from Arthur Magazine No. 29/May 2008

CULLING TIME by Dave Reeves

“A joke is an epitaph on the death of a feeling.”—Nietzsche

If we are in Iraq looking for the guys that did the Nineleven caper we’re stupid because, according to the FAA, the pilots are usually among the first people to arrive at a crash site.

The only other 9/11 joke I’ve heard is:

Knock, knock
Who’s there?
Nine eleven
Nine eleven who?
You said you would never forget me.

Yeah, it’s not funny. Not just because the feeling isn’t dead. It plays on the fact that 9/11 is an old heartbreak whore of ours, the one who unfettered our basest desires, which we’ll be paying for for the rest of our children’s lives. Har de har.

Your kids are going to be pissed when they see the pictures which Colin Powell pointed at when he talked us into World War Three.

“Daddy is it true that you guys started World War Three over a picture of a meth lab out in the desert?”

“Well honey see we didn’t have no education back then and so we didn’t know that nuclear fission takes whole buildings full of advanced ceramics, Germans and yellow cake uranium to manufacture…”

It’s good that we can’t tell a meth lab from a nuclear bomb-making facility because it means that our elders saw fit to give us the gift of bliss, which more judgemental people would call ignorance. With this bliss we are free to see the world without any preconceived notions based on science or pre-known facts.

Back when people got educations they were indoctrinated so thoroughly that they believed crazy shit like the Civil War was fought to free black slaves. Anybody stupid enough to think that white people went to war and killed other white people for the rights of black people will be stupid enough to believe that we are looking for Osama Bin Laden in Iraqian Permian basin.

That’s right: Though you’ve been taught that the American Civil War was some kind of freedom ride gone horribly awry, it was, in fact, an economic war. The propaganda that the War Between the States was about freeing slaves was made up for a speech called the Gettysburg Address, much as the “Axis of Evil” was made up by a speechwriter. All the proof you need is to witness the war being fought in the streets of America to jail black people today. Putting one out of six black men behind bars is a pretty good start at re-slaving America, chains and all.

How did we get so stupid? Practice, man, practice. Our acquiescence was bought behind the persistent machinations of faux-Fox News, whose confusions enabled Diebold machines to send Americans to do just that. Five years later, 4,000 soldiers have boldy died behind a mission yet to be defined. On top of that we didn’t even get the damn oil. Greed was good, back when it was smart.

Considering that the war industry is America’s biggest export, you may wonder how we got in a war and a recession at the same time. Plus, if we were to leave Iraq right now, some Pol Pots would jump up in the vaccum to turn our Fallujahs into Sinaloas.

Fallujaloas. I can already hear the heroin getting stronger.

With this is in mind we must be sure that Bush must not be allowed to kill himself. It is our job as responsible Americans to make an example of this man. I propose that the Decider, Laura and the twins be waterboarded to death at the Lincoln Memorial. If something of this sort is not done, World War Five will be blamed on you and me for the rest of our miserable lives.

It is a matter of style. The reason why Italians don’t get the proper blame for the Euro-fascism of Hitler and the boys is because the Italian populace punished the figurehead properly. They strung Mussolini and his bitch wife up by their heels and beat them naked and dead, in the middle of Rome. This act allowed the world to forgive Italy for sparking the pitiless hell which burned Europe and Japan to cinders. If the Italians hadn’t beat Il Duce like that then the world might have known the Pope was a gay Hitler way back then.

The responsible populace needs to do something to exonerate ourselves from being duped by ol’ George. It would be apropos to cut George’s head off with a butter knife on youTube while screaming some religious babble. Let’s flip the script on these Semites, like an Arab killing a stranger. We could leave the Bush women and children alive to be sold as curiosities in brothels, then chased from village to village in a hail of stones, allowed to live as a reminder of what happens to smug, stupid assholes who steal elections.

This nutty buddy of mine called the Constitution of the United States of America suggests an armed bunch of guys and gals are supposed to organize into a militia to do this. It’s like our forefathers were Nostradamuses to see a crooked politico clusterfuck like this coming.

I suggest some kind of hipster army. Why not? Jodie Foster had an army. It was only one crazy guy, but he shot Reagan. I notice George Bush is still unshot. I heard they let Hinckley out. John if you are reading this: “Try, try again.” You should be even more ashamed to let Jodie Foster live in a world with George Bush as president.

We must crusade for the good and get the mySpace poseurs to put the skateboards down long enough to get hurt for something more than a hobby. It’s springtime in the revolution, time to get down to the nut cutting. Real cowboys call it the “culling time.” Every head of the herd is to be saved or chopped off.

The price to join the militia is the procurement of some sort of protection system more realistic than calling the cops. Those that can take care of themselves look forward to whatever form the apocalypse takes. If you are not ready to save yourself, then what good would it do for a militia to save you? That’s two soldiers down for somebody that didn’t have the sense to survive in the first place.

Get some boots. Armies are made of leather and rubber. Procure a flashlight, shotgun, water, motorcycle, siphon hose, iodine, sleeping, bag, knife, lighter and set of cojones. If you have these things, you are a militiaman or militiawoman.

Say you don’t watch enough news to be mad enough to shoot anybody? Let me have your shotgun and you’ll be drafted to be a goddamn Politician for The Cause. In a world where Bush has a DUI, Obama admits to messing with cocaine, and Clinton had cigar sex with a girl in a Gap dress you have been thrust into the arena of the politically viable. Your peccadillo body modifications, aderal addictions, litanies of filthy text messages and binges of internet porn perversions have not freed you from being an American. Indeed, modern America is why you’re a modern American, and vice versa. When a major presidential contender has been cuckolded by a tobacco product you have to really limbo to be beneath being a viable candidate anymore.

America took a page from the playbook used at the great Cradle of Wars of Dien Bien Phu, Little Big Horn and Israel: build a fort somewhere surrounded on all sides by hostiles, preferably at the bottom of a hill or a heights. Supply the Indians with rudimentary weapons and then make them mad as hell. Make sure to give the enemy plenty of chances with exposed supply lines to inflict damage so that the following wrath and retribution seems warranted. Occupy enemy territory using whatever means necessary. Repeat this process until the world is a Mall. Yee haw.

Our generation apes the criminal with the tattooes, the pimp cup wiggerdom and self-medication. Turns out that these are good impulses, because, like Hakim (if that is his real name) Bey says “there is always the element of the criminal in the Nietzschean overman.” So listen to your tattooes, you big overman, and be criminal enough to take the country back.

I’m here to tell you that America is good real estate, as long as you didn’t actually buy any of it on a subprime loan. See, the real America can’t be bought, you got to take it like our forefathers did. The time to flank these assholes is now, while their national guard troops are off on the fourth tour of duty.

Until then, ain’t nothing changed. America is up in an Indian war dressed like Custer again. There is talk of retreating out the back door of Iraq, also known as Iran. A bold move for sure, soon to be glorified in the cave drawings left by the survivors of the near future. I got a 9/11 joke: “Fission Accomplished.” The reason that one isn’t funny is because it’s not a joke.

David Crosby Reeves is working on a militia project and riding around on a motorcycle trying to eat everywhere that Jonathon Gold eats. Also sometimes he writes.