Posts Tagged ‘Monsanto’

I’ve always known where to find my mum.

The NeverMum would say it’s because there is a straight line between her heart and mine, which is an interesting theory that makes geometrical sense, however, the Earth’s crust and molten lava would certainly interfere with that maternal bond. No, I knew where to find my mum because she was always home. Wherever she was, it was always home. When I returned from off-the-grid living in a free-love Oregonian hippy commune, Mumsy handed me a beer, fed and deloused me. When I returned from off-the-grid living as a barefoot vagabond in Australia, Mumsy handed me a beer, fed and deloused me. When I returned from college with the jezebel du jour, Mumsy handed me a beer, fed me and deloused Jez. Wherever I wandered, no matter how far, Mum was always waiting for me at home… until the granddaughters arrived.

The NeverSister lives along the foothills of Denver, estranged from your narrator by two time zones and a mile of elevation. This is where my NeverNieces reside, and thus, the NeverMum. On holidays, I find a sea-level laundry mat payphone to drop umpteen dimes and dial the NeverSister in her Under Mountains, Colorado, home. Easter was when I spoke to her last. “Things are well, Brother.” She said before mocking her post-modern benign troubles. “Typical first world problems – we ran out of Chardonnay and had to switch to Sauvignon Blanc.” It was then my sister confided in me her fear for our dear old mum, “She’s gone rogue, Brother! Mom wants to be the Queen of Cannabis in Cougar Town!”

cougar town“Cougar Town”, according to Courtney Cox, is Gulfhaven, Fla, a fictional sitcom setting based on the city of Sarasota. The NeverMum resides, more or less, in Sarasota amongst the remnants of the baby-boomed generation. While she spends as much time as possible with her Coloradan legacy, I knew NeverMum would be returning home to Sarasota for her annual Kentucky Derby Gala. So began my subversive machinations to infiltrate the social ranks of NeverMum’s equestrian merrymakers and confront my dubious fetus-bearer on her dastardly scheme to legalize weed in her home state of Florida.

The journey from Bayou Saint Basil in Northeast Central Florida along Interstate 4 westward and eventually down along interstate 75 was no easy feat – not when the showers of April refused to bow-out to calendric insistence. Indeed, the heavens wept well into May with thunder rolling along the orange-groved hills like Zeus-driven flatulence. My path was hazarded with swaying 18-wheelers and overzealous youth who drove as if their iPhone was bankrupt of power and the closest charger was in Tampa. Fortunately, the driving skills honed during my formative pizza delivery years aided me and kept the freeway from running neon yellow with my vitamin-enhanced piss.

I arrived in Cougar Town.

From what I’ve learned watching Richard Gere cinema, the rich play polo and cast pearls before Julia Roberts. There are polo fields east of Sarasota and where there is polo fields there are polo clubs. The NeverMum’s Kentucky Derby Gala was at once such club. NeverMum’s social network included the neatest elitists: the gentile good ole boy landowners, the nouveau riche of the merchant class, the bankrupt nobility of some Old World dynasty and, of course, Russian Oligarchs with noses of popped blood vessels and guts of distended opulence. Many of these figures donated handsomely to Vic Neverman’s Get-Rich-Quick-By-Funding-My-Amazon-Gold-Mining-Venture scheme in 2013. When those investments brought back no return, these investors were told I had perished of some malicious malady contracted in an Iquitos brothel and my remains resided in the intestinal tracts of various wild dogs. This was a vicious rumor, of course, and one spread by my own agents of disinformation to blur the fact that my search for gold came up empty (unless you are referring to devious, soul-devouring, golden-haired harpies posing at Peace Corps volunteers only to lull you into a peaceful slumber when they extract your beating heart and replace it with the broken shards of disillusionment; if this is the gold you are referring to, well then, I hit the jungle jackpot). The Sarasota elitists thought me dead and buried in feral canine shit. If Victor Ulysses Neverman suddenly returned from the dead to occupy one of these polo clubs during the Kentucky Derby, all disinformation would be for naught and I, your humble navigator of this rambling story, would be chased to the ends of the earth by the collection agency of bounty-hunting mercenaries under the employ of the good ole boys, merchants, nobles and Russo oil barons. This is why I did not arrive, at this given gala, as Vic Neverman. I arrived disguised. I arrived as the Turk, Ibrahim.

An aside: grumble, groan (fucking Peace Corps chicks…), sigh, whimper.

My guise as Ibrahim is a simple one: I detach my beard, leaving just the mustache, and I smoke French Gauloises unfiltered cigarettes. Well, except that I actually never smoke them, I just speak as if I need to smoke them. When some philanthropist offers up their particular brand of tobacco, I thank them and then comment, “By the will of Allah, I only smoke cigarettes after having killed a good man or having lain with a bad woman. This is no such time.” It tends to work; I haven’t had to smoke a single Gauloise.

I arrived at the Lakewood Ranch Polo Club to find a pair of thick-necked bouncers distracted with popping each-other’s blackheads and a hostess in a skirt that screamed against her thighs who barred my entry into the revelry beyond. Her hair was dyed with the most lavish bleach and her chest had been enhanced by the wonders of science. Her beady black eyes blinked as heavy eyelashes whipped across the empty space between us.

“I am the Turk, Ibrahim.” I announced in my Russian accent (I only have three accents: Irish, Russian and Sean Connery). I hooked a thumb over my shoulder, “I left my Grand Vizier in the car and the Harem at the Ritz Carleton. I am here for the running of the horses.”

“Well, of course, oh sure, right this way Mister Turk.” She turned and led me to the Gala as her buttocks screamed against that skirt.

NeverMum and Vic with their 2012 Kentucky Derby winnings

NeverMum and Vic with their 2012 Kentucky Derby winnings

Once I was within the bawdy confines of the “Horse People” (as Hunter S Thompson called them), I was immediately recognized by a woman whose hat resembled an albino donkey being tickled by a clown. “You’re Vic Neverman!” Oh no, no-no, of course not. I am the Turk! I insisted, but alas, it was too late. My name seeped through the clamor and I was identified across room by my own mother. My disguise was foiled. I had been outted. Mum approached.

“Vicky!” She exclaimed with a genuine intensity reserved for mothers embracing their only sons. “If Wicked Strong wins the derby, I will be able to retire!”

“Are you not already retired, Mum?”

“Well, yes, but if Wicked Strong wins, I will be rich enough to pay for someone to do the volunteer work I currently do.”

“And what of these rumors of you becoming the Cannabis Queen of Cougar Town?”

“Oh Vicky, will you drink this for me? It is a $50 mint julep and it tastes like a cat pissed over potpourri.”

“Anything for you mother.” I sipped the sacrilegious cocktail. “Good God, why do they hate bourbon so much to do this unto it? But, Mumsy, whatever are you doing with the weed dealing?

“Oh Honey, it would be all legitimate. I have my own lobbyists pushing legislature through Tallahassee to legalize medicinal marijuana and recreational use for senior citizens in Florida.” NeverMum explained. “My cohorts and I have already bought up a fleet of limousines to serve as our delivery service. Once prohibition is lifted, we will distribute ganja amongst the infirm and elderly of Sarasota County. The future is green, Vicky.”

“You realize, Mum, the enemies you will make with the Mexican cartels? Let alone the implications of lifting prohibition on cannabis. In conspiracy circles, it is widely known that marijuana is being distributed to dull the senses of the general public, just like rations of gin were distributed to the masses in Orwell’s dystopian 1984 society. You see, once the Arab Spring occurred, Washington’s Puppet-Masters became worried about upheaval here, domestically. Then they saw how disorganized the Occupy Movement was and decided it would be a good idea to get everyone likewise stoned. Homeland Security calls their plan to legalize marijuana ‘Operation Rainy Day Women #12 & 35’. They are systemically neutering dissent in America, Mums.”

My mother would say, ‘Why are you always playing alone?’ And I would say, ‘I’m not playin’, Ma. I’m fuckin’ serious!

– George Carlin

As I ranted a tirade against my mother, agent of the shadow government agenda she might as well have been, her husband approached. Tomax, it is known, is a man who made his fortune selling apocalypse insurance to the gullible (will you be ready when the world ends?) He was a wizened old native who had learned the cutthroat ways of the Northeastern invaders to the South Florida mangroves.

Tomax and Xamot were Corsican Twins and Commanders of Cobra's Crimson Guard

Tomax and Xamot were Corsican Twins and Commanders of Cobra’s Crimson Guard

“Victor, good to see you.” The NeverStep-Dad hugged me. “Let me mention your mother’s legislation is just medicinal marijuana or for senior citizens, nothing recreational for kids under the age of 65. Besides, drug dealing is the American Way. Did you know that Heroin was nearly going extinct around the turn of the millennium? The poppy was outlawed by the Taliban and the crop was non-existent. At least, that is, until the USA invaded Afghanistan. Now heroin is as easy to access as ever, courtesy of Uncle Sam!”

I growled at Tomax, who I assumed had a Corsican twin-brother Maxot, “The CIA has been the biggest drug cartel for the last fifty years with all of their revenue going straight to the Black Budget!”

“But Honey!” Sweetly NeverMum objected, putting a hand on my chest, “Legalizing marijuana takes money away from the Mexican and CIA cartels and puts funds into the American infrastructure with tax dollars. Isn’t that what you would want?” By you Mum was referring to me as a pinko Keynesian.

“They will get us one way or another.” I lamented with a defeated shake of my oversized head. “If it isn’t illegal drug, it is prescription. The American citizenry is literally pissing out enough antibiotics to show up in the water supply and the fish we eat. It is like Monsanto and their Round-Up, just as you cannot kill a weed unless you have the new generation of weed-killer, the next generation of Americans will be infertile if they do not have the next generation of Big Pharma fertilizer.” It was then that I realized the NeverMum and Tomax were smiling at pictures of my NeverNieces that appeared on their iPhone.

NeverMum introduced me to the ‘Horse People’ hordes as Ibrahim, the Turk. Each of them saw through my disguise, but out of allegiance to dear old mum, they went along with the charade regardless of how much of their cash I sunk into the Amazon muck. I bet the wad of cash from my left boot on horse #10 Wildcat Red because the name reminded me of an old girlfriend. I hedged my bets by placing a small amount on the favorite California Chrome. When California Chrome won the derby, I broke even.

As the festivities simmered into a flaccid wick, those I had been indebted to ebbed into the tide of twilight and I would be escorted into the night by the NeverMum and that Tomax fellow. Favor returned with favor, I would spend the night as their guest. It was a simple arrangement: for their participation in the folly of my pseudonym “the Turk”, I spent three hours lecturing them on the history, characters, plots and family lineages of George R.R. Martin’s Song of Fire and Ice to better prepare them for Sunday’s Game of Thrones episode. In the end, I left Cougar Town unscathed and officially still deceased and they watched the next episode of GoT slightly more knowledgeable than the next boomed baby generated over a half century ago.

As for the lifting of prohibition in Florida… time shall tell.


Greetings Traveler.

an ale of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy

an ale of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy

If you are like me, you are wearing two-socks, feeling Autumnal and writing a blog post from the basement of the Tipsy’s Liquor World in Under Mountains, Colorado (pop. 2,419, give or take a Vic Neverman or 2). As I casually scan my frigid surroundings, I find I am dreadfully alone. Just me, a Led Zeppelin bootleg (of a bootleg of a Cadillac commercial playing Led Zeppelin) and the skull-eyed glance of a beer label hugging a pessimistically half-emptied bottle of ale. Given such personal isolation, I trust you are, indeed, not like me in which case you probably didn’t see this coming: the Quincunx of Calamity (amity, amity, amity…)!

Herein to be read at your own peril are five mysterious conspiracies and cover-ups that should be in today’s headlines. Well… at least four of the topics should be digested, the fifth is just for good measure and because “quatcunx” just doesn’t have the same ring to it as quincunx.

 Imprisoned Pussy Riot front woman has disappeared in Russian Prison System

 As Vlad Putin peacocks about his Sochi Olympic city that crept overnight out of the Black Sea like a beached Kraken diseased on corn syrup, one of his most impassioned antagonists has gone missing. In 2012, the chick band Pussy Riot stirred a commotion with their “Punk Prayer” at a Moscow Orthodox Church where they screamed for the Virgin Mary to rid Russia of Putin. Despite protests from the music community, Vlad at the bequest of the Orthodox Church imprisoned three of the key members of Pussy Riot.

Punk Prayer at Christ the Savior Cathedral, "Hail Mary! Expel Putin!"

Punk Prayer at Christ the Savior Cathedral, “Hail Mary! Expel Putin!”

Nadya Tolokonnikova is one of the most outspoken members of Pussy Riot. In protest of the slave camp conditions she has endured in the woman’s prison in Mordovia, Nadya went on a hunger strike. On October 21st she was moved, but no one knows where to. Her family (she is married and has a child) has no idea where she is. She is likely headed towards a Siberian gulag… at best. At worst, Vlad used her for crossbow practice or sold her off to be a part of some Sheik’s harem. This is the Russian totalitarian regime at its worst.

Click here to sign the petition (futile it may be) for Putin to provide answers to the whereabouts and well-being of the political prisoner.

Monsanto has killed the Honey Bees (Colony Collapse Disorder)

The bees are dying and I blame Monsanto. Perhaps you do not care much for jars of honey. Do you like almonds? 80% of the world’s almonds are grown in California, but after the great die-off, it would take 60% of the surviving bees in the United States to pollinate that crop alone. Whether you’re watching the prices for almonds, avocados or blueberries, the increase in cost is largely due to a mass die-off of bees.

“Monsanto is the devil.” An industry insider once told me as he drove me through Milwaukee. That was back in the good old days; recently, the same insider explained what scientists are not saying, “Monsanto tests these pesticides to gauge the environmental impact before releasing into the market. What they do not test for is what if we spray Agent Orange one year and then Agent Pink the next… it is the mixture of different pesticides that is creating a toxic environment that honey bees, let alone other organisms, cannot subsist in.” The honey bees have been dying off for years now and yet this has been highly overlooked by mass media. Why? Monsanto is a multinational corporation that bullies governments smaller than them and has their own puppet strings in the fourth estate. Monsanto is out to own all the food on earth by pushing their genetically modified seeds that are resistant to non-Monsanto pesticides. What is next for them? Either they create a crop-dust that can pollinate almonds or they start genetically modifying bees. Or they just let half of the world starve. Fucking dicks.

British Spy Found Dead and Locked in Zipped Bag, Officially Called Self-Inflicted “Accident”

In 2010, MI6 communications officer (code breaker) Gareth Williams was found dead in his English apartment. Not just dead, but dead and naked in a gym bag tossed in his bathtub that had been zipped up and locked. Think about this: he is in a zipped-up gym bag locked with a padlock. The coroner’s findings were that it was highly likely that something unlawful occurred. Yeah… No shit, Sherlock.

Yet the investigation was closed this week after it could not be absolutely determined that Gareth could not have padlocked himself into a zipped-up gym bag. Officially, it is an accident. I call bullshit. What the Brits are covering up in the death of one of their spies, I have no idea.

Who killed Arafat? Vlad “the Paler” Putin, that’s who

Yasser Arafat was a leader of the Palestinian people who won the Noble Peace Prize in 1994 for his efforts with the Oslo Accords to bring a calming peace to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Despite his efforts to make peace, undercurrents persist that it was the Israelis that killed Arafat in 2004 rather than a stroke from a blood disorder. This week, Palestinian Authority minister Habbash compared the assassination of Arafat to the poisoning of Prophet Muhammad’s meat by the Jews (Islamic hadith recalls theories on the death of the prophet). This was prompted by Al Jazeera’s report this week about a Swiss team of forensic scientists finding high traces of Polonium-210 in Arafat’s body.

Goodness me, could this be? Arafat’s widow certainly thinks so. But why would Israel want to extinguish the only person on the Palestine side of the fence that would compromise with them? The Palestinian prejudice against Israel is blinding them here. All they need to do is follow the stench of money. There is a team that contradicts the Swiss findings (right or not) and ironically, this is a team of Russian scientists. According to the BBC, the Russians found no polonium poisoning in Arafat.

Vlad Putin, Asshole Extraordinaire

Vlad Putin, Asshole Extraordinaire

“Where is the irony?” you might ask. Russia is a mafia state run by arms dealers with as much to lose in a peaceful Middle East as anybody (including us, U.S., the militarized states of America and our Military Industrial Complex). Curiously, Russia’s latest modus operandi in assassinations is death by radioactive poisoning. Just ask Alexander Litvinenko, the ex-KGB agent who found asylum in England and wrote books about false flag terrorism bringing Vladimir Putin into a position of power. In 2006, Litvinenko died from polonium induced acute radiation syndrome. Oh… just BTW, it was polonium-210.

Dolphin Bullying Frenzy may have Occurred in Media-Chummed Waters

Certainly, the reaction to the bullying allegations of Miami Dolphin Richie Incognito was overzealous. FACT: Incognito is a bully, he represents the dregs of humanity, but such dregs make for good football players. Sport economics provide thugs like Incognito with work. FACT: The sports organization put Incognito into a position of authority, which obviously shows the ineptitude of the Miami Dolphins organization. Bullies exist, bullies given leadership positions should not.

Here is a lesser-known FACT: the threatening phone conversation we’ve seen transcribed was missing an elemental send-off at the end. I shall paraphrase it here with the omitted closing underlined, “hey half-N piece of shit, I will shit in your mouth, slap your real mom, I will kill you, haha call me back.” The media feeds us a vile death threat out of context. In full context, the voicemail is still inappropriate, yet is more understandable as an exaggerated attempt at satiric correspondence. ESPN and the rest of sports media omitted the closing because “call me back” downplays the severity of the preceding comments. FACT: the Media used addition by subtraction (omission) to spin this story out of control.

It is too early to judge Incognito or Martin, but the organization and the media are certainly wrong in their actions. It is time for a sheriff to come in and clean up Miami. Enter Don Shula. In an effort to appease Dolphin fans nostalgic for the glorious 80s, Dolphins owner Stephen Ross has asked Don Shula and his team of Hall of Famers to form a commission to look into these locker room mishaps. This was the first good news I have heard since this locker room scandal was announced. Bring in Don “the Don” Shula. It is time for some accountability.

Shit is about to get REAL

Shit is about to get REAL

Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.

― Søren Kierkegaard

Friends, Paranoids, Countrymen, lend me your ear… I come to bury 2012, not to praise it. I speak to you now not to relish this year’s numerous personal victories or weep over dearly departed milk, spilt from the cereal bowl of the disenchanted dreamer. No! I am here, at the twilight of this year, for one purpose only – to review my 2012 predictions. I do so ascending from the embers of Hades as my own Devil’s Advocate with a callous and critical forked tongue. As a trend-analyzing futurist, I am held accountable for my predictions; I am not some haphazard weather man pointing the direction of the wind like an iron rooster atop your barn. You, dear reader, deserve to have my words tested over the hot coals of hindsight. Well, the grades are in… And the truth is: I fucking nailed it!

Here it is, my 2012 predictions regurgitated from my 12/18/2011 blog post. Also included, on a scale of 0-10 is how hard I nailed this particular prophecy.

1 – “The Mayan Calendar date that is approximately 12/21/2012 …will not bring the end of the world.”

On an accuracy scale of 0-10, I scored a perfect 10. The Maya date of significance came and went. The world continues to turn without so much as a wobble. The Apocalypto aftermath, however, did draw an end to my social calendar. As you, fellow traveler, likely already know I became something of a celebrity in the latter half of this year thanks to a local magazine’s article on adventure racing featuring non-other than Vic Neverman. My social status brought some fame amongst Central Florida’s doomsday prep crowd and I spent many nights at speaking engagements, feasting on free meals prepared by my host/hostess. At a 12/22/2012 post-apocalypse party, my Gratis status soon became Non Grata due to my possessing an anti-social behavior more befitting a baboon than a privileged member of civilization. I have now returned to being shunned by society. Which is fine, I am more comfortable here anyhow.

2 – “…the spiced fowl appendages we have all been eating at Buffalo Wild Wings come from the genetic freak of a six-winged chicken engineered by those Frankensteinian mad scientists at Mansanto, evil motherfuckers they are.”

Score of 9. “Monsanto is the devil”  My agricultural industry insider, M. Von Love told me. Our ability to feed the world has grown leaps and bounds thanks to innovation in the science of managing fields and the technology of machines. Monsanto’s monopoly on seeds and proliferation of pesticide, however, is crippling all gains by slowly killing the world’s populace. Monsanto is not out to cure hunger, It is out to control the world’s food supply. This prediction would have been a perfect score, but the Washington Post never went public with their exposé.

3 – “Occupy the Democratic National Convention’ will be infiltrated by agent provocateurs”

Score of 10. Sometimes predictions can be so powerful, they undermine the very event they attempt to forecast. In this case, instead of risk being ripped apart by agents provocateur, the Occupy Movement simply agreed to become bored with it all and disintegrate. The thing about revolution is that it is a bitch.

4 – “2011 was the year of the drone… 2012 will be the year of the spy blimp.”

Score of 10. Drones were still prevalent in 2012, sure. And stealth helicopters stole headlines after the bin Laden raid in Pakistan, but who can deny the sudden omnipresence of blimps watching us all from above? To quote an anonymous bathroom stall poet, “Privacy is dead. And death is the only chance for quality alone time.”

5 – “Vlad Putin will win the Presidency of Russia”

Score of 10. I wish I were wrong on this one. If I had been wrong, Russia wouldn’t have cock-blocked us in Syria and Pussy Riot would still have their freedom and obscurity.

6 – “By 2020, 80% of our fastfood nutrition will be hidden inside of an egg roll.”

Score of 10. Not only are egg rolls, and their tasteless spring cousins, now a fixture in Americana cuisine, the Chinese have secured all the rare mineral rights in Africa and Australia, ensuring only they and Monsanto will be the global super powers in 2050.

7 – “Illegal phone applications will utilize facial recognition software”

Score of 10. Again, sometimes predictions can have such an impact on the future as to dismantle it. My paranoid ravings about cell phone applications have started petitions against social networking sites to ensure this new technology will not be released onto the public. By my being so goddamned accurate, I prevented this horrid future from actually occurring. Yet.

8 – Robots will take the place of TSA agents, romantic companions, line cooks and pets.

Score of 10. While I haven’t necessarily had my cavities explored by a metallic TSA agent or robo-gyrl, it is really just a question of expense. Think about it – 20 years ago, we could have all had mobile phones and home computers, but it was cost prohibitive. In another 3 or 4 years of cost-reducing innovation, most of my carnal delights will likely be provided by the delicate skill of my pocket automaton, Lucy.

9 – “WikiLeaks will reveal President Eisenhower met with the Emperor of the Greys (those almond-eyed, naked, grey-skinned aliens) and made a peace treaty stipulating an allowance for alien harvesting and testing of human subjects and livestock.”

Score of 9. I do not necessarily hear anyone claiming this to not be true. The deduction of the one point, like the Buffalo Wild Wing prediction, is simply due to the failure of the 4th Estate to reveal this truth.

10 – “It will be learned the Vic Neverman blog was nothing more than a Stuxnet cyber-worm burrowing into your computer and creating random gibberish upon your screen in order to keep you from creating your own nuclear weapon arsenal.”

Score of 10. Of course…

For a final tally of 98! That’s an A+ in my book. Good job, Vic, and a Happy New Year to All!


Interesting 2010 predictions made by Vic Neverman for 2011

-The NeverBrother-in-Law will attempt to frame Vic. This actually did happen in 2012.

-Osama bin Laden will be found in New Jersey. In 2012, he was actually found in Pakistan.

-China will use its weather devices to send more hurricanes to make landfall in unexpected American locations. This didn’t occur in 2011, because as I said at the time, the United States countered with our own weather manipulation technology. In 2012, however, Super Storm Sandy hit New York City just prior to the Presidential Election.

We have to vote the Anti-Christ out of office!

-A panicked neighbor on election day

The best argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with the average voter.

– Winston Churchill

I really should look at myself in the mirror before going out, there. The current state of my disposition is frenzied dishevelment, at best. There are mirrors, inside here, of course. Those mirrors existing in the cavernous passages of my hideaway are not hidden away beneath moldy old towels as if I were some superstitious Cajun in an electrical storm or some long-past beauty queen in age-denial or some guilt-ridden beast-of-burden-buggerer, no. No, I just tend to go about my day with eyes lowered to watch the words murmured incoherently from between my lips. When I pass before a mirror of some sort, my lowered gaze usually finds my reflected naval, the gluttonous third eye positioned conveniently on my wizened gut.

And where was that third-eye, the gut-instinct of intuition, when I needed it? This election has ruined me. My faith in democracy was already in question, why else would I spend my nod to reapprove the President who legalized the assassinations of suspicious Americans via robot pterodactyls? Especially after deep-throaty Reverend Chette Williams told me I was on the President’s kill-list right ahead of Ted Nugent (again, I have to think the list is organized alphabetically, Nugent certainly must rank as a higher priority than the benign rambler that is your narrator). Surely I wouldn’t have recast my lot with this President if I didn’t believe I was damned either way.

Not that my vote matters. Lo! this state’s vote didn’t even matter. Florida. Jaysus on a bicycle, what a joke democracy is down here. Governor Rick Scott, the diseased mole-man who rules in Tallahassee, tried to purge voters by limiting early voting and proposing voter ID laws. I’ll be damned if he didn’t overkill the whole bloody idea – here we are half a week after Obama was re-elected and the Florida electorate has just now been accounted for.

I say my vote didn’t matter because it was nullified by a batshit-crazed crone who must live in the woods near my bungalow near Bayou Saint Basil. Dawn of Election Day, I was driving out of my swampy confines and alongside the road is this guano-sniffing spinster, waving me down. Her frayed hair was artificially colored, perhaps henna-dyed red like the beards of the old Muslim corsairs who ran horses on the beach over half-buried Christian captives captured in a pirate raid. So Mother of Barbarossa waves me down frantically, in a panic. I was hesitant and suspicious; suspicion is a natural state of mine, if not mind. I rolled down the window; she wants to know where she can vote. My vote had been cast courtesy of the United States Postal Service, so I could only offer a hunch. Woe was she. She would never reach it in time, this red-headed crone bellowed like the white rabbit of Wonderland. Certainly, she inferred, I would drive her to the bus stop! My third-eye of intuition churned my gut sour, but isn’t this my civic duty – to help this pasty-pink-faced sow get to the voting booth? I agree and within moments of sitting beside me in my car she starts regurgitating half-wit thoughts on the quickening of time and alarming proximity of Christmas. Suddenly, she is the throes of a religiously-themed nervous breakdown, “We have to vote the Anti-Christ out of office!” While I appreciate anyone’s political views, I was sickened by her Revelations vitriol and tempted to drive her deep into the bayou and leave her to the sink holes and gators. Instead, I placated her need of transport and continued to fulfill my favor. This is the woman who is going to off-set my vote… this is democracy.

Not that I am entirely pleased with Obama, but at least I know where he stands. Romney serves the same special interests, but that cat conceals his true intentions as he attempts to seduce the moderate vote like a lecherous rake tickling his fingers at the widow’s purse. And it was this summer when I prognosticated Romney was just a patsy of the GOP Establishment, those old Rockefeller Republicans who were looking to flush the movement made by the Tea Party with this 2012 election. Yes, I had said, the Old Guard was willing to sacrifice Romney and allow another four years of Obama in order to dispose of the Tea Party and pave the way for the Bush Legacy to be renewed in 2016.

In fact, I had wagered large sums of money on this prediction. There was no chance Romney would win; I had believed prior to the debates. After that first debate and the changing of polls, the wagers I had made with Reverend Chette amongst others were certainly in jeopardy. My only consolation came from the roadside pumpkin peddler in Eatonville, Kelvin “the Duke” Givins, who poeticized his opinion “Polls are for assholes! Only the Jesus knows.”

The Duke and the Jesus were right. Even without the Florida electorate, Obama held.

Those winnings, however, did not offset my losses in the GMO market. Of course, I speak of Proposition 37 and the gamble I made on the vote of Californians. For those of us gamblers who throw around money on election day as if the Kentucky Derby were run as the Superbowl halftime show (a fantastic idea, you must admit), it is always wise to follow the money. Proposition 37 in California had a 10:1 funding advantage for the NO vote, thanks to the $45 million chemical companies posted in order to keep the “genetically modified” labels off of food goods. Despite the campaign financing edge, my faith remained with the informed voters of California to push through the YES vote and force food producers who use the genetically modified zombie crops of Dow and Monsanto to label their products for what they were. Why would California not want to know what was in their food?

So I bet on YES for Proposition 37. I even designed and manufactured 40,000 “Genetically Modified Zombie Crops are in this Product” stickers I was planning on selling to Monsanto once the vote passed.

The vote did not pass. A media blitz put on by the chemical giants informed Californians that labeling GMO products was going to cause a great hike in food prices. While there was plenty of contradicting evidence to be found, the 10:1 financing edge influenced the tight race and the eventual result.

This is not over. There will be more propositions and eventually Monsanto will have its reckoning. This is the company that owns Round-Up pesticide and builds their seeds (corn, soy, etc) to be Round-Up resistant. Of course, with every season weeds build a resistance to the pesticide, requiring more Agent Orange and a new seed resistant to the higher levels. Regardless of what is in the crops, the pesticide hangs in the humid air of agricultural crossroads like Chicago, being breathed in by many Americans. Monsanto defends their process and the ominous doom waiting at the end of the spiraling flush by saying their genetically modified seeds are the only chance the world has to feed the over-populated Earth in the future. In fact, Monsanto is currently buying up every acre of Africa China doesn’t already own (in their mineral deposit grab) in order to facilitate the zombie food of tomorrow.

Red versus Blue… doesn’t bloody matter much, does it? It’s not even mid-November and there is already a lady in a Santa hat ringing a bell outside of the grocery store. I’ll be damned if the old crone wasn’t right about the Christmas quickening. The bell ringer’s ringing skips a beat as soon as her eyes cross my path. I really should look at a mirror before going out, there. Next time, I suppose. For now, I am going to get some value out of these GMO stickers by quietly labeling the zombie crop myself.