INSANE CLOWN PRESIDENT?

Book TVMatt Taibbi was just on BookTV talking about his 2017 book INSANE CLOWN PRESIDENT. Among the interesting things he said was that Fox News under Roger Ailes has done one thing to change the world of US politics: to make it impossible to compromise on anything, or to be friends with anyone who doesn’t agree with you politically. He made the comparison with asking Minnesota Vikings fans to not be Minnesota Vikings fans anymore. “Not going to happen.” Interesting that he mentions the Vikings, who were cruel and “very, very” unusual too. His point is what I’ve been saying all along, in attempts to promo the Coffee Party, (which actually does exist—and which no one ever mentions—believing 100% that the two-party system will be around until America falls off the Flat Earth around 2019, due to melting ice caps and Yellowstone exploding to levitate us toward the edge…see The “History” Channel or Youboob.) Hey, Matt, a more accurate book title might be GAME SHOW PRESIDENT. Trump is not insane, he’s a narcissist and borderline sociopath pretending to be a Christian of the Creflo Dollar ilk. (God wants you to be rich now…Jesus never really liked poor people much anyway, or as Trump interprets it, “losers.”) Taken together with other books mentioned on Book TV, including by Hunter S. Thompson and Neil Postman, if you add Popular: The Power of Likability in a Status-Obsessed World you have the answer: we have moved from desiring the goodness of being liked to the goal of being top dog in the dog fights everyone bets on and shouts about. “Losers” are those who are eaten alive, twitching in pools of blood. (Like the movie 300 or the UFC.) If you’re not rich by whatever means (including war) you “lose,” meaning you DESERVE death. This is also Putin’s view, mixing up his version of Jim Jones Koolaid for anyone who disagrees. Trump has also said this: “The point is to win. You say and do whatever it takes.” Being honest or good? That’s for sissies and “nut jobs.” BTW, there are no tapes, folks. Trump is going to say “I never said there were. What I said was ‘you better hope there aren’t.’” It’s a game show, for ratings. You cherry pick whatever works, deny the rest, and watch as your brand gets more valuable. (Kinda like the Kardashians, while wearing furs ripped from living animals.) Once everything is a game (and it all is, now, sadly) the most important thing is to bludgeon the other side in a quivering mound of crimson flesh…and then turn on ESPN… While preaching how righteous you are, meaning those on “the other side” of the gridiron deserve the concussions you have administered. —Ryback Solomon

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Matt’s book from the publisher: In twenty-five pieces from Rolling Stone—plus two original essays—Matt Taibbi tells the story of Western civilization’s very own train wreck, from its tragicomic beginnings to its apocalyptic conclusion. Years before the clown car of candidates was fully loaded, Taibbi grasped the essential themes of the story: the power of spectacle over substance, or even truth; the absence of a shared reality; the nihilistic rebellion of the white working class; the death of the political establishment; and the emergence of a new, explicit form of white nationalism that would destroy what was left of the Kingian dream of a successful pluralistic society.

Taibbi captures, with dead-on, real-time analysis, the failures of the right and the left, from the thwarted Bernie Sanders insurgency to the flawed and aimless Hillary Clinton campaign; the rise of the “dangerously bright” alt-right with its wall-loving identity politics and its rapturous view of the “Racial Holy War” to come; and the giant fail of a flailing, reactive political media that fed a ravenous news cycle not with reporting on political ideology, but with undigested propaganda served straight from the campaign bubble. At the center of it all stands Donald J. Trump, leading a historic revolt against his own party, “bloviating and farting his way” through the campaign, “saying outrageous things, acting like Hitler one minute and Andrew Dice Clay the next.” For Taibbi, the stunning rise of Trump marks the apotheosis of the new postfactual movement.

Taibbi frames the reporting with original essays that explore the seismic shift in how we perceive our national institutions, the democratic process, and the future of the country. Insane Clown President is not just a postmortem on the collapse and failure of American democracy. It offers the riveting, surreal, unique, and essential experience of seeing the future in hindsight.

National Weather Service to be Axed

Omen

Funding to the National Weather Service will be discontinued under Trump’s administration, and the money diverted to the Institute for World Domination, as part of a proposed Pentagon End Times Office. “The only barometer we need is the DOW,” Pence told Leonardo DiCaprio. “Just stick your middle finger in the air, stay ahead of the curve, and slash all costs that cut into profits.” Slashed by cyclonic funnel clouds, the towns facing the realities of global warming merited a yawn from Pence, even after temperatures soared to 114 in Fargo. The NWS has predicted that “hellish hailstones will rise exponentially in size as massive superstorms crisscross a country of NASCAR loving gun show addicts.” Fired despite apologizing for the statement, the spokesman then added, “Their SUVs will be crushed by two ton dry ice boulders dropping from Flameadoes, even as they drive to monster truck rallies where former banking VP Dick ‘Twinkletoes’ Fuld will give a speech condemning the National Science Foundation for the blasphemous lie that the Earth is over six thousand years old.” Luckily he didn’t add that the NWS uses satellites to gather their data, or he would have been punctured by Flat Earth trident…with no access to health insurance. 

weather books
http://TowerReview.com/audiobook-reviews.html

weather channel

spacex

James Comey Gives Graduation Speech

spying

When I graduated from college, I was a very confused nut. They told me that since I was educated in the Humanities now, I had the broad picture of life. The theory was that, amid all those practical, near-sighted automatons who’d opted to attend technical school, I alone possessed sufficient vision to define the true parameters of man’s social, moral, and ecological condition. And I can still recall vividly the commencement ceremonies when the dean waxed eloquent on the great challenges which faced us as we went out into the world with our parchments and our purple cardboard hats. It was the same night they found Eddie Fishbein, a credit-laden senior, curled up in his dorm closet with one thumb in his mouth and a sweat drenched security blanket wrapped tightly around his neck.
    Understandably even more distressed by the prospect of the competitive unknown, I soon became sullen, morose, and saddened to learn that my Alma Mater had betrayed me by not telling us about the injustice which allowed someone who could recite Shakespeare, Byron, and Yeats to lose out to some YUTZ who happened to know his way around certain bathroom plumbing fixtures. Here was I, able to grasp the really significant essentials of postmodern film, the art of Phyllis Diller, and the reign of Genghis Khan, reduced to trudging the city in search of beer cans, while investing my hard-earned assets in a diversified portfolio of lottery tickets and bingo cards. Would I make it? I wondered anxiously. Would I be forced to take up residence in a dumpster and start eating re-refried beans? Would the student loan officers from my Alma Mater attend my funeral and hold a pocket mirror to my nose? In the throes of my disillusionment, it all seemed highly probable.
    Luckily, that was when I got lost while searching for a restroom at the US Tennis Open. Evoking some bizarre set of circumstances, then, I was immediately mistaken for a tennis player due to my resemblance to an NBA cross-dresser. Evidently the man hadn’t shown and was presumed withdrawn. The official I addressed in the hallway as “Bud–hey Bud!” responded before I could complete my question by laughing and wringing my hand. The upshot is that he ushered me into this room where the pros were sitting around sipping grape Koolaids and discussing the cons of their investments. Now, not only did I have a job, but a few friends as well.
    I wouldn’t say it was sheer LUCK which enabled me to reach the second round. Even though my opponent made more unforced errors than McDonalds has commercials, I WAS pretty high on adrenaline. For instance, we were already three games into the match before I realized the warmups were over. And then some of my service returns had this knack for hitting the tape and rolling over on his side like a prophetic yo-yo too. Toward the end there’d be sparks spurting up all over the forecourt as he tried to scoop the dead balls back. The topper, though, was when I miss-hit match point into a lob which caught the back of the baseline and placed my luckless opponent within slapping radius of our resigning chair umpire.
    Back in the locker room afterward, I was accosted by several autograph seekers of the racket manufacturing ilk. They wanted to know why I’d changed playing hands in mid-career, and if this meant I’d be changing rackets too. Muttering something under my breath about a new go-for-broke strategy, I managed to con several commentators into spouting one-liners about my revolutionary style eventually “doing to Laver what McEnroe’s serve-and-volley later did to Borg.” This was particularly satisfying in that before then I wouldn’t have been able to get a passing shot past a ball machine.
    Here was poetic justice at last, I reasoned. Too bad the outcome of my second round established the record as being the only love match in history when I was ousted by the 98th seed–a defrocked ex-priest who nonetheless kneeled in supplication before serving four consecutive aces. I think it was at the 6–0, 5–0 point that I also began to suspect that my opponent had the psychological edge, much like Freud had over Skinner. When the linesmen and ballgirls began heckling me, I was sure of it. Regretfully, there’d been little time for me to brush up on the paperback I’d found in my locker room, INTERMEDIATE TENNIS: RELIEF FOR THE FRUSTRATED BEGINNER. Now I’d either have to fill out an application as night shift relief at the nearest Di-Quickie Mart, or try entering the Papua New Guinea Open, hoping I’d get into the finals because no one else knew how to get there. Since I had no money for plane fare, I decided on the former.
    It wasn’t long before I began to realize that although being a jack-of-all-trades has its perks (one can always brag about being a ‘master-of-none’), I was somehow missing out on obtaining fulfilling employment and its subsequent burnout, and that if only I’d majored in Banking or Computers, I wouldn’t be sitting around evenings contemplating the BIG QUESTIONS with Pan Pizza on my breath, but I’d be talking private condos in Big Sur, and maybe going on monthly junkets to the Cayman Islands to launder my petty cash.
    To make this protracted story shorter, I eventually began attending spy school, and before long I was feeling much better about my future. That is, until several dishwashers told me about another course at the school titled Poetic Devices And Their Application In Government And Industry. The course instructor was Dr. Percy Snodgrass, former curriculum director at my Alma Mater.

spying on Americans
Future Shock

Tsunami Garbage Includes Refugees

Tsunami Trash
Rush Hour Gridlock in Trashville

#ThisNotIn (McNews You Can’t Use):  Forget the Wall. A Manhattan-sized mass of garbage slowly approaching California does indeed house over 8000 refugees in the newly discovered central “city” amid the muck. The origin of the residents of Trashville is unknown at this point, but NASA satellite imaging seems to indicate the Philippines, (although–inextricably–there are also many North Koreans mingled with them, while Flat Earthers say the images are CGI and the natives are from Lost Atlantis.) The city itself has already elected a mayor and a city council, who are dealing with complaints regarding sewage treatment and electrical power outages. The city’s generator has proven insufficient in providing service to resident Direct TV subscribers, who are also complaining about the quality of shows like Lifestyles of the Bitch and the Ignoramus. Mayor Pencho Sing talked to our own Ryback Solomon today via satellite phone, and what follows is the transcript of that conversation.
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RS)  Sir, can you hear me now?


PS)  Oh yes, I learn English. I takee correspondence course.


RS)  How did you get there, and what are your in-tensions?            


PS)  We shuttle by Russian sub. We pay captain two hundred yuan each, or Olympics memorabilia. We demand be American. We go Kalifornia.  


RS)  How did you know the garbage was headed this way?


PS)  I no understand question.


RS)  What are you eating?


PS)  We have many working refrigerator. Hungry Man dinner. We cook microwave.


RS)  The Russians gave you the generator?


PS)  Oh yes, Putin very kind. We told record what we find to Wookieleaks.


RS)  This is simply amazing, sir. Can you tell us, who knew you were going to attempt this besides the Russians and Directv?


PS)  Coke and cola. We got much machine, many sign everywhere.


RS)  And what are you expecting, when you reach shore?


PS)  Three hots and cot. Just kiddie you. We want America dream. We want be famous and rich. We go America Got Talent. Howie love us.


RS)  All eight thousand of you?


PS) We prepare many act. We drink much Beyonce Pepsi. We get money for no thing and Swift for free.


RS)  I see. And who cleans up all the mess?


PS)  No understand question.
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Well, there you have it, folks. Mr. Sing will be strumming your heartstrings, soon. . . along with the 7999 other residents of Trashville. Could be a hit, unless it’s a miss. . . in which case they intend to declare the flotilla the 51st state and get delegates into Washington to work on pork barrel projects like a sanitation plant and a saltwater reclamation initiative. Already several dream team lawyers have offered their services on a percentage basis, and a campaign advisor hired on retainer.  If the new state DRIFTOPIA is born from all this, we will be watching closely for how it all plays out in the next electoral college. Happy Daze are here again!

Tsunami trash