Possession With Intent....

Frame job of yours truly increasingly unlikely.... Weirdos. (Check it, Smeck!) But I must say, Virginia had a sour attitude last week. Maybe the Way family could give it up for an intervention on television, with KCRA (certainly Tim Crews would smell a rat a mile away.) As long as anyone who speaks out can be discredited, right? Unfortunately, Bentonville sent poor "Marc," who rather looks like a condom full of gristle and green bacon drippings, to hack his way through an ill-advised takedown (haven't seen him lately, but his name is still on receipts -- at least ours from today.)

Meanwhile, as of today, around 12PM, Interstate meat from Clackamas (the 73% lean) is still there:

pic from 05/24/2017, mid-day

BE ADVISED: I trusted this meat for months, and could not believe that there was some sort of filler in the March batch. Walmart continues to treat me "suspect" as a customer, and Bentonville has apparently been dissuaded initially from outright paying me off, as well as addressing the very real problems with the Clackamas, OR operation. I RECOMMEND AGAINST BUYING THIS IF YOU SEE IT IN NORTHERN CALIFORNIA STORES.

My family spends hundreds of dollars at the #02053 store (Willows, CA, off the I-5) every week, and I will continue shopping there until I am banned.... (In good Walmart news: got everything we needed today for brother's visit this weekend.)

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Love Is But The Song We Sing, And Fear's The Way We Die

The ring is mine, and so are the men. The ring is steel, and the boys, so hard -- quiet and hard (somewhat section-eightish of them, that silence... "Sound off like you've got a pair"); not there, not there anymore. But they're always mine and I theirs ("semper fidelis" is the motto, right?) I lose the ring from time to time; and give the boys a hump and a half looking for me, but never for too long...

(Disgression: Oh my! Upon writing this, I got schooled: they weren't as mute as my characterization makes out -- far from it, I'm sure. But those times when they were near, I know for a fact they never dared talk over me. I must be getting old.)

I started it, of course: if I had to answer, then yes, I know the significance of the ring -- the signficance I confabulated: One of the crowns etched in the ring is for me, the other five crowns for each of the sterling dorks in the unit. I don't know the story before mine, which is this: in 2012 or thereabouts, one fine blustery day, I purchased the piece of jewelry in question for $10 at the bazaar in UN Plaza. I'm sure it was crafted in the bountiful East, specifically in either India or Pakistan. More than that...?

Why the Marines? Who fucking knows? What should I be to the Corps, but an old oogle, a puke with no excuse. And all five of mine are interchangable jarheads, as far as they themselves, and as far as whomever or whatever they put their dicks in on an overnight pass are concerned...

I am one nobody, one of six nobodies, and among us the token civilian (useless, to purloin my late father's turn of phrase, as tits on a boar hog): Hi, my name is Will. Want to hear something cool? So whatever -- you couldn't pull it off, ritualistically excruciating me. In my humble opinion, gold star for effort, you know? The problem, I'll tell you, is you, not me; it's just not in your nature to deal me pain, not that way, certainly -- you'll always fail. I, on the other hand, have done what a legion could not do to me in return. Lord knows I've accomplished some inflicting in my time. Maybe I could teach you how to do it the right way, but I'm not confident of that... I hate to sound fatalistic or woggy, but one probably has to be born to do it; hurting others so well is a knack, or it must be one's karma.

Recovered by the Queen of the Gold Diggers, and returned to me during a visit last year to her lair at the Center of the Universe...

Stainless steel, my friend -- no rust. Yes, bitter, you know, but also six times luck. Good price for you, okay?

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URGENT: Renovation campaign: WILLIAM R WAY BOX 206 STONYFORD CA 95979

FACECROOK TWITCHER

Reminisce On The Love We Shared...

Dreadful, deeply unfunny joke within a joke ad infinitum:  Condoleeza Rice was Secretary of State; her main claims to fame were that she was a Sovietologist in a post-Soviet world, as well as a conservative black woman possessed of a damn regrettable 'do.  America went to war in Afghanistan anyway, precipitously and forgetful of the Russian example there.

Great moments in history, which should always terrify considering history's inescapable grip on our lives and the world we aim to live in.

America, 2016

The nerve...

The Latest (And If I Had My Say, the Last) Straw

But then, when have I ever had my say?

Oh, right.

Here we go again.  What a sad, terrifying (but is it still mystifying, in 2016?) story.

Of course, if it had happened in San Francisco, the article in the SFGate wouldn't have come out until it could cite a fig-leaf toxicology report from the City's creepy ME at General, cover for the cops, and downplay or neglect to mention the victim's poor grandmother, who also died in a hail of gunfire.

They're lucky I wasn't there, or I probably would have pulled another mean Dark Phoenix number (with of course the little leg up from my usual lovely, anonymous assistants -- always grateful for you guys out there), twisting their porky, hair-trigger asses all over the place.

Goddamn them.  He was just a kid.  And his grandmother!

I don't blame so many people for being afraid to ask for help...

Not That The Onus Is On Me...

...to "prove" anything, but I think when I get paid next month I'm just going to go ahead and buy an otoscope, and post a picture of my outer ear canal and eardrum.  Then we can all agree for once and for all whether or not I do have some kind of hardware in my skull (I don't see how it's possible, because I don't recall any recovery time being necessary after the procedure was allegedly performed in 2009.  Weird shit.)

It should at least put to rest any debate that's going on out there among those schizophrenics, tweakers, and other undiagnosed individuals as to whether or not I personally have a government implant.  I mean, I could just be as crazy as everybody else.  That is a possibility...

Dad

Reason for visit:  Acute Respiratory Failure

Medical Problems:

• Chronic respiratory disease
• Chronic a-fib
• Hyponatremia
• Chronic, continuous use of opioids
• Anemia
• Acute respiratory failure
• Staphylococcus aureus bacteremia
• COPD exacerbation
• Atrial fibrillation with rapid ventricular response
• Encephalopathy
• Sepsis
• Alcoholism
• Decreased urine volume
• Coagulopathy
• MRSA bacteremia

Doesn't sound good, does it?  And he's only 67.

Sorry To My Frienemies At The CIA

But you would have shown little to no loyalty to the psychologists who colluded with you and lent your efforts an air of legitimacy.  The Obama Administration may have shown little interest in prosecuting what journos have found festering under a big rock, but let's hope either the current President changes his mind on this (he may, with only a year or so left in his presidency), or a Clinton or Sanders administration is less reluctant.  (I don't expect much from Clinton, but Sanders or Warren would be great.)

Sort of Reading Between the Lines (Not Very Subtle Stuff)

"And do not say because of the lies which your tongues utter, 'This is lawful and that is unlawful,' lest you should forge a lie against Allah.  Those who forge lies against Allah will never attain the goal."

There is a lot wrong with this story.  Reading between the lines, what comes out is an admission of an unnecessary sting operation carried out by some public image-obsessed FBI employees.  The unintended consequence of their doing so and then suckering some thoughtless journalists is that I feel sorry for this misguided young man, who was strung along by FBI agents and a horrible excuse for an imam -- all of whom took advantage of his mental illness in order to have a laudatory turn at the spotlight.

I mean, the kid was in the bag pretty much from the moment the FBI started investigating him, something that happened as soon as he tried to enlist (not unusual, by the way, as my father was investigated by the FBI when he applied to enlist in the Navy during the Vietnam War -- he almost didn't get in because of my Grandmother's communism and Black Panther associations.)  What the hell?

(And as for Imam Omar Hazim, shame on you for breaching confidentiality as a cleric offering counseling, and for being so crass about someone's disability.  Just as much a failure as a Muslim as any violent criminal or terrorist who claims to act for the will of God.)

Back In The World

"And knowing's half the battle!"  That's what they say before the rousing theme designed to inflame your spirits and sense of patriotism, but they never tell you what the other half is:  a lot of pain and blood and heartbreak.  They never warn you about the shit you can't unsee:  half of Scarlett lying in a ditch, her intestines trailing away from her.  They never tell you that guys like Duke and Ace will come back so chewed up, they may as well not have come back at all -- you want to sneak into rehab at the VA and break their fucking necks because it would be a mercy.  They never tell you after Allah knows how many tours that you'll go so far beyond section 8, Cobra Commander's propaganda videos are more precious to you than a Carrie Underwood sex tape.

It's harder than you know.  People are so universally loving and supportive when you come back, but they don't understand how you never really come back.  Certainly, nothing below my knees came back.  And when civilians see the knee-hinge with those tell-tale dangling rubber bands -- I tell you, those who don't pretend not to look try to thank me for my service.  I tell 'em right away it happened when I was drunk and dicking around by the railroad tracks.  I don't even bother to slip my dog-tags into my shirt -- I just bald-face lie and dare them to call me on it.  Fuck, I'm so fucked up on this fucking hillbilly heroin and nightmares about reality I can't even hold on to the same IHSS worker for more than a week...

Reprinted From Facebook

Yeah, so no indictment. [It doesn't matter] whether you call them protests or riots, or what names you call the participants. At some point, words are shown to be the lies they can be, and are of no importance. I approve of the fact that there has been a populist response to the situation. That means people are still pissed off about the injustices ingrained in our culture -- good. Fine. I support any and all instances of civil disobedience in the wake of the jury's decision.

I have never in my history on facebook unfriended anyone. But I will unfriend the first moment I read a post in which the people's response is characterized as riots, if I see any talk of "savages" or "animals," or if I see that fucking ugly as sin meme in which a cop says "This is why we shoot you guys." I'm all for raw humor myself, and have been known to go places that will make South Park fans blush, but that shit -- especially that final meme I just mentioned -- is not cute or funny at fucking all.

EVERY 28 HOURS

(PS:  Much love to the veterans who wrote to protest to their brothers and sisters in the National Guard that the latter please stand down.  Thank you for using your voices in such a way, and bringing your thoughts and feelings to the table -- and as always, for your service to our country.)

Resident Evil Pipes Up

Granted, I'm lower than low.  And poor!  Don't even get me started on that...  Still, lately I've had a problem with being paraded about with multiple gunshot wounds and busted out entrails beyond my awareness.  I'm really quite shocked that onlookers continue to tolerate it.  I'm not in charge, but it seems no one wants to account for an ambulatory chitlins parade...

Thanks everyone for your forbearance and patience.  I'm glad when it usually works out in the end, but we'll see how it goes in my case...

I Know I Have A Lot To Complain About...

But what's the point?  It's bad enough that people nevertheless found out about my situation -- how traumatic for them!

Okay, so a bit of belated venting (I've said so many thank-yous and your-welcomes, and will again soon):

I'm trying to avoid home all day today.  The unit is cheap for more than just the usual reasons.  Sometimes it feels like the psychosexual playpen of some worthless pieces of shit who somehow found jobs doing something no one should ever have done (certainly, no one with an iota of scruples asked them to.)  My neighbor continues to stalk me (and not even because he likes it -- his orders were to pretty much harass me to suicide, as though killing me weren't the easiest thing in the world.)  They've (and why the hell on Earth did I have to be the one with not only "Them," but multiple thems, some of whom are, as morality and good taste probably require, nominally on my side?) failed at everything, of course:  causing aphasia was one stated goal, suicide was another, "Elizabethan Drama" AKA Hamlet Murder Spree was another (idiots -- any ethical behavioral specialist would have told them immediately that someone as emotive as I am virtually never turns killer for any reason other than immediate self-defense.)  He or his wondering-why-they're-a-hair's-breadth-from-being-badgeless-if-they're-not-already cronies are reduced to planting bed bugs in my room (my responsibility, of course), and twice have stolen from me.  One of the more worthless little cunts tried to convince my neighbor I could turn homicidal under their tender ministrations -- a laugh as the neighbor she's trying to convince is from the Phillipines and a hell of a lot sharper than she acts.  She knows a killer from murder-bait.  The whole total domination thing continues to be a huge farce, a conspiracy to get revenge on me for being "difficult to work with," and hopefully to achieve sexual gratification for its architect, who is (oh please let that be "was," a past tense reality to be examined by a Senate Subcommittee Hearing I will be too embarrassed on behalf of the wrongdoers to want to know about) employed (or at least given license) by the same people who kept a dossier on my grandmother (COINTELPRO) for the precise reason that they did so (and kept one on me, as well, because of my political activities during the Bush Administration.)

These craptastic fucktards couldn't even successfully get me arrested.  Jesus.  Any twisted pig worth his or her salt could just make it up on the way to booking, for fuck's sake.

"Ooh, look at us, we're so evil...Ooh, and we're getting away with it.  We're going to kill you with lots of bullets and stuff."  That's pretty much what they act like with me.  Yeah, some of the emotional play is clever, but not terribly.  I have a theory that some of them do too much drugs, and maybe the wrong kind.  They make me wish I had more drugs -- MDMA and windowpane are looking lovely right now.  Threaten me for years and then BANG I'm dead.  I just don't know what they're out to accomplish -- mere emotional manipulation (not that hard with me), or successful cognitive capture and perceptual blockage or manipulation?  What does it matter whether or not I perceive my assailant?  What the fuck is the point of ghosting a non-com?  None  of these goals makes sense, as I'm as big and important as any other of the 7 billion assholes skulking about the globe, and really not worth the trouble.  And if I was wanted dead, why that was easily accomplished out of hand years ago.  What does it matter what's going on in my skull?  How does Dr. Caligari-ing me aid humanity in any meaningful sense?

And where did the fucking overwhelming firepower brought to bear on a psy-ops subject come into play?  A baby blue Marine could swish into my hovel and break my neck with two hands.

And what's with the being threatened by my occasionally making sense of some of what's going on?

And how is a conspiracy against little old me in any way impressive?

Of course answers will never be forthcoming.  But I'd really like to know why I'm the chosen one, when I'd much rather be another paranoid schizo loser.

Eat your heart out, MKUltra.

Of course, wouldn't it be funny if the punchline were that I was to me made a fool of?

Um, yeah.  There's a reason I just listened to that inane shit for years -- I was forced to.  If anyone else feels put out by the situation that's been going on, just count your motherfucking lucky stars that you're not me.

The Sobriety Police

Just had a thought-provoking discussion with a friend about the medical community's attitude towards pain medication. Too many physicians and nurses want to play sobriety police -- always on the lookout for drug-seeking behavior. Can't have you feeling good, must make sure you're stopping at not-too-excruciating. Frankly, I'm a little sick of doctors and other health care professionals using their jobs as bully pulpits from which to trumpet their opinions on addiction. Wanting to feel good, pharmaceutically or otherwise, is nobody's business but the person who is doing the feeling. An ex of mine, a physician, once observed that he didn't believe I had suffered enough physical pain in my life. Apart from being inaccurate and impertinent, it's highly presumptuous of a mere M.D. (you're not a physicist; essentially your greatest intellectual accomplishment is memorizing Grey's Anatomy) to think it's within his bailiwick to prescribe agony as some sort of lesson to be learned from. Anyway, if you're an adult, you're entitled to get fucked up when you feel like it -- particularly if you're not causing trouble for anyone else. And if you're poor and miserable, who could blame you? I would never begrudge any down-and-out denizen of 6th Street his or her crack rock and Steel Reserve.

Chances are, the friend with whom I was speaking wouldn't have suffered his paralysis had St. Mary's not been so damn obsessed with checking what they perceived was his desire to get high on pain meds. They actually thought he was lying about his chronic pain and immobility in order to score happy pills. And all of this applies only to the poor, not the wealthy, of course. If you're low on the socioeconomic totem pole, you're obligated to be a teetotaler... But if your husband manages hedge funds, it's expected that your stash rival Hunter S. Thompson's.

A Riff On Lysenkoism

I realize this is from 2009 (a weird year for yours truly, as well as for many others, I hear tell.) And it's enough to make even me paranoid (would I already have readers were I a center of attention?) Anyway, I wonder how these programs have appeared domestically...

In the latest outgrowth of the debate over military sponsorship of social science, members of the American Anthropological Association have voted to strengthen language in their code of ethics against research conducted in secret.

Among other things, the new amendments declare that clandestine fieldwork constitutes “a clear violation of research ethics” and that anthropologists “should not withhold research results from research participants when those results are shared with others."

Have you been the subject of field research?

Moving From Facebook

1. Decided on The Hollow Man, but I do like The Patchwork Man. We'll see (or not.)

2. A day of beginnings is a pessimistic day.

3. The concept of a Quaker doing hardened, salty seadog drag, complete with a wooden leg replacing one lost in to his line of work, is hilarious when you think about it.

4. File under "frightening," cross-indexed with "farcical": gentrification of the Tenderloin, mid-Market and the 6th Street corridor is a consciously directed and planned act by control freaks with access to too much money. Such an ungainly process...

5. Keeps this list from stopping at a number frequently associated with death in Japanese culture.