July 13, 2008
Living Dead (Eight)
“There’s that scene in Terry Southern’s Blue Movie when the starlet Angela Sterling comes on set, but the director (loosely modeled on Stanley Kubrick to whom the book is dedicated and who at one time seriously considered making it into a picture) won’t FUCK her,” George Tenet spit out with his usual lisping, morbid rasp, as if the words had withered and dried up before they could escape his mouth and were still stuck on his desiccated and shriveled tongue. “The scriptwriter character is worried that if Angie doesn’t get laid, and fast, something bad is going to happen, so he tries to reason with his friend. His argument goes something like: She’s got a HOLE between her legs, doesn’t she? Well girls get very nervous when they don’t have something in their HOLE!” The RAT-PRICK CIA director had followed Rummy, Karl Rove, and Darth Cheney down to the morgue like a ghoulish little schoolboy trying to gain favors from senior class bullies and unconvincingly tried to puff out his chest when he delivered the punch line. The attempt at an aggressive posturing was, however, ill advised. His beef jerky zombie flesh was so cracked and full of gaping holes the air escaped instantly the moment he took his breath in and the end effect was more pathetic than anything else, as the air weakly billowed through the disintegrating fabric of his filth stained torn shirt and caused him to choke on the stink from his own decomposed rotten lungs. More dead soldier cadavers had just come in from overseas, and the Defense Secretary liked to have a go with the bodies personally before the official military autopsy. (This was before the Bushreich Administration's run-up to Iraq, before Abu Ghraib, torture, warrant-less wiretaps, economic collapse, etc., etc., blah, blah, blah, and no one, not a single sharper, had noticed all the flies in the window of the Oval Office, and the deathlike putrid stink generally coming out of the White House). “Fucking Sid Krassman’s punch line right outta the gate, at the very top of the first fucking page,” Rummy leeringly rejoined: “Cracks me up every time. Get this: Who do I have to fuck to get off this picture?!?!” He said it again, more to himself than to anyone else, his attention now trained on the neat rows of body bags before him. They still had not been put in the refrigerators. Rummy unzipped a couple of the ones closest to where he was standing, pinched the sides of the first bag between his thumbs and forefingers like it was the thin neck of a wineglass he was holding in each hand (QUEERPANTS-fashion), peeled back the black vinyl plastic with gruesome anticipation, and peered inside. “But the best part,” Karl Rove said, “was when the head studio exec comes out to check on the picture and gets one of the studio hands to make arrangements with the local undertaker — strictly on the QT — to let the CORPSEFUCKER have at it with a couple of recently deceased local young girls!” Rummy and Rove looked at each other and together let out an uncharacteristic lusty diabolical laugh. There’s scary and there's SCARY! Few things are, for example, harder to watch than your favorite rock’n’rollers growing old. Legend has it back in the day The Rolling Stones optioned the movie rights to Dave Walles’s 1964 Only Lovers Left Alive. It’s one of those stories where the old fogies all suicide and roving bands of kids are left to run the world on their own; lots of gang fights, sex, and motorcycle action, a fine vehicle for a young fresh-faced Mick Jagger and the boys. Imagine if they made the picture today! The long-haired prune-faced geriatrics hobbling around the British countryside in gypsy spandex, all aches and pains. How scary is that?!? Well, let me tell you straight out, it pales in comparison to how frightening these CRYPTO-FASCITS-ZOMBIE-COCKSUCKERS looked going about their sordid business down in the Pentagon Morgue. All four of them looked like the late Keith Ledger’s version of Frank Miller’s Dark Night Joker, like their tortured hate-filled clown maniac faces were slowly melting off. “My favorite Terry Southern character is Old Hack, the old-school publisher and editor-in-chief in ‘Blood of the Wig,’” Darth Cheney said, now focused on the BLOODLESS squirming RAT-PRICK CIA Director. Rove and Rummy were otherwise busy elsewhere among the corpses. “When Old Hack throws out an idea at an editorial board meeting he likes to say, ‘Let’s stroke it a while and see if it gets stiff,’ AND,” Darth Cheney continued, “when the old man is pushing an idea he really likes he says, ‘Let’s stroke it a while and see if we get any jism.’ Get my meaning?!?” Darth Cheney had a way of standing at an angle to you when he told a story, braced and hunched over, like he was standing at the ready at the start line of a 10K, and when he wanted to punctuate a thought, he would rear up and face you, as if he was brushing aside an invisible black cape. “Or do I need to spell it out for you? S-a-d-d-a-m I-n-s-a-n-e!” he let off with his usual upward swing of the shoulders that revealed his serpent smile, and malevolently poked the zombie Tenet in his protruding exposed ribs so hard the miscreant RAT-BASTARD actually coughed up a chunk of moldy lung.