring us with your wisdom! That should teach me to try and find answers for myself and others, when I need only wait for you to tell me what to think!

Mulva's blog and the comments were most enlightening. May I say that yours in particular, O Great Empress, with your recollections of seeing The People from your limousine, reminds me of the time years ago when you oh so wistfully spoke of a visit to wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen, where everywhere you looked, strollers full of babies were parked unattended outside shops and restaurants. How you raved with great passion of what a utopia it would be if only we could do that in Amerika!

'Twas a moment of great awakening for this humble, lowly, mud-caked one, O Glorious Empress. For I once had the privilege of visiting wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen myself, as a touri--er, rather, I mean as a guest at a most charming gay wedding. I was bewildered by the long wide avenues and boulevards of this city, for I saw no strollers occupied by children.

(Please bear with me, I really do plan to get somewhere with this . . .)

It was only in the very narrow streets of the city, in a section they call the "shopping district"--where I seem to recall seeing a few strollers here and there, though I saw none parked unattended. (I saw no long lines for goods, either, which was most disconcerting.) But the strollers were the only wheeled vehicles allowed. I wondered: "How is the grand and glorious Empress Hillary able to get into these narrow, pedestrian-only streets without her sleek bulletproof troika?" Surely she did not venture in on foot, for those charged with the great honor of guarding Her Sacred Person could never have allowed it. Not with all those unwashed masses who had only Danegeld, and neither the coveted American nor Chinese money necessary to advance Her Great Cause.

Alas, I was too young and drunk on the evil temptations of kapitalism to figure it out then, but I think I see the brilliant golden light now . . .

Empress Hillary is like that so-called divine entity the Religious Right is always raving about. I can't think of the name, but it's one I tend to confuse with "Gospodin Gore." Anyway, Empress Hillary is like that being. Everywhere, all seeing, all knowing--how did Homer Simpson put it?--omniverous.

Hillary doesn't need to get out of her limousine, or even go into the pedestrian-only shopping district, to know there are strollers full of babies everywhere. Of course she saw the strollers parked unattended outside the Copenhagen shops, even if I never did. That's why she's soaring to blazing glory come 2008, while I'll still be shoveling--ahem--fuel--for the Hildo Hydra, and dreaming of a brand new, bright red babushka to wear for the glorious, happy day of her enthronement.

Hildo Hydra 1.0 - the early version, sort of like the eight-track recorder. Steam-powered.

Interesting.... Is it real?

I believe the "Bill Head" was an add on Premier, though of course that is an interchangeable part.

Why, that's exactly how I pictured it! Though I thought it might be fueled by something more substantial than steam, if you know what I mean.

Pinkie wrote:Why, that's exactly how I pictured it! Though I thought it might be fueled by something more substantial than steam, if you know what I mean.

Oh, they are working on version 7 as I recall. I believe the current version is diesel powered.

Commissar Pupovich, the last version was diesel-powered but that was deemed to be both incestuous and not green enough. For please note this bit of wisdom from the other side of the street:

There are several classes of women with Sapphic tendencies.

1. Lesbians. Which applies to all women who prefer women. This is the preferred term for Lipstick Lesbians who actually like looking like a woman instead of a man.

2. Dykes. Much like Lesbian, although with a slightly butch flavor.

3. Bull dykes. Definitely no lipstick there.

4. Diesel dykes. Flannel shirts de rigeur, steel-toed drillers' boots, and a pickup, preferably, if her bad credit can stand it, a dualie. (That's four tires in the back making it look like a frog.) The dualie is for the time that she has the honor of hauling around the arc welder which every clutch of Lesbians has.

Theocritus' First Rule of Dykes: Every clutch of dykes has access to an arc welder. At least in Texas.

Now for the other side of the street of the other side of the street.

There are gay men who look normal, who do not drop feathers and glitter, whose eyes do not roll, who do not hiss (the bane of every gay men's chorus, causing most of them to sound like leaky steam radiators), and who may or may not like Barbra Streisand. Who have a good chance of being your lawyer or accountant and whom you might suspect of being gay only if you know any. Who would pass utterly as straight without even trying 20 years ago. Like me.

Then there are queens, who are gay on display.

Then there are bug-eyed queens, like Don F.J.B., Jr. (how his father must have flinched) whose hot brown eyes that evil fascist Raygun could have used as a real ray gun to shoot down the ICBMs that the Motherland should have sent to liberate this country from the RepubliKKKans.

The sure sign of a BEQ is not the length of his fourth finger (doesn't always work), but the fact that you can see his eyes roll behind closed lids in the headlights of your 1983 Toyota Supra as you drive past him, <b>doors locked, holding cross</b> in the west parking lot of the Caballero Motel on Montana Street in El Paso, Texas, with your heart pounding, your pulse racing, white from the rage of a BEQ who <i>will not be denied taking control of your life</i>, who called a certain politician a "mean man" before our brothers on the left found that nomenclature so useful, and who then threatened to call your parents and boss to expose you, back when that mattered a great deal.

That, in a not-so-small nutshell, is the prototypical BEQ in its true fucking nuts efflorescence.

Oh. Forgot to mention over 100 long-distance phone calls in the days before caller ID.

I've got to lie down. Sorry. I'm shaking.

Commissar Theorcritus... I am going to let you in on a secret... that I may come back to edit out. But then again, it's not like he is not all over the net. Google "Marc Vargo." He is my supervisor.

My lord. Aaron Copeland? Sorry.

Is he a true, believing progressive or a faux progressive? There are more faux progressives like me walking down that side of the street than let on, but then mouthy people tend to be True Believing progressives. An attempt...reams of ranting omitted...

Pinkie, welcome to the Cube. I greet you with open arms. I hope that you greet me back with an open wallet--I've milked Pupovich down to his last Milk Bone.

...Get it, Bruno? Milk. Bone. I just slay 'em. Bruno! Do you have a twin? What in the ding-dong hell did you put in my Pangalactic Gargle Blaster? Hoof of Reno? Eye of Fonda? Crow's feet of Crow? Is that it?...

Pinkie, dear, now that I'm feeling <i>much</i> better, I shall continue.

All of this is of course not for ME, but is for Our Many Titted Empress, Queen of the Heavens, Empress of the Universe, Beneficent Scion of the Original Egg, Whistle Stop for Bill, and She Who Ordains That Light Exists, the One, The Only, Your and Mine, The Wonderful, The Most Exalted.

Hillary! H8! H8! H8!.

Oh. And hi from Nansky Peloski, Babs Mikulsi, Ellen Goodman, Molly Ivins, who has been declared dead all over instead of just between the ears, Teddy K., whose liver stores nuclear waste too hot to fit into Carlsbad, NM, Algore, who was born nine months after the little green men landed in Roswell, Harry Reid, whom my cat box thinks dirty and boring, and of course the Honorable Patrick Leaky Leahy--the love god of mole rats everywhere.

Welcome to the land of Caring 'n' Compassion, with treacly sentiments by Hallmarksi

...Bruno! Wipe the blood off your forehead where I beaned you for drugging my Pangalactic Gargle Blaster. Cue the Yanni. I don't care if it sends you into insulin shock. We've got a live one here...

Welcome, Pinkie. Welcome. This is your home now. You're getting sleepy. What is your legal name? Please show some identification to this notary public before you take a well-deserved rest...

Commissar Theocritus wrote:Is he a true, believing progressive or a faux progressive?

Oh, my boss is a true progressive. Not only is he author of those gay books, he is a psychologist (that says a lot right there), and literally a card carrying member of the ACLU and Amnesty International.

I can see a faux progressive as the author of the coming-out book or even the exceptional gay men one--after all people have written about exceptional women. I am currently working on something praising the stellar efforts of Amnesty International--that organization which is so rightly concerned with the fascist Republic of Texas' execution of people who have done nothing more than murder one person while quite understandably polishing the boots of heros like Mao with their tongues.

I love a good coward, don't you? So easy to push around.

Oh, you can be sure my boss, who is a nice guy, is a real progressive. He led the way in trying to ban prayer where I work - strictly speaking, we are basically exempt due to it being the home where these people live, and strictly speaking, it was basically a silly prayer that was done over an intercom system. He even lived down in the French Quarter till Katrina, and when I say a "card carrying member of Amnesty International," I mean literally! LOL I examined his papers myself. Why, he even vacations in France with his lover for Lenin's sake!

Comrade, how wonderful that you work for such a progressive. I too have had some experiences with oddities which we can continue in the Bunker, as good progressives should do.

But why ban prayer? Taking a page from <i>Franney and Zoe</i>, my entire life is said in a chant,

Lenin grant that no one find a place for money that I can't find.
Lenin grant that no one enjoys something that I cannot ban.

What a lovely prayer!

And most of all, Lenin grant that I never look in a real mirror.

Just remember to look with revolutionary eyes comrade!

Yes, Comrade, I forgot. For we in the party define what is beautiful for we define what is true.

When one looks with revolutionary eyes, even I am a beauty to behold!

Ah yes. There is a scene in Douglas Adams' <i>The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy</i> in which Zaphod Beeblebrox, the President of the Galaxy, was taken to, I believe, Frogstar three, a dead planet with the most invidious weapon in the universe. You sat in it and it showed you what you were in respect to the universe. Every single person went absolutely mad.

Except Zaphod, who thought it was about right. He took what he wanted, did what he wanted, and thought it was just fine. He gauged the universe by his standard. By the way Adams was at Oxford about the same time as the husband of our Many Titted Empress. I read this in the 80s before I heard of him and hearing them now, read by Adams, had me driving off the road laughing--this egomaniacal scum-bucket thief, oversexed liar, had to have been modeled on the First Groper.

I read that book back in my more radical drug induced humor days... LOL Actually enjoyed that one, but can't say I got into the others in the series. Guess one was enough for me.

After Adams died, his widow found that he'd read them into his Macintosh and the BBC, I think it is, put them out on CDs. amazon.co.uk and worth the money. His imagination is astonishing--I've listened to them all, including the Dirk Gently one, twice. Although they came along about a year ago when I had, literally, a new beginning in my life. Everything was new, music, colors, smells, tastes. I might not listen to them so avidly again now.

I recently had one of those remember such and such conversations. Did you ever happen to listen to Beaker St on that AM radio station from Little Rock? It was the first "cool" radio I know of, FM like before FM got going good. It was there I first heard Firesign Theater and those wonderfully weird and funny stories.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beaker_Street

Went to see an absolutely fantastic movie tonight... The Kingdom. You have to go see it, though it is not for the faint of heart, which of course anyone who has faced the Hillary certainly is not. But it is torn right from what could be today's headlines. Very real is the best way I can describe it. The only thing that sort of turned me off was the very last line which in a theatrical way, was great, on the other hand, it could also be seen as a "what is the point of killing these terrorists as it only raises more to kill."

When I was at Rice in the 70s Firesign Theater was all the rage but of people that I didn't like. So I'll try it, since they're not around. It's the reverse-halo effect. Please don't tell me the Gorobot breathes or I'll try to stop doing so.

It always helps to be "reality challenged" when listening to Firesign Theater. I especially loved their detective stories, Nick Danger, Third Eye.

Speaking of anchovies.... I couldn't remember his name so I googled it, and what do i find but a bit from Nick Danger.....

In another episode of Nick Danger, "The case of the Missing Yolks"
(Video), and the "Three faces of Al" (album), Rocky {ROCOCO} calls
up Nick at the start of the play, and turns everything around:

ROCKY: I want to order an anchovy to go, and hold the pizza.
NICK: Anchovies?
ROCKY: Yeah, those little black things, with eyes!
NICK: You've got the wrong man. I spell my name
(LOOKS BACK AT THE DOOR) ...REGNAD.

Ah. Realty challenged. How well I recall it, and how enjoyed it. And I recall acid in the 80s, past when I ought to have taken it. Ron and I rented video tapes and I, on his advice, cleaned the house really really well, and watched <i>Brazil</i>, one of my favorite movies, perhaps my favorite movie. You could imagine being on the set and turning a corner and seeing more of the same.

And now, with 5000W of power to B&W 801 speakers and a 60" Sony XBRD? I don't do drugs or booze. Or even have patience for movies, for I find myself chafing at another's pace.

Ah, I loved being "reality challenged" in the seventies... in all the proscribed manners. How well I remember the house I rented in college with the 4 cow pastures behind it. Ah yes, I was a "nature lover" even then. Ate a lot of pizza's with the crops yielded from those fields.

I can't believe I never heard of Brazil. So I googled it... what a delightful progressive film that must be!

"A receptionist, for example, is seen casually transcribing an off-screen conversation. When interrupted by the main character, she tilts her headphones off of her ears, allowing us to hear the pained sounds of someone undergoing severe torture. After cheerfully addressing the main character, she continues to dutifully record the nearly unintelligible pleas and screams. Terry Gilliam makes sure to point out in the DVD commentary that she is an example of "those kind of people."

Oh, but don't let the pace bother you if you go see "The Kingdom." Believe me, the pace can be quite....well, it doesn't drag too much. Really excellent movie.

https://www.thekingdommovie.com/

There is a Criterion special edition of <i>Brazil</i> A true dystopia. And with some very funny parts. Katherine Helmond nearly walks off with the movie. Michael Palin is the man torturing the man whose screams the woman is transcribing, and he is a brilliant choice but recall that Palin worked with Gilliam in the Python days. Duh.

Oh, how I loved Python.... to paraphrase one of my favorite skits...

As a naval officer I abhor the implication that the People's Navy is a haven for cannibalism. It is well known that we now have the problem relatively under control, and that it is the People's Air Force who now suffer the largest casualties in this area.