Writing in the Raw: Hey Mrs. Potter, Won’t You Talk to Me?

This Thursday’s Writing in the Raw is sponsored by The Netherlands Board of Tourism and Conventions, so call them and book a trip to the Netherlands!  Right now!  Tell them Rusty8 sent you and don’t forget to send me a postcard.  

Because of the intense subject matter of tonight’s WITR, it is being presented with limited commercial interruption.      

I’m a big fan of the Counting Crows, so I want to explain in their defense that the song you are about to hear was written ten years ago, before all the Mrs. Potters in this country began to experience the alarming cognitive/rectal conditions that are the topic of tonight’s WITR . . .          

We’ve all seen Mrs. Potters.  They’re everywhere.  The Republican Party is filled with Mrs. Potters who still respect and admire the war criminals, traitors, psychopaths, racists, and thick-skulled idiots of the GOP who’ve been perpetrating fascist hackery in Washington D.C. this entire millennium.  I’m not a neurologist, I’m not a proctologist either, but anyone who has paid any attention at all can verify that the GOP’s Mrs. Potters are experiencing sensory and cognitive difficulties because their heads are firmly lodged up their asses. As one might expect, this condition is acutely impairing their ability to perceive and understand what’s happening beyond the confines of their permanent Republican rectums.    

They’re everywhere.

You can never escape from them, Buhdy, you can only move south down the coast.

Mrs. Potters come in a variety of shapes, sizes, ages, and psychoses.  Some of them are idiots walking a tightrope of fortune and fame, like Cindy McCain. Others are acrobats swinging trapezes through circles of flaming lies, like Condi Rice.  Most Mrs. Potters–    

This is a test of the Emergency Writing in the Raw System. The bloggers  of your area, in voluntary cooperation with the FCC and other incompetent authorities, have developed this system in order to keep you informed if an Emergency Writing in the Raw becomes necessary.  If this had been an actual Emergency Writing in the Raw, you would have been instructed to step away from your computer, bend over and kiss your ass goodbye.

OK.  Thanks.  That’s good to know.  

As I was saying, most Mrs. Potters–  

This is another test of the Emergency Writing in the Raw System. The bloggers of your area, in voluntary cooperation with the FCC and other incompetent authorities, have developed this system in order to keep you informed if an Emergency Writing in the Raw becomes necessary. If this had been an actual Emergency Writing in the Raw, you would have been instructed to step away from your computer, bend over and kiss your ass goodbye.

Yes.  I think we understand.  Thank you.

AS I WAS SAYING, most Mrs. Potters are completely oblivious to reality.  I’d rather poke red hot needles in my eye for a thousand years than talk to one of them.  But there are a lot of victims who might like to have a word or two with them, who’d like to know what it is about fascism and war crimes that inspires these Mrs. Potters to heap so much admiration on their Republican heroes.

Like these victims, for example . . .

Hey Mrs. Potter, won’t you talk to me?  Let’s discuss what being tortured feels like . . .  

What is it about torturers that instills so much admiration in you, Mrs. Potters?

Hey Mrs. Potter, won’t you talk to me?  Let’s discuss what getting killed on a fifth combat tour in Iraq feels like . . .

What is it about wars for oil that you find so heroic, Mrs. Potters?

Hey Mrs. Potter, won’t you talk to me?  Let’s discuss what being collateral damage feels like . . .

A million men, women, and children are dead in Iraq, Mrs. Potters. Think about that the next time you sit your complicit asses down in a church pew to worship the Prince of Peace.    

Hey Mrs. Potter, won’t you talk to me?  Let’s discuss what being left behind to drown feels like . . .

Black people drowning, black people getting shot as looters, black people being ethnically cleansed.  You no doubt pulled your heads out of your asses long enough to see God’s righteous punishment of the niggers in New Orleans, huh, Mrs. Potters.  

Hey Mrs. Potter, won’t you talk to me?  Let’s discuss what being a forgotten, homeless vet with no hope at all feels like . . .

Give him a yellow ribbon, Mrs. Potters, that’ll help.

Yeah.  I know, I know, you’d love to do more, but admiring war criminals, traitors, psychopaths, racists, and thick-skulled idiots is a full time job, huh, Mrs. Potters.  Well, the Mrs. Potters at the RNC are even busier.  There’s always one last light to turn out and one last bell to ring, and the last one out of the circus has to lock up everything, or the elephants will get out and forget to remember what they said, and the ghosts of the tilt-a-whirl will linger inside of their heads, and the ferris wheel junkies will spin there forever instead.  

Pull your heads out of your asses and wake the fuck up, Mrs. Potters.  Conservatism is an old and terrible lie. Capitalism is an old and terrible lie.  The border lines drawn on maps are an old and terrible lie.  Those old and terrible lies you admire so much, those old and terrible liars you have such respect for divide humanity into us against them.  They incite fear of other human beings who look different, or who say goodnight to their children in a different language, or who look up at the stars from a different land.

I’ll be talking to you, Mrs. Potters.  You’ll be hearing some raw truth from me between now and Election Day.