It's taking a while to get started again.
I last blogged in earnest in 2004, leading up to the re-coronation of Junior Bush, an otherwise insignificant speck of dust who has served as the front for an enormously poisonous regime that has twisted political logic and destroyed any independent media that might otherwise stand in its way.
My last blog on the old site (a Salon mechanism that, for some reason, demanded $39.95 annually) had to do with the death of a counter-culture icon (back when there was a counter-culture), Hunter Thompson, who decided to take things into his own hands 20 years after his greatest achievements, and left it for others to appropriately blow his ashes out of a cannon.
As I write now, the bodies of Casper Weinberger and Lynn Nofziger are lying in some funeral home, getting dressed up for their somber ceremonies and fitful resting places. Screw the bastards.
Weinberger was scheduled to go on trial for lying to Congress and before he was summarily pardoned by Daddy Bush as he was on the way out the door in 1992 ("Where's the Outrage" case number 3492: Imagine if Bill Clinton had done the same thing...). He was a top-grade fixer, when he wasn't drawing big checks from the likes of (insert your favorite defense contractor here).
Nofziger, on the other hand, was a acolite of pioneer poison pig-fucker Lee Atwater, who more appropriately met his demise of self-imposed death-by-karma much earlier. Nofziger used his professorial goatee and bald head to snow the chattering classes into believing (or at least pretending to stomach)the nonsense sold by the Reagan and Bush I administrations. A mere piker compared to Karl Rove, Nofziger seemed capable of chuckling beneath a stein of Irish beer with Buchanan, et. al. at D.C. watering holes while the victims of the contras and other GOP-sponsored criminals bled into shallow graves.
Reagan, Weinberger, Atwater and Nofziger now dance with the other-expired in an undisclosed location. Hell is now hotter and Hunter laughs from above with the Dance of the Just.
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