I denounce Colonel 7.62. As we all know, and stupidly applauded, 7.62 has decreed that time would do what we wanted it to do. This sounded good, for a while. We're made progressives, after all--why should reality apply to us? We have been ignoring reality for years. Economics? Screw that. We don't want it. How better to control everything than to deny time?

A five-year plan could be a millennium or never-never plan, and all would be fine. I wouldn't have to worry about deadlines. I wouldn't have to worry about getting up on time. I wouldn't have to worry about, well, anything. Because time had been conquered.

I wouldn't have to be worried about a diet, because the Monday that I'd start it would never really come. I wouldn't have to worry about paying bills, because the due-by date would never come. Or I could just wish it away. Like a five-year plan.

But ever since Colonel 7.62 came up with his abolition of time, I find that the Rancho de Rio Grande has gone to hell. There is no gestation time for the nano Jimmy Carter rabbits. Bruno whacks one with a stiletto heel and five more instantly pop into existence. At one time they had to procreate, although I certainly don't want to think on how they do it. I shoot a talent-shitting pigeon and instantly five more appear. Before 7.62 pigeons had to hatch eggs.

Our Many Titted Empress Hillary comes to the Rancho with her flaming red eyes, gets shit-faced drunk on the blood of rich, white, Republican virgin girls, and she does it instantly. Sometimes she arrives shit-faced drunk. At one time I could figure that in 24 hours I'd be rid of our dear MTE--she's never happy when a neck doesn't have her trotter on it--but no, not now. Since time no longer applies, she can say here for weeks.

Janeane Gawdawfulo comes to the Rancho and comes up to me. "Theocritus," she purrs, "I can change your luck. I haven't shaved for a week. Just for you." But since there is no time that week could be a year. Before the abolition of time, she would only be stropping herself on me for five minutes before I could either stick a fork in my eye or run or start burning down the Rancho, but now? I could be fending her off for a year.

Nansky Peloski used to come by the Rancho, flying in on her fancy jet. "Zoom! Zoom! Buzz the proles in fly-over country!" I had to listen to her cawing about the 24K gold toilet she had put into her office, the one that she writes legislation from.

Now, since the abolition of time, Nansky no longer has the attention span of a gnat, and I have to listen to her. I have to watch her run around the Rancho, bent over, her arms behind her back, cawing, "Zoom! Zoom! I'm the great Nancy!" and it goes on for days.

His O'liness arrives. At one time we would only have to sink to our knees and worship the soles of his feet for a few minutes; all that levitation stuff is hard, even on His O'liness. But no, not now. He can float above our heads for hours. And the speeches. Since there is no time, the TelePrompTer is getting tired, for His O'liness goes on and on and on. Once even he tired of his sonorous platitudes. "Theocritus," he once said, "I'm so full of bullshit that only Katie Couric and Keith Olbermann would believe me," but not even he, sorry, He, doesn't get tired of Himself.

And perhaps worst of all, since there is no longer any time, Bruno never forgets that I never do what he wants.

My Dear Comrade Theocritus, why did you not come to me quietly about this matter. You see, there is a misunderstanding. Time still exists, it simply flows according to the needs of The Party(TM). I have found that it is easiest to manage events and people according to different formulas. For instance, you have observed that 5 year plans are completed on time. That is because we measure them on a different scale than say, the term of Dear Leader Obama's presidency.

It is clear we need some special Rancho time for you. That is no problem. Let me know your needs, and I will draft up a set of rules for the Rancho. This of course will mean redistributing some time from elsewhere, but I will simply note who winds up in Comrade Red Rooster's graveyards, or the Planned Parenthood offices, and redistribute time accordingly.

Meanwhile, I have temporarily returned the flow of time to The Rancho to that which it was before I was given my current office. This will continue until a special Theocritus Time(TM) is drawn up.

Ordinarily I would denounce you for your loud, and public attack, but I have so graciously seen that It Never Happened(TM).

7.62, I would be sobbing with gratitude except that the goddamned nano Jimmy Carter rabbits are pouring out of the woodwork hissing, "Nuclar! Nuclar! Nuclar!" Before 7.62 time, they couldn't do this. I could pop them with a pellet gun and ship them off to Pupovich and all would be well.

I do however like the idea of a special time line for Theocritus and the Rancho. That means that I'd never have to take another phone call from a Realtor again. In that gut-wrenching time between the ringing of the phone and the announcement that "Moo is on the phone!" [that's really what we call her], I could live the rest of my life and never have to listen to her.

But the only way that I will be placated is if Bruno can come stay with <i>you</i> at your dacha. I've tried everything--leaving him in Billings, Montana, and still he beat me home. If you will take Bruno all will be forgiven.

I can see we need to slow down time for the nano Jimmy Carter rabbits, and speed up time for your pellet rifle, and create Bruno time where he is seemingly trapped in his bathroom applying makeup for all eternity.

Sadly I cannot take Bruno in my dacha. Perhaps space and time can be bent to make a black hole around him though. That seems to fit the needs of The Party(TM).

If we can make bubbles of time in which we do what we want, we could pass endless stimulus bills--and enjoy the efforts of Red Star's goons. And the SEIU goons. Without having to worry about paying them off. After all, you can have all the stimulus that you want.

As long as the talent-shitting pigeons never come home to roost.

I really think that you ought to reconsider taking Bruno into your dacha. It's true that he can't cook. He won't clean. He's pretty damned useless. And after you've heard "Tico Tico" for the hundredth time it loses it luster. But still, there would be a certain charm for you to have Bruno.

It would charm the shit out of me.

Colonel 7.62 wrote:Meanwhile, I have temporarily returned the flow of time to The Rancho to that which it was before I was given my current office. This will continue until a special Theocritus Time(TM) is drawn up.

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Castrate, I am beginning to feel persecuted by you. You put a clock face on the bitter Gawdawfulo, and that after I had a sex dream about her in Vancouver. I still have burns on my leg from her leg, and that takes some doing.

And now this.

Castrate, why do you not come over to the Rancho? We can have a barbecue. With you of course as the guest of honor. It will be most progressive. We'll take things inch by inch. I have only the finest of stakes steaks.

Hmmmm, I recall the First Officer of the Soviet Submarine Red October telling the Captain that his dream was to move to Montana, marry a fat wife and raise rabbits.

I wonder what that thought criminal Snuggle Bunny has to say about that? We'll have to have a show trial for him if we can drag him away from his hidey hole at the Bunny News Network.

Commissar Theocritus wrote:Castrate, I am beginning to feel persecuted by you. You put a clock face on the bitter Gawdawfulo, and that after I had a sex dream about her in Vancouver. I still have burns on my leg from her leg, and that takes some doing.

Come now Commissar Theocritus, The Great Castrate^tm is an equal opportunity rat bastard, I spare no one my carnage. And BTW, you forgot about those rabbits I sent you.

Comrade Castrate, you are ordered to cease and desist with your meddling with of clocks. That is my department. Until such time as you comply, I must regret that Havana will remain trapped in a crumbling vision of the 1950's.

Castrate. Oh. Those were rabbits? I kept hearing all that hissing and I just shipped it on to Pupovich. And anyway I didn't have time for them. Gawdawfulo was here and she is so bitter she turned even the greasewood in the yard into lemons.

Colonel 7.62 wrote:Comrade Castrate, you are ordered to cease and desist with your meddling with of clocks. That is my department. Until such time as you comply, I must regret that Havana will remain trapped in a crumbling vision of the 1950's.

Colonel,

Perhaps a nice Prolex ^tm or a Maovado^tmwould be to your liking?

I also have some nice Obamatrons^tm.

What do you have in the 40+ year old rum department dear Comrade Castrate?

Castrate, I thought that Obama was already an automaton. Have you seen <i>The President's Analyst</i>? James Coburn plays the president's analyst, on call 24/7. He gets chased across the country, as I recall, and is trying to see Who Runs Everything. It is TPC--the Phone Company.

There is a smiling man who explains it and we see a telephone jack going into the heel of his shoe.

With modern technology we have Obama's big ears which receive his signals from Saturn.

Colonel 7.62 wrote:What do you have in the 40+ year old rum department dear Comrade Castrate?

We have good 151 Proof Baucus Rum and Captain Moron Moore Rum available.

I can't ship out immediatly though .. a bit short on funds, I had to "lawyer up" after getting caught blackmailing David Letterman.

Commissar Theocritus wrote:
With modern technology we have Obama's big ears which receive his signals from Saturn.

Commissar Theocritus,

Didn't you hear the news, Government Motors is trying to sell Saturn, rumor is that Progressive Car Enthusiasts will buy the company and renane it Uranus - " pronounciation - "Your-A-Nus".

This will be the car driven by the <a href="https://thepeoplescube.com/red/viewtopi ... 6535">Butt Bombers.</a>

Of course we could ask His Oliness to instruct the Butt Bombers; after all, for months he's had Nansky's hand up his ass all the way to the elbow.