it really, really do

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“Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask,” said
Scrooge, looking intently at the Spirit’s robe, “but I see
something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding
from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw?”

“It might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it,” was
the Spirit’s sorrowful reply. “Look here.”

From the foldings of its robe, it brought two children;
wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt
down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment.

“Oh, Man. Look here. Look, look, down here,” exclaimed the Ghost.

They were a boy and a girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling,
wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where
graceful youth should have filled their features out, and
touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shriveled
hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and
pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat
enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. No
change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any
grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has
monsters half so horrible and dread.

Scrooge started back, appalled. Having them shown to him
in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but
the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie
of such enormous magnitude.

“Spirit. Are they yours?” Scrooge could say no more.

“They are Man’s,” said the Spirit, looking down upon
them. “And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers.
This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both,
and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy,
for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the
writing be erased. Deny it!” cried the Spirit, stretching out
its hand towards the city. “Slander those who tell it ye.
Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse.
And abide the end.”

“Have they no refuge or resource?” cried Scrooge.

“Are there no prisons?” said the Spirit, turning on him
for the last time with his own words. “Are there no workhouses?'”

— Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol: The Second of the Three Spirits

As I sit here in full kabuki make-up, an orange jailhouse jumpsuit, and my own urine, watching Mitt Romney’s campaign surrender speech — in which he is essentially ceding the Republican nomination to John McCain — I am struck by how very predictable and frightening these neo-con pricks truly are. So far, right on schedule, he’s trotted out all the old Republican favorites for demonization: welfare mothers, single mothers, unions, fags, larsbins, Latinos, African-Americans, godless heathens, abortion-craving whores, violent video game-playing pre-teen scalliwags, and all the unpatriotic traitors among us who don’t support this despicable, illegal war. Hell, even the freakin’ French are thrown under the wheels of the bus driven by a guy who is probably only a single goddamned generation out of the cultural and religious practice of buying, selling, trading, and breeding pre-teen females like they were cattle. His overriding message? The current “culture of dependency” is destroying this once-great nation of ours. You hear that, all you sinful, single, welfare mamas out there shoveling waxy government cheese into the gaping maws of little Ignorance and Want?

YOU ARE THE PROBLEM.

Of course, the problem couldn’t have anything to do with all of the hypocritical bastards who claim to be all about Strong Christian Values and the absolute condemnation of The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name — and then get caught in their wife’s lacy pink t-back thongs rubbin’ feet and bumpin’ nuts in men’s airport restrooms in the Midwest or, better yet, gettin’ nailed (bareback, no doubt) in the sanctimonious keester by some greasy, tweaking 22 year old hustler named Jared they picked up on Craig’s List, now could it?

How they demand that abortion be made illegal in this country by outlawing a woman’s profoundly fundamental right to control her own body and reproductive destiny — and then do NOT A GOTTDAMNED THING to help take care of all the unplanned babies that have already arrived — like perhaps provide them with quality, affordable, available healthcare. Oh, gosh, but so many of them are that awful brown color.

How they just LOVE sending other people’s sons and daughters directly into harm’s way in a counterfeit, profit-driven war that never should’ve happened in the first fucking place — particularly if those sons and daughters have said awful brown skin, no economic prospects for the future, and last names like Washington, Jackson, Lopez, and Garcia — while their own precious offspring (who are also every bit as fit and eligible to serve as those goddamned Bush twins, I might add) safely toil away earning their Gentleman’s C’s at places like Yale and Harvard and meet for tea every Thursday night in the sacred bowels of Skull and Bones to plot out how they are going to carve this fucking planet up a little smaller amongst themselves and the murdering, racist, imperialistic, dynastic families from which they hail.

People of good conscience in this country need to pull the flags outta their asses and open their gottdamned eyes to the rape, pillage, abuse, and exploitation of our nation that has been perpetrated by the unparalleled mastermind criminals who currently steer this rapidly sinking garbage scow we call home. I have had it. These neo-cons and all of their vast legions of sick, twisted, pasty, inbred, repressed Prayer Warriors can all suck my left one. Tend your own fucking gardens and stay out of my uterus and out of my bedroom, you latent, self-righteous, misguided cocksuckers.

Look, kids…go to church. Go to hell. Go to Fire Island and strut back and forth on the beach in mesh chonies and cha cha heels with sparklers shooting out your ass, I don’t really give a shit. Just go. I wish you into the cornfield. I want my country back. Hypocritically pious pricks like you are completely insane and off-track — and even worse than that? You can’t fuck and you never could. Trust me — Dick Cheney cannot fuck…and that’s a deal-breaker in my book. Fuck off.

Though on a more conciliatory note, in closing I must say that after watching Mittie’s speech in its entirety, it was comforting to find that despite how much I loathe him and his kind…we can at least agree on ONE very important issue.

Oh, and trust me — IT REALLY, REALLY DO:

Romney Pulls Out

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About muffybolding

Muffy Bolding is a mother/writer/actor/knitter/feminist/withered debutante who likes the smell of asparagus pee, and remains obsessed with the bathroom hygiene of her three children -- despite the fact that they are 23, 19, and 16. She is blissfully married to a cute Jewish boy who looks like Willie Wonka, but remains tragically in love with the dead poet, Ted Hughes. She has the mouth of a Teamster, and her patron saint is Rocco (pestilence relief.) Ms. Bolding lives in Southern California, where she enjoys typing words, making movies, and plucking the rings from the fingers of the dead. She was the co-creator and Editor-in-Chief of the award winning satire zine, Fresno Lampoon, and in between writing screenplays, carnival barking, and savagely threatening her trio of darling larvae with a wooden spoon, she currently publishes the zine, "Withered Debutante." More of her work can also be found in the anthology, "Mamaphonic: Balancing Motherhood and Other Creative Acts", the compilation zine, "Mamaphiles III: Coming Home", as well as in The Cortland Review and hipmama.com. She is currently writing and producing for film and television, and working on a book of essays entitled, "Inside A Chinese Dragon." She has slept around, but not nearly as much as she would have liked.
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3 Responses to it really, really do

  1. Pingback: it really, really do | k a r a h ~ l i n

  2. I love you so much, Buffy, and I love your writing! You are always, always on the side of justice and mercy!

  3. Vida Deville says:

    I love when you wish people into the cornfield.

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