International Writers Magazine: US Election 2008:
The following was sent
from The Reality Check News & Information Desk to the Obama For America
campaign headquarters on the late afternoon of 8/20/08.
Letter to Barack Obama
I am in no mood for professional niceties, unless it involves a
devolved fit of abject rage and spite, for which I am currently
well primed. Less than twenty minutes ago I took the business end
of a rusty axe to this conjunctively rotten "wireless keyboard"
the bloated snake oil fiends at Microsoft had the audacity to ship
to my new digs here at The Loft on Clemens Estate.
There is no use
trying to explain the motivation for such an irrational act. Suffice
to say it had to go. The goddamn thing was as useless and infuriating
as nearly every half-assed piece of miserable crap those spastic nerd
zombies continually pitch as technological elixir. Fuck them.
Needless to say, this eerie mental infarction set off shock waves through
the outskirts of our normally sleepy neighborhood. It's been a rough
few days for these people. Around midnight Friday, the giant maple tree
at the far end of The Compound's Building #2 cracked in half and took
down several power lines, plunging miles of homes into complete darkness.
Unbeknownst to them, much of their electrical current was rerouted to
a phalanx of burning wires spilled along the edges of my property. I
screamed; "My lawn is on fire!" for six consecutive minutes
before the arriving police apprised me that lethal levels of toxic smoke
had been billowing uninterrupted into my lungs the whole time.
Now an otherwise melodious late-summer afternoon is obliterated in a
din of manic screeching and cursing, as I repeatedly bashed what passersby
could only hope was an inanimate object onto the doorjamb of my office,
and then, after kicking and stomping every key from its cheaply fashioned
moorings, I stumbled into the deeper reaches of my barn to grab the
bluntest object I could find and impale the enemy of my purpose: To
make words, these words, sent to you.
I only recount the fallout of these ridiculous events to prove a point;
shit happens, and you had better be prepared to do anything it takes
to see it doesn't derail your goal. My goal was to get this letter out
today, come hell or high water or failing equipment from faceless corporate
junk peddlers. We do not suffer swine with a smile here at The Desk
and so shall you not suffer it from this moment forward, especially
if you want to make good on this insane promise to sweep a liberal,
African American intellectual from the North into the presidency. But
as you face insurmountable odds, remember one crucial element: You are
the Forgotten Generation's only hope now, pal; the lost souls born at
the ass-end of Boomer and before the beast-whipped sensibility of the
seventies fully rendered X's apathy.
Don't fuck this up. I mean that in its most base form; DO NOT FUCK THIS
UP. Any burp, any mild slip will doom us all. Listening to the dyspeptic
reciting of historical perspective by mind-raped worm lizards working
at the NY Times is a recipe for defeat. All those jackasses who
prompted you to get in the mud ring with the Clintons have proven themselves
laughingly ineffectual. Keep the chin up and the hands clean and we
might survive this weird experiment until mid-September with a puncher's
A Puncher's Chance means having little or nothing to do with the powerbrokers
of this condemned Democratic Party of yours. It is loaded with freaks
and losers, and no one without dung for brains believes a single word
any of them utter. Shit, two years ago the lot of them were elected
railing endlessly about stopping "the war", but as you may
have noticed, it was as binding as a mortgage writ on the Florida coast.
Time to finally distance yourself from those who will anchor your wings,
including deranged assholes like Jesse Jackson who canonize victimhood,
but they are nothing more than malicious creatures devoid of conscience.
When they reach out to befriend you your soul will whither to dust.
There is clearly documented incidents of this in the Library Of Congress
-- look it up.
Jesus, man, you're not even from the South! How is this supposed to
work exactly? I can tell you now, ignore the South, the whole horrible
abortion of it, just make as if it never existed, as Lincoln did. You
stand in awe when you realize that in 1860 the greatest president this
country ever produced carried only two of 996 counties below the Mason-Dixon
line. Let the goobers paint you as a snubbing elitist; it only emboldens
the Midwest. Those people are angry for being jerked around for twenty
years by the socio-theological yammering that passes for political platform.
They don't give half a fart who marries whom or gun laws or rap music;
they want to be counted, so get the count. Get it twice if you have
to. Ask Teddy K. how to do it before he slips into final unconsciousness.
This week you're going to stand in a football stadium and pomp it up,
but know this; only the most wretched, morally stained mutants can survive
what you are about to encounter. I have watched a parade of dime-store
charlatans maneuver their rotting corpses into the White House for over
four decades, and for the first time someone born within fourteen months
of me, and in a stunning development, actually someone who doesn't want
to make me gag has a shot at the Big Chair.
Focus on that and forget all these silly pleas for Eastern Europe or
asinine lip service for a Maoist Fairness Doctrine and begin to pay
attention to the white-haired wild man behind the curtain. His eyes
never look right to me. They dart queerly and his grin is a mask of
sinister madness. But I am not averse to vote for him. I do not hate
John McCain as I have hated almost everyone who has fronted a major
party since 1972, but McCain used to have a point, now he believes in
nothing but winning. I find that strangely refreshing, like Brett Favre
going all Paris Hilton to play another down of football. But this is
more than politics or voting or a laying of hands. It is about destiny
and righteousness and getting what I want, what you want, to force the
bastards to eat dirt and like it.
So as I sit here banging on my old, reliable keyboard and stare unblinkingly
at the mutilated remnants of what used to pass for newfangled technology,
once a shiny beacon of possibility silenced forever beneath a blizzard
of misguided passion, I offer these words of wisdom: One man's salvation
is another's demon.
Let this be your lesson and your clarion call, my friend.
Yours in battle,
© James Campion Aug 25th 2008
Olympics: Let Pestilence Ring!
This is what comes from being in debt to monsters. For the best manifestation
of this please refer to either video of the president dancing like an
imbecile at the Olympic opening ceremonies or the later chapters of
Brett Easton Ellis' sophomoric novel, Less Than Zero,
in the Uphill Part I
from his world tour as media darling, Barack Obama, Democratic nominee
for president and political rock star extraordinaire, looks invincible.
He is charismatic, youthful, and one of the most consummate orators
this country has produced in decades;
IN '08 Parts I & 11
Internet influences every dimension of the political and campaign process.
In fact, its driving many campaign professional out of their minds.
They no longer have complete control over their message. I know that's
a long answer, but I feel very passionate about it.
Bye, Miss American Pie
Barack Obama Buries The Boomers
is our time. Our time to turn the page on the policies of the past.
Our time to bring new energy and new ideas to the challenges we face.'
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