A New Inauguration Speech

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PostMon Dec 03, 2012 1:50 am » by The57ironman


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...a guy like this needs to be elected....

.............listen to this , in it's entirety , and tell me what's wrong with it.... Image



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....there's no Stairway nor bustle in the hedgerow!!

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PostMon Dec 03, 2012 2:39 am » by xSZx


The57ironman wrote:.

...a guy like this needs to be elected....

.............listen to this , in it's entirety , and tell me what's wrong with it.... Image



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There is nothing wrong with it.....no just kidding..hehe got you.
No but seriously....don't you think comedy is better when you have a straight guy and a funny guy.
Just one straight isn't funny.
But i don't want to talk about that now....

oh but you know that story about the politician that kept saying to the people.
"I am a terrible leader, WHatver you do dont vote for me"
" Dont VOTE for ME...got it...dont vote for me"
And what did they do?
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PostMon Dec 03, 2012 2:50 am » by The57ironman


ArchDoomBringer wrote:oh but you know that story about the politician that kept saying to the people.
"I am a terrible leader, WHatver you do dont vote for me"
" Dont VOTE for ME...got it...dont vote for me"
And what did they do?

.


Image
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....there's no Stairway nor bustle in the hedgerow!!

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PostMon Dec 03, 2012 2:56 am » by Noentry


The57ironman wrote:
ArchDoomBringer wrote:oh but you know that story about the politician that kept saying to the people.
"I am a terrible leader, WHatver you do dont vote for me"
" Dont VOTE for ME...got it...dont vote for me"
And what did they do?

.


Image



Reminds me of Brewsters millions.

None of the above.


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"The third-rate mind is only happy when it is thinking with the majority.
The second-rate mind is only happy when it is thinking with the minority.
The first-rate mind is only happy when it is thinking."
A. A. Milne

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PostMon Dec 03, 2012 3:15 am » by xSZx


Please Don't Vote For Me
by Sparrow
The poet and political provocateur Sparrow has run for U.S. president in every election since 1992. Sometimes he runs as a Republican and other times as a member of a party of his own invention — the Pajama Party, the Ear of Corn Party, the Sudoku for All Party. To his knowledge he has never received any votes, but this seems only to encourage him. He is the author of three books: Republican like Me; Yes, You Are a Revolutionary!; and America: A Prophecy. The following are excerpts from his campaign journal. A small number of them first appeared in the online journal GroundReport.

RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT is a job (though unfortunately one without a paycheck). For me it involves finding a newspaper in the garbage every few weeks and reading it cover to cover while wondering: How would the ideal President respond to this?

During my campaign I look for subtle signs: proverbs in fortune cookies, overheard scraps of conversation, the cawings of crows. From these I build my platform.

First of all, I must beg you not to vote for me. Why? Because I disapprove of third-party candidates. Besides, I don’t even want votes. What good are votes to me? I won’t be elected!

People are often mystified by my stance. “Why are you running for President,” they ask, “if you don’t believe in third parties?” Let me explain. Suppose you were a crack addict and spent your day desperately attempting to raise fifteen dollars for your next hit. If, one afternoon, a college student were to ask you, “Do you believe in being a crack addict?” you would probably say, “What are you, crazy? Of course I’m against being a crack addict. But I am a crack addict.” Similarly, I am compelled to run for President even though I disapprove of third-party candidates — or, rather, I disapprove of left-wing third-party candidates. Right-wing fringe candidates are great, because they help elect Democrats, and as horrible as the Democrats are, they are three thousand times better than the Republicans. People sometimes say they want to vote for me. Well, too bad. You can support me; you can organize choruses and parades for me — that’s perfectly acceptable. But when you enter the voting booth, swallow your pride and pull the lever for Obama.



MOST AMERICANS AGREE that it’s inherently unfair for them to pay taxes to support government workers. Why should taxpayers have to foot the bill for expensive pensions and dental insurance for pencil pushers? Once I am President, I will begin a pilot program to run the government with all-volunteer workers. We’ll start small, with just the Department of Commerce and the Navy. Neither of these government entities seems to do much of anything, so no one will notice if they are a bit slipshod. I’m hoping there are enough young people with trust funds, panhandlers, and widows in their sixties to staff these departments.

If you visit the nation’s capital under my administration, you may notice five or six people standing outside naval headquarters asking for spare change. One of them may be a rear admiral!



SOME PEOPLE THOUGHT Barack Obama could never become President because his middle name — Hussein — was also the name of Iraq’s former dictator. I have an even greater hurdle to overcome: I happen to resemble Osama bin Laden.

My beard is similar to his and over time has whitened in almost the same pattern. He and I were born within four years of each other and both wore neopsychedelic polyester shirts in the early seventies, before we chose a spiritual path. I meditate twice a day and eat vegetarian. Osama prayed five times a day and ate halal. Also we’re both Semites. (I’m half Jewish, and he was an Arab.) When I was an undergraduate at Cornell University, I planned to begin wearing robes once my pants and shirts wore out. Fortunately my pants and shirts never all grew threadbare simultaneously, but I do have a thawb (a Muslim prayer gown) that I bought in Cairo in 1987, which I sometimes wear on Halloween.

Soon after September 11, 2001, a “Wanted Dead or Alive” poster of Osama appeared at a restaurant in my town, Phoenicia, New York. A teenager walking down the street pointed to the sign, then to me, and shouted, “It’s him!”

Luckily for me, in 2003 our nation invaded Iraq, turning attention away from Osama, toward the sneering Saddam.



THOUGH I AM UNLIKELY to become President, I do have a long list of qualifications for the job: I compost. I recycle (even plastic bags). I use old envelopes as scrap paper. Instead of napkins, I use a towel. Instead of tissues, I use a handkerchief. Instead of paper towels, I use a sponge. Instead of toilet paper, I use water. I don’t have a tv, a microwave, or an air conditioner. I buy pants once a year for twenty-five cents at the Formerly Yours Thrift Shop. My wife gives me haircuts. I don’t drive; I take public transportation or hitchhike.

My carbon footprint is the size of a wild hyena’s. For that reason alone, I should be Commander in Chief.



ACCORDING TO MY NEIGHBOR Ted, in 2012 the planets will all align, which will cause the earth’s magnetic poles to shift, leading to numerous earthquakes, volcano eruptions, and other disasters. “Nobody knows what will happen!” Ted says.

All the more reason I should be Prez.



CANADA IS A HUMBLE, kindhearted nation. It’s impossible to imagine a Canadian version of Mount Rushmore. Have you ever been to Toronto? It’s a city of 2.6 million and the largest metropolis in the country, yet no one there has the self-importance you see in New York, Boston, or San Francisco. They’re not competing to see who can be the best Torontonian. Even the word Torontonian is patently absurd.

Toronto is one of those cities, like Copenhagen, that doesn’t care to be noticed. The only time the world pays attention to Toronto is during its film festival, which has become a huge media event largely because Canadians can’t stop themselves from being unerringly polite.

When I am elected, I will be the first American President to move to Canada. In fact, I will move the White House to rural Saskatchewan (outside the town of Theodore). There I will have an objective view of our gruesomely tormented nation.



I HAVE RUN for President five times. Each time, I have begged the American people not to vote for me. Each time, they have cooperated. In this sense I am the most successful candidate in history.



MY WIFE AND I are currently housesitting for her brother. We’re inhabiting his three-bathroom house while he, his wife, and their four children attend a wedding in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. At the moment we have five television sets, two refrigerators, a jacuzzi, a swimming pool, and a pool table. (The refrigerators, of course, are bulging with food.) For six days my wife and I possess the American Dream.

And how is it? I feel sluggish and bilious from eating too much. My back hurts from sleeping on a huge, soft bed. I am lonely. We can’t get the dvd player to work, despite my brother-in-law’s instructions via cellphone.

I am desperate to return to noble poverty.



HERE’S MY NEW bumper sticker: unemployed and proud.

Under capitalism we’re taught to blame ourselves for our own unemployment. The victim of a layoff begins to feel “unemployable” after eight months. Nonsense! Unemployment is built into the American system of economics. From 5 to 9 percent of the people must be unemployed at all times for the massive machinery of our economy to hum.

When I visited the Soviet Union in 1990, every restaurant had at least six waiters, all standing in the rear, gossiping. When you walked in the front door, they’d glare at you and continue talking. Eventually one of them would resentfully grab a few menus and thrust them toward your face. There was roughly one waiter for each patron. That’s full employment.

In a Walmart there’s one employee for every three hundred shoppers.

The unemployed must gather together and fight for respect. They are the sacrificial lambs of the capitalist temple.



FROM READING THOUSANDS of comic books, I have learned that villains must be stronger than heroes — otherwise the plot has no suspense. Real life is the same way. The bad guys are much mightier than the heroes. My campaign for President is a perfect example. I am a single, penniless underdog up against the massive power of the military-pharmaceutical-heterosexist-McDonald’s complex. It seems impossible that I might prevail. Yet Spider-Man routinely beats Dr. Octopus.



DO YOU EVER SLEEP standing up? I never have. But then, I’ve never been in a crisis situation like a war, or the final rounds of American Idol.

Once I’m President, however, I will probably find myself sleeping on my feet.

The danger of being President is that you can actually start a war in your sleep. You might hear a voice, as if from a great distance, saying, “Mr. President, shall we begin the bombing of Latvia?” and you’ll mutter, “OK.” I suspect that President Obama was asleep when he started the war on Libya.

This is why the Constitution clearly gives only Congress the power to declare war: the chance of 535 people all falling asleep at once is minuscule.



IN AMERICAN POLITICS we no longer use the term “extremist,” but I would like to bring it back, because I am one. I believe in the extremes of human hope, generosity, and intuition. I believe our whole nation needs a massage: one of those deep-tissue massages that are excruciatingly painful but that “release blockages.”



THE REPUBLICANS have made a tactical error by constantly using the term “Obamacare,” because it sends the subconscious message that “Obama cares.”



MY FATHER SAYS the rioters in London have the right idea: “At least they’re doing something!” I want to promote rioting in the U.S., but violence troubles me. For that reason I have invented nonviolent rioting, in which an unruly mob wanders through the city singing Brazilian folk songs and lighting incense.



DO ONLY ASSHOLES SUCCEED, or does success turn you into an asshole? This is the great unanswered question of capitalism.



IN JANUARY even Americans forget to shop. After the orgy of gift giving in December — to celebrate the birth of a homeless beggar — they are sick of shopping malls. They sit in their living rooms, staring at the television as if trying to decipher a foreign manuscript. They ponder their massive debt. Occasionally they eat a piece of pie.

Then, just before Valentine’s Day, the urge to shop returns.

When I am President, I will attempt to extend the January shopping hiatus at least through April. Patiently I will teach Americans the art of nonbuying.



JOBS HAVE BECOME the central question of this campaign. Certainly Americans believe they should be working (though most of them would benefit spiritually from lazing around). But I am the only candidate to ask: What is the best type of job?

The answer is obvious: being a consultant. Anyone you meet at a party who modestly admits, “I’ve been doing a little consulting lately,” always beams with happiness. A consultant is a person renowned for her wisdom — and who wouldn’t enjoy a reputation for sagacity? When I am President, I promise to make America a nation of consultants.



OUR NEW ECONOMIC MORASS needs a better name than recession. It is, apparently, a long-lasting restructuring in which everyone gets poorer (except for a sprinkling of Warren Buffetts). So far the best word I can think of is deepression.



MY WIFE HAS BEEN READING the Psalms. I opened the Bible to her bookmark and discovered Psalm 120, which ends, “My soul hath long dwelt with him that hateth peace. / I am for peace; but when I speak, they are for war.”

How perfectly the psalmist has expressed the frustration of being surrounded by militarist jerk-offs. Centuries later I am for peace, but “they” are for war. Why do they like war so much? What’s the matter with them? Haven’t they tried collecting stamps or attending minor-league baseball games?



BACK IN THE DISTANT, optimistic days of 1998, most educated people believed that the new “information superhighway” would usher in an age of enlightenment and wisdom. If everyone had a personal computer and could instantly learn the “facts” about any social problem, we could finally institute a true democracy. Citizens could vote from home and run the nation with the push of a button. We could abolish the archaic House of Representatives, and possibly the Presidency!

Today it’s clear that the more information everyone has, the stupider they get. Now that we can, in .23 seconds, learn the population of Savoonga, Alaska (671), more and more of us believe that evolution is a lie, that the Federal Reserve is controlled by China, that Jesus will soon return, that Obama is a Nazi Communist, and that the planet Mars has a statue of a woman. (I have seen the Martian statue myself, discovered by an alert armchair astronomer in a nasa photograph; the woman is seated, naked, with one outstretched arm.) The information superhighway is actually a dirt road, leading up a ridge into the remote hills of Tennessee.



I DON’T MIND WATCHING Hollywood movies; I just resent paying for them. I would happily see the latest blockbuster if I were given a small amount of money — as little as thirty-five cents. Instead I’m expected to shell out $12.50 for the privilege of being mistaken for a vicious child.

The last movie I saw was Tree of Life. My decision was influenced by the incessant hype in New York, a magazine I adore. Tree of Life was visually engrossing, with truly spiri­tual aspirations — but, like every Hollywood movie, it had zero politics. Zero! It’s a miracle, really, that a director can create two hours of human conflict that is not liberal, conservative, Marxist, Christian Democrat — nothing. (Actually Tree of Life did take a firm stand against the spraying of ddt in suburban neighborhoods.)

And even Tree of Life promulgates the myth that anyone who works hard can get ahead. Every Hollywood movie must do so since the Red Scare of the 1950s; it’s in the standard screenwriter’s contract.

Movies have now degenerated to the point where everyone agrees that television is better. People go to the movies to escape the intellectuality of Mad Men! But, I must say, Holly­wood movies are still delightful on airplanes, where they’re free, and preferable to endlessly contemplating the inevitability of death.



LEFT-WING RADICALS are delighted that the American Empire is collapsing. Mainstream liberals are oblivious, because they never believed we had an empire. The right wing is literally going insane.



HUBERT HORATIO HUMPHREY, the luckless Vice President of Lyndon Johnson, lost the 1968 Presidential election to the venomous Richard Nixon. A pudgy, amiable, slightly ridiculous person, Humphrey responded to the hippie movement by articulating the “politics of joy.” No one was convinced by this slogan then, but I am reviving it now. Perhaps I will be a more successful emissary of this near-mystical concept.



ONE REASON THERE’S SO little dissent in America is that we have fake socialism, by which I mean Walmart and dollar stores. The poor can buy provisions wonderfully cheap at these places — not because they are produced cooperatively, but thanks to slave labor in China, Malaysia, Indonesia, Vietnam, Honduras, and Guatemala.



LAST FRIDAY NIGHT I visited Occupy Wall Street’s encampment in Zuccotti Park in downtown Manhattan for the first time. As soon as I arrived, I met three suny graduate students: Leo, Danilo, and Dan. “You look like Sparrow,” Leo said. I was shocked. No one ever recognizes me. I’m more obscure than the bass player for the Butthole Surfers.

During our conversation I asked Leo what he was reading. He said Crime and Punishment. “That’s funny,” I said. “I’ve just been obsessing on Crime and Punishment!” At that moment a woman walked by with a sign saying (about the Wall Street moguls): Crime But No Punishment.

Strange miracles constantly happen in Liberty Square (as it is known to sympathizers). The place has the air of a yoga retreat: a hopeful, asexual giddiness.

Within fifteen minutes a guy handed me a slice of pizza.

“Is this vegetarian?” I asked.

“It’s vegan!” he replied.

I sat by the shrine of the kundalini yogis and ate it. Whole wheat with peppers — quite tasty. Soon afterward I was on the food line receiving salad, couscous, macaroni and cheese, and broccoli. I returned to my shrine seat and ate while a female newscaster from Georgia (the country) filmed a report. A cop watched, smiling. I’ve been observing New York City cops since 1958, and it’s always a good sign when they’re happy. I suspect the cops support us. If ordered to, they’ll arrest us, expel us from the park, even brutalize us — but deep down they agree that Wall Street sucks.

As I finished my meal, two middle-aged women from New Jersey walked by. “Can I take your picture?” one timidly asked. They were Occupy Wall Street tourists.

“Sure!” I replied. “May I unroll my sign?”

She agreed, and the second tourist and I stood together behind my slogan — arrest the alpha males — while the first woman took our picture. They were delighted. It was like posing at Yellowstone National Park next to a bear!

The Right claims that Occupy Wall Street is secretly dominated by anarchists, but the real inner cabal is composed of smart academics. This movement has learned from all the failed activism of the last forty years. In the 1960s young hippies attempted to overthrow the established order, but their values were completely opposed to those of the working class. Now the young hippies have signs that say, We Are the 99%. (Besides, the working class is no longer scared of long hair.) The Occupiers also refuse to be pushed to the left. They don’t attack capitalism or even the war in Afghanistan. They just say over and over, “Why did they bail out the banks but not us?”

I’d brought a collection of my poems with me, and after I’d finished my dinner, a man announced, “The poetry reading starts at 9:30.” Another miracle!

The reading featured rappers, neoconceptual art poets, funny Jews, and a Puerto Rican mother from the Bronx. In keeping with Occupy custom, the crowd acted as “human microphones,” repeating everything that was said for the benefit of those in back who couldn’t hear. Poetry, I discovered, is improved by a group of people chanting the words after the poet has spoken them.

Eileen Myles read a brilliant poem playing on the absurdity of the audience echoing the poet. “I’m the poet!” she shouted.

“I’m the poet!” we all repeated.

“No, I’m the poet!” she insisted.

“No, I’m the poet!” we all agreed.

It felt like the first poetry reading of the New Conscious World.
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PostMon Dec 03, 2012 4:16 pm » by The57ironman


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.......oh , thankyou archdoombringer..... :scary:


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....there's no Stairway nor bustle in the hedgerow!!

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PostMon Dec 03, 2012 4:57 pm » by xSZx


The57ironman wrote:.

.......oh , thankyou archdoombringer..... :scary:


.


sorry
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PostSat Dec 08, 2012 11:48 pm » by The57ironman


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......the Q+A.....


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....there's no Stairway nor bustle in the hedgerow!!

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