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Who Sent the Private Investigator To Check Us Out??? Where Is Old Snarly?

Gentle Readers,

This message is not really for you.

We are dropping the editorial ‘us’ in parts to make it less confusing. We think Cynthia Oldsnarly may have sent them.

On Friday, a private investigator named Kellie showed up at our Motel. She checked in with no luggage or purse, wearing a short-ish white dress and stylish hair and nails.
She came out of the front desk office and wandered the parkinglot aimlessly for an hour and then went to her room, near mine, when I came out on the balcony to see which room the possible hooker was going to visit.
As it turns she kept obviously spying on me, looking through the open spaces of a luggage rack on a car parked between us.
So, I decided to STARE at her to let her know she was not un-noticed. This prompted her to come over and up the steps to the balcony, where we sat drinking and chatting…about me…all about me…she said she would be gone in the morning and i watched her leave on foot, no luggage or purse, just a copy of Beatdom we gave her to read…

She kept me up talking about myself until 3am. We did not talk adult topics or any such shit…so why do people spy? why do they lie? why do they not be real in 2014????

funny thing is…we hide nothing, as all you kind readers know…and any import given to us is undeserved, since we are morons.

best from the staff!

*tis is a free blog…if you see typos, live with it or contact us about our exclusive paid blog!!!!!

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A Moment of Silence For the True Irish Saint, Bobby Sands

     Informed Readers,

     While we celebrate Saint Patrick, who made a name for himself by having a corpse dug from the ground so he could ‘baptize’ it and claim to have called the man from his grave,  we need to keep the real Irish Patriots in mind.  It is much better to save the lives of countless women and children by starving yourself than graverobbing in the name of the Pope.

    Read about Bobby Sands.

Bobby Sands Portrait

Bobby Sands MP

Officer Commanding IRA political prisoners, H-Blocks, Long Kesh. Born 9th March 1954, died 5th May 1981 after sixty-six days on hunger strike.
Twenty-seven-year old Bobby Sands, after enduring years of solitary confinement and beatings, led the 1981 hunger strike, during which he was elected as MP for the constituency of Fermanagh and South Tyrone in the north of Ireland.
Bobby became an international figure who to this day continues to inspire not just Irish republicans in their pursuit of freedom from British rule but people around the world struggling for their rights.

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Men In Kilts Are Not Irish; Blood Across the Shannon, Part II

     To the Kiltless and Kurious,

     Today we continue the saga of watching someone slowly bleed to death while traveling across Ireland in a busload of senior citizens.

     Traveling with a sick person brings to mind the Marx Brothers and the premise for their movie Room Service…you cannot throw a sick person out of a hotel.  The same dynamic was working here, only a skewed version of it.  Since a hotel cannot eject a sick person, they are not too keen on allowing them to check in.  Luckily, the size of our group and the sea of blue hair took the attention off of my dad and enabled us to sneak him into our lodgings.

     Pictured above, by the way, is the fabulous view of a peak on the Ring of Kerry, as taken from the Isle of Garnish in Bantry Bay.  The Isle of Garnish was a garden, the whole island cultivated to please the owner, the Earl of Garnish, who was no relation to the Earl of Sandwich – even though both may have benefited from the association.  So much for the sandwich humor.

     Being on a bus full of seniors in a foreign land may sound plenty dull.  That would have been the fact, had it not been for a fun-loving busdriver who made sure the oldsters got a few pints of Guinness into them at about 1030am every morning.  We would pull up at a bar and pile in.  A bite to eat, the standard salmon plate for me, and a couple pints and we were on our way.  Drinking the Magner’s myself, the driver always encouraged me to take two or three pints cans with me to drink on the bus while the oldsters slept off the morning stout.  “Ye’ll need it to put up with them old fairts,” he would tell me.

     One evening, while staying in Killarney, we took a ride to one of the many attractions which were part and parcel of the price of the ticket.  We went to Tralee to see the Siamsa Tire Theatre…siamsa tire is Irish for ‘entertainment countryside’.  The theatre was a marvelous mix of new and old, castle-keep walls fitted with new walls between them to make a modern-medieval venue.  The show was all dance…the four seasons, in fact, depicted in dance.  ‘Spring’ and ‘Summer’ were, pardon the pun, Flatley boring.  If you have seen Michael Flatley or any of the incarnations of Lord of the Dance, you see a lot of feet moving very quickly and (unless the costumes are tight or revealing) not much else to hold my interest.  Luckily, there was an intermission before ‘Winter’ and ‘Fall’.

     The first two seasons had nearly put me to sleep, so staying in my seat, our driver, Paddy, approached me.  “What ‘ere ye doin’ here, with these fairts,” he chided me, “There is a bar in the lobby. They have whiskey!  Ye need it for this sort of thing!!”  Heartily agreeing, I allowed Paddy to lead me to the lobby near the entrance where a bar was set up.  It looked like this, in fact it was this, only with coffeepots and whiskey, John J. Jameson, of course.

                                                                                                                                      

     Not being much of a whiskey-drinker, the first hot cop of alco-java went down a little slow.  By the second cup, it tasted mighty fine and was quite an enjoyable drink.  The house lights started dimming and the theatre personnel were tearing down the ‘bar’.  “Do I have enough time for one more,” I asked, imploringly, and was allowed to purchase my third and last whiskey.  It went very well with the legal Irish codiene tablets.

     Slowly making my way back to my seat, Paddy caught me at the door of the auditorium.  “Where, ye goin’,” he asked, as much as told me, “Ye doon’t want to be in there with awl them old fairts.”  He grabbed my arm and pulled me acrosss the lobby, to the door and windows.  “Look,” he exclaimed, pointing to a pub across the parkinglot on an adjoining street, “They have yer cider in there, I know!”  Looking into the theatre, seeing my dad and all the blue hairs in their seats, made me shudder.  “G’wan, Gw’an, with ye, ” Paddy ordered.  “I’ll not drive off without ye. Just be back at half ten (1030pm)!”

     It is hard enough to resist alcohol, as it is, without an enthusiastic Irishman prodding me.  Stepping out the doors into the light rain, and making my way to the pub, a warm feeling swept over me and drink was not on my mind anymore.  Tralee was not a place we would return to.  It had a famous name (from the annual Rose of Tralee Festival, as well as the annual Tralee Matchmaking Festival, where people come from all over the world to meet a mate) so it had to be seen.  The rain was steady, but light, and so did not bug me.

      I was in an industrial town where everything was brick, from streets to walks to walls of buildings,  all slick, shiny and wet with the rain.  No streets ran parallel, so there were triangles, where streets met, all over.  Not a soul was in sight.  It was dark.  I started singing, I have no idea what I sang, but it sounded Irish and, though not at the top of my lungs, it was loud enough to bring an echo from the bricks.  I have no idea how long this went on before I remembered the theatre and the time.  Managing to find my way deftly back,  I could hear the music and clap-clap-clapping of the dancers’ feet two blocks away.

     The show was almost over, it seemed, so ducking into the pub Paddy had pointed out to me, I managed to suck down two pints of Magners, when people began to emerge from the theatre.  The sidestreets of Tralee were one of the best parts of the tour!

                                                        Magners Irish Cider

     “Where were you,” asked my dad, who had slept through all four seasons?

      “Just out for a walk, I am not much on this kind of dancing,” was my reply.  Swaying back and forth in my shoes, he gave me that look he had given me all his life, the ‘pissed off at you for having fun’ look.  This time I deserved it.  We rolled off into the rainy black night and back to our hotel.

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Final Installment of K2 Khronickles

     Fearless Readers, we have come to the end of an era of sorts, a very short era – the era of legal THC.  We missed our chance to get in on the legal LSD up until 1967 and this gave us a chance to try new drugs and see what we could see with the aid of them.  Now, the shelves are empty and we still have seen no legal notice of a final rule in the Federal Register.  The media won, again.

     There will be more fake marijuana products coming down the line.  They are already available in some places.  It is sort of like when the US made amphetamine use illegal and spawned the multi-million-untaxed-dollars-a-year ‘meth’ market.  Smith Kline and French could have made a mint with their Dexedrine Spansules or the good old Bi-Phetamine 20s (the original ‘black beauties’) and taxes would have been paid on every purchase, at one level or other, and they could even have been regulated.  Now, every bucktoothed hillbilly from here to Sheboygan and beyond is making ‘fake’ speed in bathtubs, sinks and even in moving vehicles.  No taxes get paid on this stuff and it is a thousand times more dangerous than the real thing, which is given to students in grade school for treatment of ADHD.

     Recently, we took some Roxanol brand morphine and noticed that the pills are banana flavored.  This makes them a nice match for the grape flavored dexedrine tablets, called Adderall, which is what the kids in school get.  What a lovely, fruity combination!  What spells ‘gateway’ better than candy-covered, mind-altering drugs? 

     Not anybody can sell these confectionary compounds.  It costs a lot of money to make grape flavored speed; only big corporations who can pay off the officials we elect are allowed to sell stuff like that.  Imagine the fuss if a parent were to suggest the inherent danger in coating powerful chemicals with Pandora’s powder of sweet, sweet, sugary goodness.  Imagine the outrage over all those young lives lost to swallowing sweets.  It would be even worse than our upcoming diabetes epidemic, scheduled tentatively for 2020…but this ain’t pot so that will never happen.  Just one of life’s little ironies.

     Gentle Readers, you may have any opinion you wish as regards these substances. If you are for them or against them, you can find plenty of support online in chatrooms full of people who share your views.  One funny thing about the chatrooms, websites, organizations and other entities that concern themselves with such subjects – there really is no correct answer or proper view.  There is always a question-mark hanging over all participants and nobody logs off with a real, concrete answer…more often, a feeling of anxiety lingers.

     Many find this lack of answers to be quite frustrating.  Most frustrated are the majority of us, who are lied to, manipulated, bought, sold and shoveled shit to, by the media.  Less frustrated are the so-called power brokers who create and develope the standards by which we are ruled. Ruled.  That is the status of the K2 law…pre-rule.  The rule never made it to print in the Federal Register so it is technically still legal, if you do your own homework and use documents provided by the government.  Ask anybody and they will tell you it is illegal, however, because they saw it on the news or on the web.  If it is on one of those places, it has to be true…no?

     You can’t fool all of the people all of the time…how many times have we heard that?  It doesn’t matter, just so long as you fool most of them.  As long as the majority is confused, people foolish enough to waste time spewing the honest truth can say all they want; they have been diffused.  They can tell the truth all they want and the bad guys will still fuck us all over.  People do have memories, though.  Honesty always prevails, eventually, but much suffering has occurred throughout history while waiting for honesty to prevail.  It takes time.

     We have reached a tipping point, in many ways.  The world’s foremost scientists say we have passed the tipping point, in terms of saving the planet from we humans.  Whales are getting sunburns because the ozone is so thin, which is documented fact, while our leaders tell us they still have no concrete evidence that global warming exists.  This is why we should not follow leaders.

     We feel bad for those Dear Readers who have children that will have to face the rapidly deteriorating quality of life in the Western World.  The Eastern World will probably just be getting the final touches of their infrastructures in place when the big shoe finally falls.  You can develop India and Bangla Desh all you want but they will still be underwater, with most of Florida,  if ocean levels rise two more inches.  It is just a matter of so much more melted snow and the polar bears are running out of room already.

     Then there will be mass migrations to the USA and there will be even less to go around.  American Dream – yes, that is what it is.  There is no future here unless things take a drastic and dramatic turn.  As complacent as society has become, all the drama has moved to Congress, a place where level heads lose to cheap dramatics.

     So, with so many things sucking so badly, we close the folder on the K2 Khronikles in order to focus on other, more pertinent issues.  We will report any new laws or findings or anecdotal information we come across, as regards K2, Spice, Mr. NiceGuy, Black Mambo and the others, of course.  The subject has not fallen completely off our radar.

     We shall return and we shall still be Celebrating 50 Years of Substance Abuse but we will take the forum in a slightly different direction, as you, Gentle Friends and Fiendish Foes, will see.

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Ouchhy…I Need A Morphine

     Gentle Readers, many people make disparaging comments about the opiates. They are the drug that pot is the gateway to – even though there are 100 times as many pot users as there are heroin addicts. The point is, there IS NO gateway drug.

     After the accident on Wednesday, in the freezing rain, the usual paperwork and insurance covering ensued. Part of the process was loading the car onto a tow truck, since it could not be driven with the driver’s side window blacked out.

     In process of preparing the car for the tow, Your Humble Narrator backed out the passenger side door of his trusty automobile and, forgetting he was four feet off the ground on the bed of a tow truck, tripped over a six-inch lip that borders the truck bed and took a tumble four feet to the asphalt and ice below. Ever spry at 53 years, I popped right back up before a single, mean neighbor had a chance to laugh at my mishap.

     I must have landed like Spiderman, judging from the bruises on my fingertips and the small amounts of blood coming from beneath my freshly-trimmed fingernails. Obviously, the fall was broken by my quick thinking and my right side took the brunt of my weight crashing to Earth.

     While we enjoy abusing the substances as much as possible, we are using some precious Roxanol brand morphine to help the battered body deal with the pain. It is rather hard to type too much and so this is one of the shortest blogs you may see from CFYSA. We had it stored for mellow evenings, lackadaisically dropping the blue pills and washing them down with the thick, black Guinness. Today, the use is forced-therapeutic, and a waste of a good morphine sleep.

     Thank goodness the blog goes on, but there will be changes in days to come. We will still be CFYSA but we will no longer be writing The K2 Khronickles, as that drug is no longer available and we will explain in full once healing has proceeded a bit further.

     We have an ouchhy and we need our morphine and valium and…well, you know!

                                                    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     By the by…the newest issue of Beatdom is about to hit the stands! The artwork is brilliant!  The writing is top-notch, as to be expected. The subject of the issue is SEX.

     Watch for more Beatdom news soon!

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Another Janu-scary Smashup!!!

     Frozen Followers, last evening we on the East Coast of the US were treated with yet another storm.  This is not so unusual in and of itself, aside from the fact that our car lost control on the ice and while making a right turn, slid sideways to the left, introducing itself to the sign at the entrance of the shopping center where an emergency supply of Temptations brand cat treats were waiting.

     Luckily, the car has a good insurance policy, since the sign not only showed us where the market was, but also busted my windshield and sent a glorious shower of broken glass spraying from the hole where the drivers’ side window used to be. Nobody was injured and the car was able to be driven home, at which time we passed a few other vehicles resting inappropriately (creative way to say ‘smashed into’) lamposts and gaurdrails.

     This is our third Saturn, a deep sea blue, L300 Sedan. It is a nice car and got us back home. It is seven years old, almost to the day, from date of purchase and has only about 65,000 miles on it. In 2004, on Janu-scary (a bizarro word, lifted from Superman comics) the 24th, our second Saturn got, in the venacular, totalled. That was a smaller, red, sporty model with a cool decal of the planet Saturn on each side. We had traded in the previous model, which was exactly the same, minus the decal, just to get the planet on the side.

     Calculating in Leap Years, it would seem that this collision happened exactly seven years after the last one. This time the car survived, instead of ending up in a twisted mess of broken plastic connected to an engine. This time we did not break the windshield with forehead, like last time.

     Seven years ago, the accident occurred after nine hours of drinking Irish cidre at a traditional celtic bar, where the music started at 11am on Saturdays. Seven years ago, freezing rain was also the culprit since it was not discernable when walking across the graveled parkinglot. The streets were not slippery but the on-ramp to the highway was frozen and a car with four youths (yutes) lost control about ten yards ahead.

     We hit the brakes (the editorial we, as noted in The Big Lebowski) and watched as the shiny, red Saturn slowly and deliberately plowed into the haplessly spinning, white Toyota. The police came and were quite nice to us, giving us a ride to the police station to call a cab. The car had minimal insurance, even though it was only a year old, so your Humble Narrator had to make car payments on two vehicles for four years, a situation which sucked, to put it bluntly. This time we were armed with the ‘full tort’ premium insurance and everything is covered.

     Much medication was used in the process of calming down after the show last night but after awhile, everything melted together like morphine in a glass of Guinness.

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In the Poetry Corner With the Metal Machines

     Brilliant Readers,

     We were happily surprised that our last blog from the Beat CookieJar went over so well! We had been trying to think of new subjects, like K2, which would cause a stir but were happy to see that a bit of poetry gets more readers than a rant about our less-than-stellar form of government. The last poem got more views than anything we posted since the one about Obama getting the shotgun blast to the face.

     You may wonder what iambic pentameter is doing in the Beat jar but Allen Ginsberg told me I had a gift for the rhyme and that a lot of my poems would make very good song lyrics. It is on record in the Ginsberg Archives, if you care to see. Ginsberg, himself, had taken an interest in songwriting and rhyming meters at the time, which was during the heady ‘Punk’ days of the mid-1970s.

     All of my poems are open to interpretation since I will never explain them, so take it as you will and this one is titled, Metal Machines.

                                

                                    The metal machines move, mashing,

                                    gleaming, reaming blades all gnashing

                                     – a million daggers slashing,

                                     slicing, tearing, digging, thrashing –

                                     and chains that strike home smashing.

                                      like a billion forearms bashing;

                                      the victim stands alone.

                                      The victim’s skin flies, splashing,

                                       his life before him, passing –

                                       – before his eyes all flashing –

                                       like a flaming film impassioned,

                                       while the machine keeps fiercely crashing

                                       through the skull and finally smashing

                                       dead, bruised skin and splintered bone.

                                               ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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More Rights Down the Drain. Police Can Search Without A Warrant. NORML Stands By.

     Dearest Readers,

     Today we have more news on why AmeriKa is becoming less and less of the great country it once was.

     The Supreme Court has such a bone on for reefer that they are changing basic seacrh and siezure laws so that a cop can claim they smelled the odour of pot coming from your residence and kick your door down. If you live in an apartment and the person in the apartment next to you is omitting the smell of burning reefers, then they can kick your door in because ‘it smelled like it was coming from there.’  This is getting bad and they wonder why politicians are getting shot in the head. Laws like this will cause a lot more shootings and I will KILL anybody who forces their way into my home for any reason. I have the firepower and I am getting old, with not too much to lose…this from the ‘hempnews’…

Supreme Court Looks At Smell-Based Home Searches For Pot

by admin

January 19, 2011 – Police smelling marijuana coming from behind an apartment door can enter the home without a warrant if they believe the evidence is being destroyed, some U.S. Supreme Court Justices said on Wednesday.

More than 60 years ago, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that police couldn’t enter a residence without a warrant just because they smelled burning opium, reports Adam Liptak at The New York Times.

On Wednesday, during the argument of a case about what police were entitled to do upon smelling marijuana outside the door of a Kentucky apartment, two justices were concerned that the Court may be ready to eviscerate the 1948 ruling which stemmed from a Seattle case.

​ “Aren’t we just simply saying they can just walk in whenever they smell marijuana, whenever they think there’s drugs on the other side?” asked Justice Sonia Sotomayor, considering what a decision against the defendant would tell the police. “Why do even bother giving them a search warrant?”

The old ruling, Johnson v. United States, involved the search of a Seattle hotel room. The smell of drugs could provide probably cause for a warrant, Justice Robert H. Jackson wrote for the majority, but it did not entitle police to enter without one.

“No suspect was fleeing or likely to take flight,” Justice Jackson wrote. “The search was of permanent premises, not of a movable vehicle. No evidence or contraband was threatened with removal or destruction.”


Since the War On Drugs was re-started by President Ronald Reagan in the 1980s, the Supreme Court has steadily given police more leeway to search cars, travelers and baggage, reports David Savage at the Los Angeles Times. But the justices have been reluctant to allow searches of homes without a warrant.

In the new case, Kentucky v. King, police in Kentucky were looking for a suspect who had sold cocaine to an informant. They smelled burning marijuana coming from another apartment — where Hollis King and his friends were smoking marijuana — knocked loudly, and announced themselves.

When they heard sounds coming from inside that made them think evidence was being destroyed, they kicked the door in and found marijuana, cocaine, King, two friends, and some cash, but not the original suspect, who was in another apartment.

King was sentenced to 11 years(!) in prison, but the Kentucky Supreme Court overturned his conviction and threw out the evidence, ruling that any risk of drugs’ being destroyed was the result of the decision by police to knock and announce themselves rather than to obtain a warrant. The Kentucky court ruled that officers had entered the apartment illegally and that the evidence they found should not have been considered in court, reports Robert Barnes at The Washington Post.

The key issue is whether an “exigent” or emergency circumstance allows the police to enter a residence without a warrant. Sadly but no longer shockingly, Obama Administration lawyers joined the case on the side of Kentucky’s prosecutors.

The police who broke into the apartment “reasonably believed that there was destruction of evidence occurring inside,” said Ann O’Connell, an assistant to Obama’s Solicitor General.

Prosecutors for Kentucky and the federal government told the justices Wednesday that the Kentucky court had erred. They claimed there had been no violation of the Fourth Amendment, which bars unreasonable searches, because they claimed police had “acted lawfully.”


​But Justice Elena Kagan had doubts about that approach.

If the court looks only at the lawfulness of police behavior, Justice Kagan said, that “is going to enable the police to penetrate the home, to search the home, without a warrant, without going to see a magistrate, in a very wide variety of cases.”

All the police would need to say, Justice Kagan said, is that they smelled marijuana and then heard a noise. “Or,” she added, “we think there was some criminal activity going on for whatever reason and we heard noise.”

“How do you prevent your test from essentially eviscerating the warrant requirement in the context of the one place that the Fourth Amendment was most concerned about?” Kagan asked Kentucky Assistant Attorney General Joshua D. Farley, who claimed the police had done nothing that violated the Fourth Amendment.

Justice Sotomayor was even more direct, asking “Aren’t we just doing away with ‘Johnson’?”

Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg asked why the police could not simply roam the hallways of apartment buildings, sniffing for pot, knocking whenever they smelled marijuana, then breaking in if they “hear something suspicious.”

“That would be perfectly fine,” Kentucky Assistant Atttorney General Farley replied.

Justice Antonin Scalia revealed some unflattering things about his worldview — which, God help us, seems to be that of a judgmental 10-year-old — as he said he was not troubled by the standard the government lawyers proposed. He said that police can’t go wrong by knocking loudly on the door.

“There are a lot of constraints on law enforcement,” Justice Scalia said, “and the one thing that it has going for it is that criminals are stupid.”

Scalia said that “criminals” often cooperate with police when not legally required to do so. They might open the door and let officers inside — and if not, the police can break in, he said.

“Everything done was perfectly lawful,” Scalia said. “It’s unfair to the criminal? Is that the problem? I really don’t understand the problem.”

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Obama Keeps USA In The Dark; No K2, No Medical Marijuana, Ban on Lightbulbs – The Voice of the Shroomed

     Appreciated Afficionados and Literate Bums,

     This was not meant to be a post about what is on television, however last evening saw the premiere of Showtime’s Shameless, a bald-faced ripoff of the successful British series and a blemish on the the career of asteemed-until-now actor, William Macy. I think Macy had a middle initial but for such blatant lack of artistic vision, he does not deserve his full name on the CFYSA blogsite.

     The latest season of the REAL Shameless series is about to unfold on UK television and the American version is so un-original as to be a complete insult. There is no way that the British actors, who breathed life into the series characters, can  be equalled by those in the Showtime series. Why bother? If the show is a hit and rights could be bought, why not just sell the REAL version to the unsuspecting, culture-deprived American audience. We at CFYSA, suspect that this has something to do with subliminal cues which American advertisers and government agencies slip into what we watch to brainwash us. If people enjoy the British version, they do not get the proper programming which National Security uses to keep the poor un-informed and prone to the whims of corrupt media that controls the core thought process of the US.

     For the spooks in power, it would have been a missed opportunity to gradually convince us into accepting less and less of the Rights which are the bane of the current, corrupt batch of politicians who run your life without asking your opinion. It would have been like missing the chance to start a national ban on 100-watt lightbulbs.

     In mushroom country, the joke is ‘they feed us shit and keep us in the dark.’ For the rest of the country, it is not a joke. The phony drug war claimed a few dozen lives last weekend. The focus of it all, despite the numerous lives lost, ended up focusing on Rep. Giffords. When a person takes a place in government, they supposedly offer their lives to protect the ideals upon which this country was formed. If a politician like Gifford is instrumental in the enforcement of policies which nobody wants and which irks the Mexican Syndicate, it is expected for her to be shot. It is her job. She is paid well for it, much more than you or I will make in a year.

     There is no reason for sympathy for a person who is injured or dies in the line of a service which is corrupt and serves only to foster future war, violence and economic disaster. Cry for the innocent…if it were not for Obama and Giffords trying to enforce policy that the head of the DEA calls ‘impossible,’ she would not have taken the shot she had coming as a risk of perpetuating war. If anybody should be shot, it should be a public person…not a baby.

     She and her followers need to ‘suck it up’ and accept it as a part of holding office. The national weepfest over her pretty face is uncalled for. She asked for it when she took the office. She made a target of herself, quite idiotically, on the 114 mile war zone she insisted on commmanding. No tears for pols. Not even the Kennedys, who were equally as corrupt with their booze running and organized crime affiliations.

     The current body of legislators who are trying to ruin the quality of life in this once-great Union have it coming. They keep us in the dark by banning anything which may make us think outside the box, or, in other words, think for ourselves. Many young black men are shot in the US everyday of the year and nobody is seen shedding a tear on CNN.

    Similarly, a new boon to organized crime, in the form of synthetic cannibinoids, K2 or Spice, was derailed by the Thought Police. While they may be quasi-illegal, terrorists and criminals are making a mint selling them, even though a unique ‘ban’ has been placed on them. The federal and state governments lose money, the elected officials who run these legislature get rich on kickbacks and we are happily kept quite thanks to lack of knowledge of fact regarding these substances…or shall we say, “KEPT IN THE DARK”.

     More astounding is the recently-announced National Ban on 100-watt lightbulbs. A very slick move, since it disrupts much more than american bulb companies making a profit. We probably have a free trade contract with India to import bulbs from them so they can own a bigger slice of the American Dream while students and hard-working citizens are deprived of more and more as weeks go by. With less light, it is harder to read books and non-propagandized materials. You can still read on Kindle, but the net allows for subliminal cues which cannot be tracked in the absense of ‘hard copy’. Books hold the truth, in many cases, and so they are dangerous to our government.

     In the 60s, our hero, Bob Dylan, said something to the affect of ‘keep a clean mind and always carry a lightbulb.’ At the time, it was looked upon as a pouty piece of pop puffery and a clever bit to make people think. It takes on a whole new meaning in the world where we worry more about lightbulbs than about the standard of life of the people of the USA. About 20 years later, he recorded a song which presciently noted, We used to frow food in Kansas, now we grow it on the moon and eat it raw. I can see the day coming when even your home garden will be against the law…and what do you know? Some factions in this country ARE trying to make home gardens illegal.

     My land is my fucking land, if you will pardon the expression, Gentle Readers, and I should we allowed to grow what I want on it, even if it is only tomatoes.

     Your Rights are being taken away from you like a schmuck at a game of three-card-monte…you do not see it coming and all of a sudden, you have nothing left. That is the landscape of our modern attempt at democracy. The only difference is, in three-card-monte, we do not elect street hustlers to rob us with sleight of hand. In the case of modern-day america – we elect and pay the hustlers. In monte, the crook folds up his table and vanishes when he has taken his hapless victim for all they have. In our government, they take all your cash and then tell you that you need to give more…or else!!!

     Please do not live in the dark. Wake up America. Even Bill Maher is starting to make sense again and that is one pathetic circumstance.

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New Issue of Beatdom Is On The Way

    This is a special edition of CFYSA.

     Issue Number Eight of Beatdom is near completion. This is the sex issue. To the left is the cover of the journal you need to purchase.

     Your Humble Narrator will have a few bits of work published in it, as in the past few issues. Everybody loves sex and everybody loves Beatdom so make sure to order a copy from Amazon.com or directly from www.Beatdom.com , where back issues and free downloads of past issues are available.

     There will be more to come later about this exciting issue. This is one of those ‘be there or be square’ deals, so don’t miss the boat. Be the first one on your block to have a copy. Make the neighbors jealous and read it on your porch!

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