Drive-By: Help Find a Cure For Trudeau
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WHEN in the course of human Events, it becomes necessary….
Welcome to the New American Digest: 2003-2020
Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
Gerard Van der Leun
When all Earth’s seas shall Levitate,
Dark shawled within the skies,
Upon our eyes will Starfish dance
Their waltz of Blind surprise.
The sun will Rise within wine Dark
As Argonauts imbibed,
Whose drunken arms embrace that sleep
Where Phaeton’s horses Stride.
Upon all of Earth’s wind-sanded shores,
As dolphins Learn to soar,
All we once were on the land
Shall be sealed behind the door
Of Ivory and Chastened Gold,
That the Mystery solved complete
Shall never til the seas’ Long fall
Wake mariners from their sleep.
— Van der Leun
I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this
air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
— Walt Whitman
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
— The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot
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That was very funny, but he’s past help.
https://mobile.twitter.com/ontarioisproud/status/966413174424584192/video/1
Megyn’s got nothing on him. I rest my case.
https://youtu.be/wgX-RQZpJZk
.308
North America’s finest, a community organizer and now an Indian dancer.
There’s no hope for him ever finding his balls, but his condition does have a cure!
We’d have to hurry, as the practicioners that administer the cure are dwindling rapidly (President Trump is driving them out,) but there are still a few around the badlands of Iraq and Syria: they’re known as ISIS.
The cure is a simple one, all it requires is for Justin to lose his head; it’s not like he has any use for it anyway, and he’d look even better- and sound much more sensible!- without it. So off you go, Justin, to your happy beheading! If you ask nicely, I’m sure they’ll give you a certificate!
If they can just vote him out next election, then all of Canadia will find its testicles, descending as it were, from nowhere. if not, Balless they shall ever be.
BEHEADING’S Okay…. but I was sort of hoping we could get him to wear a hat made of pink mist instead.
If I look REAL HARD, I think I can find him my lucky bottlecap.
He is so offputtingly girlish. Oh my, no. And yet so confident and at ease in himself.
Sic transit gloria mundi. Such ridiculous people in positions of power at a time when sobriety is essential. Dance clown, dance.
Soak him in brine and brown sugar, and put him in the smokehouse.
A month oughta do.