|come, taketh my hand saith the Bachman,|
and i shall lead you to the promised land,
and corn. Lot's and lot's of corn. And thou
shalt count the corns. All of them damn it!
and then i shall gift thee, for I am, thee jobeth
Michele Bachmans Jihad as I tumble down the Rabbit hole, a revolutionary post
I'm trying to work yesterday with the news in the background when all these stories, Obama and social security, McConnell (aka Alvin the Chip monks daddy) petulantly saying he doesn't want to play anymore, Ron Paul and the banks, further proof that Pakistan is using the money we give them to kill our soldiers, Gingrich doesn't want to sign a slavery/marriage pledge, Death threats to Casey Jurors resulting in talking heads such as Nancy Grace (my God what a talking head, talk talk talk talk talk) titillating "opinions" that we now need professional jurors because Americans aren't smart enough to be jurors, start coming at me so fast I started experiencing cognitive dissonance. Whoa now, whats real and what isn't? Did I hear somebody was going to duck tape a wick to a bowling ball and go to the airport (whoops excuse me, that was America has talent)?
As a past connoisseur of hallucinogenics (enough so that it is still questionable as to whether or not I ever left the sixties) I can't afford cognitive dissonance! It makes the locust that appeared in my head after the last time I bounced my head off the rear bumper of something splitting my helmet down the middle, get louder and louder. Which is all just another way of saying that reality is somewhat tenuous for me on a good day.
But having sworn off hallucinogens I no longer have them to blame. Which leaves me pointing the finger at Stepford wife and Uber Christian Michele Bachmann. Please do not get me wrong. I have not prejudged Ms. Bachmann. In fact when my eyes first fell upon her I was smitten. Unlike President Carter who "lusted in his heart" I was lusting in my jeans pocket. In fact I told my ol Lady, tell me if that Bachmann lady comes back on, I gotta change my jeans.
There is something erotic about the fantasy of a Faux Christian Milf dressed in PTA clothes, riding fender fluff position on the back of my Bike as we cruise down the internet blowing the horn at truckers.
"Breaker 19, ya'll......."
That fantasy quickly dissolved as I realized she is a bot developed by the dept. of defense who has been programmed to repeat in a nasal whine, "I am a job creator, I am a Job creator, I am a job creator,.......... no matter what the question asked of her. Though I have to admit to being captivated by the seemingly vacant stare in a botox frozen face finding myself wondering, where the hell is the windup key? Kind of like listening to Revolution number nine on the Beatles white album when your stoned.