I have just returned from a weeks-long trip to observe the progress of Progressive America. "Why, Commissar Theocritus," I asked myself, sometimes over and over if I forgot to take my head meds, "is the Perfect Progressive Society of Next Tuesday so long in coming? Why, with Comrade Pelosi in the Speaker's Office, and with Comrade Reid as Senate Majority Leader, is there still any freedom left in America? We walk and walk and we talk the talk, boy do we talk the talk, and still, there are people who <i>are doing what they want, don't spend their entire lives raging, and what's worse, they still have a pot to piss in.</i>" It makes a good Democrat cry. It really does. Oh, the inhumanity, the inhumanity!

And that, dear Comrades, just won't do. After all, Comrades, if people are happy then I'm not. For I am a liberal. If people were happy I would be out of job and couldn't feel good about myself. If people could manage their own affairs then <i>they wouldn't need me and I'd have to get a real job</i>. So this must stop. For all of us. There's just not enough anger in the world. So I took a tour to see what I could do. Anything for the Party.

I traveled and endured hardships for the party. Oh, the things that I did. I spent some time at the Wynn Las Vegas. It was hard, of course, to live in the lap of that luxury but I was intent on seeing if the help was sufficiently unionized. I would not rest until a shop steward was in every room insuring that for example a maid could not change a light bulb; for that our brothers the electricians must be called. But to my disgust I found that the hotel worked and worked very well.

I had hopes that I would be served a good proletarian meal in Alex or Bouchon in the Venetian, but no, I wasn't. The waitstaff had nothing of that Soviet-era surliness which so brings a tear to this old commie's eye. In Alex the waiters even thanked <i>me</i> when they served me! Imagine that. Shades of apartheid. And not a single order was wrong. Now. I ask you. How can I fly into a towering rage if the food is good and right and the waitstaff actually <i>wants</i> me to have a good meal? That's not natural, comrades, not natural at all. Where's the rage? I want rage!

And the food. Not a bit of gray boiled cabbage. How I picked at my foie gras hoping for a bile duct, and found none. And the terrine at Bouchon? You would think that you'd find a bit of gristle in it, but no. There was nothing, <i>nothing</i>, comrades, that takes this old commie back to our much-loved Brezhnev era. Even the one potato that I did have didn't look like him and when was the last time you had a potato that didn't have a family resemblance to Leonid Ilyich?

~

Grasping at straws I noticed that there were six Chinese channels on the television, and I noticed many of our yellow comrades walking the halls. I tried to draw them into conversation. After all, they come from the biggest concentration camp in the history of the world, over one billion served and more to come, but they wouldn't take time out from shopping in the Esplanade in the Wynn or on the Grand Canal in the Venetian. With a tear in my eye I begged one of them to tell me how many calories per day each worker <i>must</i> have, no reason to waste food, to work at 80% efficiency and he snarled at me and said that he was on holiday and that the slots were hot and piss off.

All around me I saw happiness and harmony and that dread thing capitalism, and most of all, people <i>weren't angry</i>. I climbed in the middle of the flower display in the Bellagio and orated, in my best Stentorian tones, "Workers of the world! You are oppressed! You need leadership! You need <i>sustainable</i> progressive thought! You need <i>me</i>!" Fat kids threw food at me and I left. But not before some evil drunk at the Bellagio told Bruno that Bette Midler, whom Bruno adores, was doing an homage to Esther Williams and Bruno jumped into the fountains. And everyone knows Miss M. is at Caesars.

I would have continued in this vein for some while but was always distracted by visits to the LVPD and it was always because of Miss M. No matter what I did I couldn't get him to quit stalking her. "Bruno," I would threaten him, "I <i>know</i> it's the Divine Miss M, but WTF do you think you're doing? Here you are, 6'4", with 6" platform heels, and all that fruit on your head. You're 8' tall, you silly queen, twice the height of Carmen Miranda, and you can see every muscle that you got building that bunkhouse at Rancho del Rio Grande and you have five-o'clock shadow on your chest. You look like Governor Schwarzenegger wearing an Italian fruit stand." In the end I was making four trips a day to the LVPD to bail him out and the last time had to pay for the door to Bette's dressing room that he'd tried to kick down, leaving one of his platform shoes stuck in the metal, and the Caesar's management wanted me to pay for the hospitalization of two of Caesar's security guards that Bruno had kicked in the family jewels while they were trying to keep Bruno away from Miss M. Who, by the way, said that owing entirely to Bruno she was changing her act to make it less gay-friendly. "Goddamned fags," she swore, "Kathy Griffin can have them. That Gold's gym produce store is the last straw."

So we left. At night. Fortunately the keening sound of Bruno whining, "Bette! Bette! Give me something, Bette! A brown bottle, Bette!" was drowned out by the sirens the police cars at an eight-car pileup on Las Vegas Boulevard.

In all of this there was no interest in being a Progressive, dear Comrades, none at all. I even tried other words, such as Socialist and the one that is dear to my heart, and to yours, Communist. I even tried Green, but the people in Vegas, Denver, Salt Lake, Phoenix, Tucson and even Billings, Montana looked at me and said, "Green? You mean like that lame-o Al Gore? You mean he's still alive? What a sad loser. And do you know that there's a fruit stand following you?"

But then it struck me. Everyone wants something. Everyone aspires to something. There is, in short, dear comrades, the unstoppable fountain of human greed. The fact that no one, no matter how rewarded, can be made to think that s/h/it's position in life is unfair. I mean. Think of Tom Cruise and Paris Hilton.

So. Everyone aspires. Everyone has aspirations.

The Obamessiah, who so iniquitously vanquished Our Many Titted Empress, is the leader of the aspiring class. Aspiring to <i>what</i> no one says but aspiring as surely as death and taxes. I mean, everybody's got aspirations just as everybody's got an asshole and there's no shortage of either. And that's the beauty of aspiration. You don't actually have to say what you aspire <i>to</i>; aspirations take less thought than your asshole. You just aspire. Or did. For your asshole you have a specialist: the proctologist. For your aspirations, you need another specialist.

If you aspire you need an aspirational Sherpa, who will assist in your aspirations, tell you that's okay to be aspirational, about say your neighbor's wife or property and that of course aspirational people need a middleman for their aspirations. Still with me? This is the greatest wheeze since diversity or the endangered species. I mean, it was really hard to get people worked up about that spotted owl. I mean, after all, it's a bird and a bird's highest calling is really the Colonel and KFC. But it's not hard at all to get people worked up about that Lexus their neighbor has and they don't and it's the Republicans who won't let them have it. Oh. And Halliburton. Did I mention the Bu$hitler? A happy contented people don't need us, comrades, they're happy. <i>Happy</i>, I tell you, comrades, as happy as Bruno with a ticket to <i>Mama Mia</i>, a new piece of cheap jewelry and a knock-off Prada bag. And that won't do.

So, dear Comrades, I propose that we become Aspirationists rather than Progressives. To get rid of that sour old image, that keening sound of deprivation and renunciation. You know, that sort of person who will give you the hair shirt off his back. We need to become Aspirationists to decontaminate the brand. These days there's a hell of a lot more money in it.

Sounds like the commissar was holed up in his hotel room with only a $50.00 per diem and breakfast was $42.23 for room service including the 18% gratuity. The only thing left to do with the $7.77 was to order Ninotchka and watch it over and over again.

Day One: Ate Breakfast and watched Ninotchka
Day Two: Ate Breakfast and watched Ninotchka, began having second thoughts on socialism
Day Three: Ate Breakfast and watched Ninotchka, questioned the authority of the politburo
Day Four: Ate Breakfast and watched Ninotchka, Bruno escapes.
Day Five: Ate Breakfast and watched Ninotchka, interrupted by LVPD phone call.
Day Six: Ate Breakfast and watched Ninotchka, calls LVPD back and tells them "OK, I promise, I swear I'll be down tomorrow to bail him out."
Day Seven: Skips breakfast, steps on scale, lost 28 pounds, pawns some of the Chairman's Hummels and takes the remaining fifty bucks and bails Bruno. Sells the Czar's jewels he was entrusted with and breaks the house at the roulette wheel with the proceeds. Proclaims "Capitalism works!"

I'm telling you comrades he's been brainwashed!
We're grateful to have our commissar back, but it's going to take weeks, if not months of daily sessions at the KMTC.

Aspirationists indeed!

Meow, I'm denouncing you for giving Theocritus the $50.00 per diem. From now on only $42.23 will be the going rate on junket per diems. That way we'll be sure our commissars won't be contaminated with such filth.

No, no, no, Laika. I truly did ask our yellow brethren the secrets of mass oppression. But they could not quit laughing over the fruit stand that followed me, who was twice as tall as they were. It was when the fruit stand took out his maracas and started singing "Tico Tico" that the halls were cleared in ten seconds. The guards, hardened by years of work in the most libertarian city in America, blenched and weaved on their feet.

The true reason that I was in Vegas was that I was trying to win money to repay the Chairman for his purloined Hummels.

I had an attack of conscience. And see where it got me.

I promise <i>never</i> to get an attack of conscience again. For what is an aspirationist with a conscience?

A worker, that's what. A worker. And we can't have that.

Natural aspiration? That is not enough! We need to pressurize this political mixture. What we need, the Party has, of course, provided: the Turbobama!

Ah yes, Betinovich, ah yes. Natural aspiration will not do. We do need the Turbobama. And the whine of its bearings will match the other whines of the co-aspirants, demanding their rights as humyn beings to feeling really really good all the time about everything that they do all the time with utterly no rational reason for feeling that way.

And that's Turboaspiration.

Commissar Theorcritus, it is good to see you back since I no longer have to hide the fact I knew the true nature of your absence. But that guilty feeling made me feel better than others so was not without it's own reward.

Perhaps we can have it both ways. This idea put forth by Commissar Theocritus, dangerous as it was given it's non-reliance on official Party transmissions, is not without merit. We can use this aspirational concept to bring us to the World of Next Tuesday and the ascension of the Obama. Soon after that, there will be plenty enough anger, deprivation, and dependence on the state to keep all of us content for a long long time.

Oooh. Anger. Good.

...Am I channeling Betty?

The Recipie for Revolution:

4 parts Anger
3 parts Class Envy
1 part Treason catalyst
Shake violently and chill
Serve with turnips, cabbage and cheap vodka, preferably over the bodies of the reactionaries who opposed you and spat at you and called you names in school.

Yes, General, I quite agree that that is a perfectly good recipe for anger that will feed the masses. But I'm trying to develop some <i>boutique</i> angers. We have an age when you can order almost anything personalized. Why not anger?

I take as my inspiration our identity politics. "You can't do this because..." I know that it boils down to "the man won't let you because you're xxx."

And why not have trojan horses in your computer which read your cookies and randomly select pop-up windows, "You'd make more money if.."

Spelndid. If disaffected pipefitters want to grudgingly harbor their enmity, why make them drink from the public trough of discontent...let them read/watch/hear the Party Organ for diasffected pipefitters. If micro-marketing and segmentation work for the cursed capitalists, why not for us?

The nice thing about such things is the anger is almost never focused as a group on a recipient...it feeds and reflects off of the anger of other groups, clamoring for a way to be expressed over the background enmity. Like a quilt of hostility, with swatches of resentment overlapping and bumping each other for room to breathe.

Like the glorious Collective, no? I can hardly wait for the Glorious Coming of Next Tuesday!

Commissar Theocritus, I love your pop up plan. Another pop up could be "You didn't get that job because you're....." or "Why is it your hovel is never featured in Better Homes and Gardens?"

Yes, and we could go even farther. If the victim, er, comrade had visited say a travel site, then it could say, "If you were not oppressed by The Man, you wouldn't have your sad life here in front of a cheap computer but would be knocking back appletinis with Brad and Angela."

If you visited a porn site (which would of course exempt all comrades, even Meow), it would say, depending on your sex and preference, "And here you are in front of this sad old computer when you could be banging XXX if the man didn't hate you."

And one that always works: "Your boss doesn't appreciate you and doesn't pay you enough. If you just could have your own business selling buggy whips, there would be no hunger in the world and you'd take a Gulfstream the half mile to work."

Dear Lenin! I am tingling thinking of all the anger and resentment we can cultivate! The porn potential is limitless! Imagine said prole goes to a porn site, looks at the bevy of potential babes they may be interested in seeing more of, and when they click on their desired object of lust, a block up comes up saying 'Sorry comrade, you could view this were it not for yada yada yada!"

Ooooooh, I'm not so sure about that last one, Commissar Theocritus. Don't get me wrong - it's very close, but in my opinion it should be more like; "Your boss doesn't appreciate you and doesn't pay you enough. If you just could have your own business selling buggy whips have common ownership of the means of production, there would be no hunger in the world and you'd take a Gulfstream the half mile to work be encouraging overt class conflict to bring about the Utopic World of Next Tuesday."

Or something like that.

We're all Aspirationists now. It's so good to see you back, Commissar Theocritus. My goodness, I was afraid you were dead. Here, let me give you a great big hug.

Ah, thank you Margaret. I would not dream of checking out, unless I were sure I could unionize hell. But then that's been done already. I was merely eating as well as I possibly could and lying on my dead ass exploring the possibilities for our ultimate advancement of power and while I was there trying to undermine people's happiness and get them spitting mad seeing to their needs to fulfill their ultimate personhood and their rights to life and property, especially other peoples' property excepting of course our own, Comrade Aspirationists, excepting of course our own.

Becoming Aspirationists is my first step toward Sustainable Progressive Thought. On which more after I bail Bruno out of yet ANOTHER jail.

I wonder. Is it possible to bribe a judge to set a bail <i>higher</i>? Has any Comrade experience in this? Anyone with institutional memory of, say, Trostsky? LoneStarRed, if you're listening, who is the worst bondsman in Texas? RedtheProgressiveFox? Any ideas? I want someone who is to bondsman as Jimmy Carter is to Presidents.

Mikhail, I have in the last few minutes been thinking of the clarion call to "common ownership of the means of production." Yes, I like that but only if they haven't a clue what it really means. I know, it sounds real good but a good apparatchik knows that this is how the left gets into things. And <i>we</i> know that since being a leftie is controlling <i>everything</i> that the proles haven't a chance. They're fodder for us.

This is why John Olin set a deadline on his foundation, knowing that we on the left flock to money like a fly to a gut wagon. Ford and McArthur were those horrible conservatives, but their foundations? Not! We got to them, and our people got in, like lice on the body politic to use OPM for our own agenda.

Brilliant. So we can't let the real proles know that common ownership of the means of production means that we'll have it, as the NKVD became the KGB which became the FSB which carved up Russia and the Russian oligarchs are taking over the oil sheikhs in London and Gstaad and Monaco for conspicuous consumption.

While tooling around the interwebz, I came across this brilliant article. Perhaps we should contact the author of this insightful piece for some good ideas.

Somebody please explain to me how someone can be so mis-informed...I openly laughed a few times while reading that article.

That goddamned socialist wrote:Firstly a socialist government would have no shortage of measures at its disposal to rectify any macroeconomic problems.

And by no shortage of measures I assume me means, inter alia, storm troopers, barbed wire, psychiatric hospitals, internal exile, and that old favorite, the gulag.

Nicht wahr, Mikhail?

[quote=""Mikhail T. Kalashnikov"]While tooling around the interwebz, I came across this brilliant article.[/quote]

I think that's exactly what The Mime is talking about when he writes about democracy; socialized everything - and everything up for a vote. And anyone against that is a "hater of democracy."

Commissar Theocritus wrote:Nicht wahr, Mikhail?

Either that, or they just mean that they will just take more from the unwashed to compensate for the "macroeconomic problems."

As it happens, I am reading a book "Six Days of War" about the 67 Israeii was of occupation of the peaceful Arab countries. In this book I read of what has to be a record in the achievement of the goal of "common ownership of the means of production." In 1966, Comrade Nasser achieved a milestone by having his 5.000 autoworkers make 2 cars a week! Comrades, that is the sort of goal we must set to achieve if we wish to achieve full employment while at the same time saving Mother Gaia.

We do not have to look quite as far. Starbucks spends more on healthcare than on coffee beans. And why not? The barrista--love that term with central-American revolutionary overtones--might be an octogenarian. It's a job for life, you know, the ever-present prole.

And yes, Margaret, everything is up for a vote. I propose that when we go to the doctor that we take a plebiscite about our treatment with the people in the waiting room. That's fair, isn't it? And let's pay them for the consultation, not just the doctor. Why should the doctor benefit from that elitist medical education?

I believe I am getting the hang of this aspirationalism. Today I went to the coffee house, and as usual the young girl was there working happily. I commented oh how happy she was and she even told me she loved her job. So I pointed out how much happier she would be if she owned the shop, which of course she could if the owner would pay more than below minimum wage. I even aspired her by pointing out how she could own a string of these shops were it not for her only having a high school degree because some oilman's kids took her scholarship. Quite refreshing!

Yes, Marshal Pupovich, you have the hang of it. Spread aspirations! Spew them about! We can aspire to spread envy and resentment, and with our Mary Poppins good cheer make the other people look sour. This is putting a happy face on curdled emotion and rancorous feeling.

I suggest that we also spread aspirations at the post office, telling them how much happier they'd be working if they had FedEx's or UPS's pay packages. They are fiercely bureaucratic at the Post Office, and all it takes to start a turf war is a coffee break that goes one minute over. And then <i>we can redefine going postal</i>.

Splendid.

I love being cheerfully aspirational.

Yes, Marshal Pupovich, you have the hang of it. Spread aspirations! Spew them about! We can aspire to spread envy and resentment, and with our Mary Poppins good cheer make the other people look sour. This is putting a happy face on curdled emotion and rancorous feeling.

I suggest that we also spread aspirations at the post office, telling them how much happier they'd be working if they had FedEx's or UPS's pay packages. They are fiercely bureaucratic at the Post Office, and all it takes to start a turf war is a coffee break that goes one minute over. And then <i>we can redefine going postal</i>.

Splendid.

I love being cheerfully aspirational.

You know Commissar Theocritus, you could be promoted from Commissar to Marshal were it not for.... Oh wait a minute... I guess I just got a little too caught up trying to spread aspirations. Forget what I said.... yes... forget...forget...

I am thinking of rebranding myself the Cuddly Commissar Theocritus. Birdlime for the fools, you know.

Give them encouragement, hope and change. Then take it away. This has broken the spirit and cracked the toughest psyches with great success.

The 'Cuddly Commissar' idea has merit. However, Commissar Theocritus should work a skewer into his schtick in some way, adding a subtle historical irony that would be lost on the ignorant masses. Perhaps some cute little 'Prole on a Stick' toy offered to children. It could look like a smaller version of one of those miserable Cabbage Patch kiddie things, in traditional costume. It would have the added feature of a bamboo skewer up its cornhole. The doll would have a distant, glazed look with a weak smile, as if contemplating the glorious coming of Next Tuesday while receiving the skewer.

The children will glady accept these trinkets as toys. Parents, while completely msising out on the core symbolism, will dimly appreciate an intangible sense of foreboding and threat they represent, and will yield to the State without even a murmur of discontent.

And if the toys work, all sorts of accessories could follow...the Dungeon Playset, the Commissar's Impale-a Convertible, the Easy-To-Assemble Miniature Iron Maiden Meat Tenderizer...the possiblities are endless. But excuse me, I am rambling and it is time for my medication.

PS - my cousin, Hung Hao, has a thriving bamboo skewer business that took off when the Rat On A Stick craze hit Hunan Province like a storm two years ago. I am sure he could make you a great deal subcontracting the skewers. You would only need to source the doll, package it with the skewer, with 'some assembly requried'.

General Mousey-Tongue wrote:However, Commissar Theocritus should work a skewer into his schtick in some way, adding a subtle historical irony that would be lost on the ignorant masses.

Uh,,,uh,,,uh...The Commissar's uh... uh... image of Vlad the Impaler uh,,,you know...smiling with the title of like uh...uh...Compassionate and Caring would seem to uh.... uh....fit that bill.

Pupovich, Mousey-Tongue, perhaps I could have a wide <i>smile</i> on my face. I'm sure that Vlad smiled a lot--on anniversaries, perhaps, on every thousandth impalement.

And M-T, I do like your idea about the toys. Perhaps a My Little Pony Glue Factory. The Garfield Violin String Factory. The Ossuary Xylophone Company. And that classic Korean cookbook, <i>101 Ways to Wok Your Dog.</i>

Once, a friend and I developed a cat exercise regimen to help with the problems of fat cats. For instance, the cat hurdle machine.... place the cat in your dryer and train him to jump over those agitators. Then we had the cat bungee jump, cat synchronized swimming, cat archery, and other events. I can't tell you how much those cats appreciated our Cat Olympics, and you can be sure, give us a fat cat and we would take care of that.

Was the cat synchronized to swim with a brick, by any chance?

There is no room on the bottom of the pool for all the synchronized swimmers that I taught to swim with a brick.

You disappoint me, comrades. Perhaps the groupthink is not as progressive as we would like to believe, eh? Your ready descent into degradation of the feline species reveals your latent xenophobia and incorrect thinking. And note, it was the wagging Marshal Mutt who first followed the frisbee into the gutter.

Marshal Pupovich wrote:Once, a friend and I developed a cat exercise regimen to help with the problems of fat cats. For instance, the cat hurdle machine.... place the cat in your dryer and train him to jump over those agitators. Then we had the cat bungee jump, cat synchronized swimming, cat archery, and other events. I can't tell you how much those cats appreciated our Cat Olympics, and you can be sure, give us a fat cat and we would take care of that.

Fascinating, Marshal. I have always been passionate about helping aid the health of flatulent, flea-infested caninies whose greatest accomplishment to the collective is demonstrating they have mass, take up space, and consume vast quantities of doggie chow:

I invite all of you feline-phobic public servants to a 'celebrity workout' at my humble dwelling place. I have invented a special event for the Winter Olympics I call the Catcathalon. In pursuit of the quick, nimble feline, contenstants navigate the killing fields around my private compound. It is all great fun, and for a good cause.

Here is a picture of one of the referees at a recent practice event:

<img src="https://members.cox.net/mouseytounge/shocktroops1.jpg" height="350" width="600">
Please be assured, the howitzer is only for introducing a bit of incentive for race contestants, and to provide gut-splitting entertainment for the spectators. Other surprises await along the course to test the agility and ballistic properties of contestants. Bring as many bricks as you want, and of course, any Kevlar garments you might possess.

Ivan Betinov wrote:Was the cat synchronized to swim with a brick, by any chance?

It is remarkable, comrade, how much you resemble, sans jar and alcohol, my favorite canned tuna dinner. Or do you taste more like chicken?

General Mousey-Tongue, we must make allowances. The dog is a pack animal and as such is suited for the proles. We at the Cube of course make no class distinction but, and this is strictly in camera, some of the nouveaux comrades do behave rather like pack animals, do they not?

Whereas I, the owner of two cats, Calvin and Hobbes, have none of the pack in my behavior.

I tip my hat to your wisdom, Commisar. Forgive my impertinence, I am merely a soldier and servant of The People. The subtleties of political warfare are better left to the bureaucrats and party elite, no?

BTW, can I borrow your copy of '101 Ways to Wok Your Dog'? I seem to have misplaced my copy...

<i>101 Ways to Wok Your Dog</i> has been streamlined in this, the digital age. All recipes are now reduced to:

1. Put dog into Cuisinart.
2. Pour oil into wok
3. Fry dog puree.
4. Force-feed dog puree as is done in <i>Theatre of Blood</i>.

When I redid Vita Nova I put in two one-horsepower Insinkerators, which neatly solved the problem of the neighbors' poodles.

I must confess, however, that I have nothing against dogs which are not neurotic. But for neurotic yappy dogs I take Calvin's view:

Much like the New Yorker cover, it seems as if the subtle irony of my comment has eluded our inscrutible Sino Feline. Did I endorse tying a brick to a cat and dropping both into deep water? No. Did I suggest this is a good idea or acceptable practice? No. Bricks are useful and should not be lightly cast away. Did I subtly attempt to draw the Pup into an admission of his own latent prejudices, in much the same way that His Obamaness keeps emphasizing his race to trick the cagey Rethuglicans into revealing their true racism? Absolutely. Unless that'll lower my poll ratings.

Ah, Ivan, I do take your point. And you're quite right about the utility of bricks. After all, to that brick add a few million more and--voila--a concentration camp re-education hostel for people whose understanding of the requirements of the Progressive Society of Next Tuesday need further refining.

Sheesh. What I do for the party. I think that I need to take this weekend in El Paso to see if I can spread some Progressive Harmony there.

I think that I need to take this weekend in El Paso to see if I can spread some Progressive Harmony there.

May I suggest Laredo/Nuevo Laredo instead? The on-going four cornered international drug war (rival cartels and their police auxilliaries) is quite entertaining. I was hired to teach at Texas A&M International there a few years ago. When I arrived in Laredo to try to find a place to live I bought a newspaper to peruse the Real Estate section. The Lead story was an eye catcher: POLICE EXCHANGE GUN, BAZOOKA FIRE WITH NUEVO LAREDO CONVOY.

Comrade Cat.... Once again I find I must DENOUNCE YOU for WRECKING the Peoples Blog by posting an image so large, apparently to draw attention to you rather than working For the Common Good™, that it pushed the important People Messages on the right completely off the page! This of course forced me to take precious time away from my preparations to lead a task force to take back the House floor from a force of rebellious rethuglicans defying Nancy and common sense. This is not the first time I have found myself in this situation, cleaning up after you Comrade Cat. Perhaps some time in the Karl Marx Re-Education Center to reflect on your error and under go some training would be helpful? Or perhaps if you can remember that when you have such a large picture, do not use the People's image program. Use the html version. img src="Pictures web address.jpg" height="350" width="600" for instance. All of this surrounded by <>

Finally Comrade Cat, I do not understand this effort to bring disunity in the Party with your speciesism. I tried to help some poor, out of shape cats to get out of the rut they had gotten into, build up some muscles and endurance and I and my canine comrades get slandered? I have learned to get along peacefully with my comrades. It is no fur off my butt for instance, if Commissar Theocritus' beautiful house is infested with cats. I imagine that even that contamination pales in comparison to what the house must look like after a visit from the Empress, Nancy, or even the Chairman.

Oh, by the way Comrade Cat, you need not worry about devising any Olympic events for my canine friends. As you can see here, they are in tip top shape for the coming Olympic games

<center><img src="https://members.cox.net/a1sickpupe/agile dog test.gif"></center>

Ah, if only cats were so well trained....

Marshal Pupovich, I do see why you like dogs. After all it's their slavish devotion. I prefer, however, to exercise my megalomania over people who can fight back.

And cats do not defile "my beautiful house" (for which I thank you), but are instead so well trained that they only add grace to it.

And as to what we can learn from species? I do not want to present a wet nose and begging eyes to the world. But rather the utter indifference of a cat. You get better service that way.

(I'm not kidding.}

Marshal Pupovich, I do see why you like dogs. After all it's their slavish devotion. I prefer, however, to exercise my megalomania over people who can fight back.

And cats do not defile "my beautiful house" (for which I thank you), but are instead so well trained that they only add grace to it.

And as to what we can learn from species? I do not want to present a wet nose and begging eyes to the world. But rather the utter indifference of a cat. You get better service that way.

(I'm not kidding.}

This is the "wet nose and begging eyes" that I present to the eyes of the world, as needed....
<center><img src="https://members.cox.net/pupsdoghouse/angry dog 2.gif"></center><br>