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| Above the Drudge, 9 Oct 2013 - Doomsday |
As the Mogambo Guru likes to say, "We are sooooo screwed."
Yup, those poor American dupes, who are indeed dumber than your average bear, who have been up in arms (sort of) about banks repossessing their houses and cars, are now supposedly cheering because soon, the banksters will foreclose on the entire country. I forget who said it, and I'm too lazy to look it up, but..."No one ever went broke underestimating the American public." The Federal Reserve is case and point.
Here's a private bankster institution that lends money to the US gummint with compounding interest, and they're going to print money like two-ply toilet paper and stuff their banks full of it so they will lend it into the economy, thus creating incomprehensibly vast sums of debt and this will 'cure' the economy?
Someone pass the box of hammers that Americans are dumber than so I can hit myself over the head. This must be a dream...er, nightmare, and I want to WAKE THE HELL UP!
Let's see...what's an apt metaphor for this?
You go to the doctor with a case of gangrene in your right leg. He says, "Hey, let's cut op the left one and put some of that pus in there so they'll be even!"
Hmmm...that's close, though it should really be a patient with gangrene eating half his body, I suppose.
Or maybe we're Dr. Mudd (you know, the guy who treated Abe Lincoln after he got shot and whose name yours'll be) and we're pondering what to do with ole Abe. We hit on the idea of ventilating the other half of his head so that the damage will cancel out and ole Abe will jump up off the table!
Better.
If ginormously huge mounds of festering bankster paper got the world into this pickle, then by golly, another ginormously huge festering pile will get us out! Ain't that a great idea?
Who found this Yellen buckethead, anyway? A box of hammers is too good to describe their IQ. Oh...that's right...it was O'Bammie's idea, wasn't it?
If'n ya allus do what yer allus done, you'll allus get what yer allus got. A finer Texas expression you'll not find for this situation.
There's nothing left to do, really, but republish the Letter from a Kerryman's Mother. The Irish have a terrific sense of humor, and it will take that sort of self-immolation, I mean, self-defication - ah heck, you know what I mean - to get through the isht storm that's a brewin'. Pay special attention to the P.S. That's what Americans should be pasting all over their tax forms these days. Well, they should, but that'd require an IQ above the mean summer daytime temperature at the North Pole.
Take it away, Mom...
Dear Son,
Just a few lines to let you know I'm still alive. I am writing this letter slowly because I know you can't read fast. You won't know the house when you get home - we have moved.
About your father. He has a lovely new job. He has 500 men under him. He cuts grass at the cemetery.
There was a washing machine at the new house when we moved in, but it hasn't been working too good. Last week I put in 14 shirts, pulled the chain and haven't seen the shirts since.
Your sister Mary had a baby this morning, but I haven't found out whether it's a boy or a girl, so I don't know if you are an aunt or an uncle.
Your Uncle Patrick drowned last week in a vat of whisky in the Dublin Brewery. Some of his workmates tried to save him but he fought them off bravely. They cremated him and it took three days to put out the fire.
I went to the doctor on Thursday and your father went with me. The doctor put a small tube in my mouth and told me not to talk for ten minutes. Your father offered to buy it from him.
It only rained twice this week, first for four days and then for three days. Monday was so windy one of the chickens laid the same egg four times.
We had a letter from the undertaker. He said if the last payment on your grandmother's plot wasn't paid in seven days, up she comes.
Your loving Mother.
P.S.:I was going to send you five pounds but I had already sealed the envelope.
And so on...sampai jumpa!
