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The Koch-wash ray-beam (AKA the Kochtopus)

Release the Kraken
Most days I've gotta put a lot of time and effort into creating content for this blog but sometimes it just falls in my lap like an exotic dancer at the local strip club. So it happened last night when I received the missive below from a free-thinking friend attempting to make sense of our current day politics as reflected in the fast vanishing mirror of 2012. If you'll remember that far back America's #1 enemies were two Libertarian philanthropist industrialists named Charles & David Koch who, according to Mother Jones Magazine, were spending money in a mysterious way.

"Charles and David Koch arguably have been liberals’ biggest bogeymen of the 2012 election. Just as conservatives have come to see George Soros as the mastermind of a shadowy leftist network, the billionaire brothers have become synonymous with the dark-money machine working to defeat Barack Obama. By their own admission, the Kochs have been raising millions to sway voters. At a closed-door gathering of like-minded megadonors in 2011, Charles Koch declared that the upcoming election would be a battle “for the life or death of this country” and that “we gotta do better than” the president’s expected $1 billion war chest."

Well documented nefarious dealings even after the life or death battle for the country was lost! The Kochtopus lived on. And on. In 2014 it was still going strong with long arms around every living thing and, I assume, no idea that the Elvis from Queens planned to glide down the escalator on June 16, 2015.
Once America dove into the alternate universe and the Clown Shark swam into the pool the Kochtopus hid in the sand but still spent a lot of money. What were those crafty Koch Bros. paying for?

Mystery solved:


‘Spose I’d told you, back in the day—say, primary season 2012—that the Kochs had concocted a super-secret targeted hypnosis tool, an evil Manchurian-ESP-app-cum-protease-inhibitor, the function of which was to hijack (to Cuba, obvs) the policy brain waves of all declared contenders from the obverse team and reprogram them to uncontrollably spurt unelectable poppycock. Chuck & D could turn the oppo into Charlie McCarthy (see what I did there) and have the mad wooden men and women of the Demo party confront the electorate with such scintillating policy planks as the elimination of air travel,  gummint incomes for the phlegmatic, and—wait for it—the end of cows.

You’d-a-said hang on boy, I’ve seen The Stepford Wives and from that I learned the great narrative lesson that your tale must, in order to become an ABC movie of the week, contain a soupcon of believability. If we don’t keep suspension of disbelief within spittin distance, we’re down to blotter heads and libertarians, ie .037% of the market.  This nutty Koch-wash ray-beam concoction is more of a Buckaroo Bonzai joint, amusing but in violation of, among other things, the laws of physics. Maybe have rewrite sand off the edges a little bit and we’ll run it by our Venezuelan cable subsidiary, whose appetite for screwball plots is more acute.

Well you, dear mailroom reader of hopeless and destitute scripts, would be out of a job, your legendary resume now pari passu with the—count ‘em—dozen publishers who rejected JK Rowling’s debut, or for that matter the genius scout who drafted Sam Bowie ahead of Michael Jordan. Turns out the Koch-wash ray-beam is the ultimate truth-is-stranger-than-faction vehicle. Call it 5-dimensional chess, call it savantry deluxe, call it monkeys-type-Hamlet-randomly: damn if our boy didn’t bring to life the craziest-ass mind-control scheme in the history of these United States—and that includes (but isn’t limited to) some seriously ambitious initiatives like the CIA’s, er, involuntary LSD trials.

Who-da-thunk of this gaslighting-at-scale gambit? In your wildest dreams you imagine a single rube, the nominee, we’d ardently hope (without expectation), inadvertently mooting some new airline-cow tax that’d ding her with the ALPA and FFA caucuses. With even more kismet, a skirmish betwixt the 98%-ers and the 99%-ers, with the former insisting on nominating Jerry Brown to the Fed and the latter demanding hard time for Lloyd Blankfein. All of it useful at the margins, thumbs on the scale towards the magic number of 360 (45 x 8), but nonetheless not determinative.

Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers, 360, you get my drift). Damn if the SOB didn’t use something—and I’m not saying chronic (but it sure as f*@k behaves like the newer cheeb), because for all I know it is a freakin’ Koch ray beam, but whatever the F it is infected the field like a bad case of fungal endophyte. The ‘mad’ cicerone has lured not one, not two, but 14-and-counting (resistance is futile) harridans and -deans, erstwhile only modestly miscalibrated with reality but now, with the wind of the ‘mainstream’ media at their backs (and oh what a comeuppance the redefinition of ‘mainstream ‘ will wreak upon their sullen noggins) in full tora-tora-tora stylee, into electoral self-immolation the likes of which would make even George McGovern blush.

The GND (which rhymes with CND, and we all remember how that worked out) is but the tip of the melting iceberg, the low-hanging (such lowness of hanging doubtless resulting from global wa…, wait, climate ch… wait, um, the Ruskies?) fruit of the coming dem-bacle. When Clean Joe Biden is sufficiently weakened that he must go to confession for saying Pence is ‘a decent guy,’ when Ilan Omar gets more protection than Tom Brady after explaining that Israel has ‘hypnotized the world,’ when moderate KKK-impersonator Ralph Northam revises the Hippocratic Oath to state ‘First do no… well… do whatever you want including infanticide,” well, then we must stipulate that the wildest sci-fi mind-control fantasies of the administration’s supporters have been fulfilled, in spades (not like that, Governor!).

The Infector has rained his unholy intoxicant across the land. Well actually, to be specific, across the coasts plus Chicago. Ray-beam, chronic, bug spray, lysergic—whatever it was, it was bu-fuckin-bonic. A small dose woulda just left ‘em loving Che—and let’s face it, he’s a sexy motherf*#%*r, handsome, Brklyn-beardy, rich from all those t-shirts so that you’d know he didn’t really mean it. No, DJT (which more or less rhymes with DDT) gassed these mofos like it was death row, and they got blown all the way over to the la-la-land where after we ground the planes, we delete wheels and eradicate fire, fuckabuncha pharmaceuticals making people rich, I actually kinda liked it when we were amoeba.

A parlous vantage from which to approach res publica, they will find, but not soon enough to stanch the landslide that will further stun the Pauline Kael contingent. Crucial to note that this brand was not established tabula rasa; the pusher made ‘em do it. Per Steppenwolf, soon to be reprised by Nate Silver, and in every sense the ethos and intent of the original lyric, ‘goddamn the pusherman.’

The Kochtopus is turning us all into spaced out Syd Barrett drones shuffling around mums house in our bathrobe and that's what I call a State of Emergency.


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