This tax season you have surely wondered why you weren't allowed to claim your talking parakeet as a dependent. Many of you maintain a strong loving relationship with your cats, dogs, hamsters, or sheep. You can't imagine life without your pet - just like your next door neighbor whose companion happens to be human - yet you are denied the same rights, respect, and recognition that your neighbor enjoys - only because your companion happens to be a member of another species.
You would think that if Ms Fluffy is good enough to share your bedroom, she must be good enough to be accepted as your dependent by the US government. But this isn't what the Republican administration is thinking when it criminalizes pet care by consensual adults.
Why are we treated like second-class citizens, denied the right to a relationship with our loved ones - only because they are different kinds of organisms? What happened to the equal protection clause? Shouldn't we call the ACLU about this?
If you've asked yourself these legitimate questions, then you've only touched the vast tangle of bigotry, speciism, and animal oppression growing at the heart of American culture. In fact, the offensive tax restriction is a mere weapon in a culture war against progress. Stop asking questions, start acting - we want our country back! And by all means, call the ACLU.
. The root word for animal is "anima" and is defined as "The inner self of an individual; the soul." What a great way to remind others that . But if animals are no different from humans and all species are equal, why don't animals pay taxes? Why can't my Ms Fluffy claim me as a dependent? Because Ms Fluffy is denied the right to work. She also can't legally own property nor can she vote - let alone enter into an official relationship with a loving companion. Speciism is the new racism.
It is obvious that civil rights, including the right to vote, are not contingent upon , or even with . Millions of people who haven't worked a day in their lives and have forgotten how to read, still successfully participate in electoral process to ensure their status as government's dependents.
True, animals don't have the cognitive function to realize what they're missing. But having a mind was never an advantage in our progressive movement. Animals can be trained. If they can ride a bicycle in a circus, they can rally for economic, political, and cultural rights in Union Square. It must become a duty of every progressive pet owner guardian, to train a pet to walk in the street with a sign (see picture).
This is nothing new. Everyone knows that social progress can only be achieved by assigning guilt for perceived absurdities that result from the persistent shifting of paradigms. We split you into groups and assign blame or victimhood accordingly. It's called social studies.
Our academics have designed a diverse hierarchy of victimized minorities that has long ago surpassed the complexity of the periodic table. Once a new victim group is discovered and properly tagged, our activists quickly re-educate them about class struggle and train them to go out into the streets with slogans advocating [insert current truth here].
The ever increasing diversity of victims calls for a more universal classification. It's now easier to define them by what they are "NOT" - non-Exploiters, non-Males, non-Europeans, non-Christians, non-Infidels, non-Corporate, non-Straight, non-Healthy, non-Citizens - or, in this case, non-Humans.
The more groups you are a part of, the higher you score in the Progressive Social Hierarchy. Until recently, the highest score was achieved by Fatima Jones, a homeless female homosexual Pygmy, an HIV positive crack whore of faith, mentally traumatized by a sexually abusive Catholic priest, currently on death row for stealing a motorized electrical shopping cart at Wall-Mart. The inclusion of non-Humans has shifted the paradigm even further.
Now first place is being disputed by - two gay penguins at the New York Central Park Zoo, and - another pair of gay penguins at the New York Aquarium.
The jury is still out on which pair is more progressive: Wendell and Cass represent a proud minority of African black-footed penguins, while Silo and Roy have fostered an egg together during the mating season, delivering a decisive blow to the opponents of gay marriage.
The zoo, of course, represents a perfect social model wherein the subjects are free to exercise their instinctive impulses while being provided for by a benevolent group of scientists and caretakers.
As further social progress erases remaining boundaries between species, genders, faiths, cultures, and occupations, the social hierarchy will become so complex that any group larger than three will have to be separated from others by an unobtrusive mesh wire. It might even be a solid partition - to prevent one's cultural impulses from offending someone else's cultural sensibilities.
That, of course, comes with thousands of new government jobs - to arbitrate what is offensive and what is not, to maintain partitions, and to provide scientifically measured care to harebrained constituents. Is this not the New American Dream worth fighting for?
Wishing on Lenins dried out corpse for a more progressive future,
Beasts of England, Beasts of Ireland,
Beasts of every land and clime,
Hearken to my joyful tidings
Of the golden future time.
Soon or late the day is coming,
Tyrant Man shall be o'erthrown,
And the fruitful fields of England
Shall be trod by beasts alone.
Comrades! I have a solution! I know how to swell our cadres!
I hasten to point out that I am a converted Socialist, not having been born to the brown, er, purple.
Here in the great big brown land of Stray-ya, we have a whole political party made up entirely of misunderstood progressives who just want their legitimate relationships with marsupials no longer discriminated against by the fascist Kristian oppressors. They're called "Greens" and I am their leader.
We will not compromise. Some of the Kristian Right demand that we at least support only relationships with mammals of the opposite gender. Naturally we told them absolutely not. Anything less than total freedom is sick and disgusting.
Some of our marsupial komrades have become so disenfranchised by the persecution, discrimination and lack of recognition of our constitutionally mandated relationships, they have been forced to take up arms in a desperate last measure against the oppressor.
But are you sure that you are not being less than totally free Down Under? What about people who want to marry people with nothing down under? I do not think that Algore has anything there but hydraulic hoses, for he's run by the Disney team that made the Animatronic Abe Lincoln at Walt Disney World. It's very impressive--I saw it in 1984 and thought what a wonderful Apparatchik he would be for the Party. If he got off message, just change his programming. The Brits think he acts like he's got a rod up his bum but it was just old programming.
And what about creatures who are identified by their private parts, or who are nothing but a private part? Senator Schumer is nothing but a pecker, and Hillary, although our Empress, is nothing but a box. Invaluable allies both and I would never dream of denying them reproductive rights.
But that gives me pause to think. If we have free VD clinics, would that slow the expansion of Party members?
I just saw Bryan Hathaway's EIT return. He claimed Rudolph (no, not Mikael silly, Rudolph The Dead Deer Roadkill) and got a big chunk coming back from Uncle Sam.
Me, I owed $1700. I asked if I could just cut a check to the welfare crackheads two doors down from me and eliminate the middleman but I was told it wouldn't be fair to the bureaucrats....after all, it's about fairness.
The other animals take comfort in the sign painted that says, "All animals are created equal." Only the jackass, who will not talk, can read that underneath it the pigs have added, "But some animals are more equal than others."
I am the most equal of equals.
It's Tax $eason… and I'm ohhhh so happy!
And considering that I took her money and turned it into this lovely vase--what could be pleasanter? Her drooling child; oh, she says she loves it, but these people have no real emotions; they don't really feel pain, just fear. And so I am the philosopher's stone, turning widows' tears into glass art for me.
And just think how many candy canes that child had to put into a board with holes drilled in it, just to count them up to put in a cellphone bag. Why, I gave that child months and months of useful work, keeping it off my manicured lawns.
So, Chairman Meow, it's really for their own good. And that's why we tell them why we want their money. And we cannot just let them keep it, for they might do the wrong thing with it. Bill Clinton let that one out of the bag, and that's why I let him get impeached. And you may not have noticed, but his womanizing cut down too. I had some of the Party doctors pay him a visit and now he pees through a tube. But we let him grope a cleaning woman once in a while.
Ah. Now for a nice sleep on silk sheets; I'm allergic to anything else. And these are a special gift from the Forbidden City, made from the silk of a species of silkworms specially bred by the Ming dynasty and kept hidden throughout the Cultural Revolution, and which are so sensitive that their best silk is spun while they are being sung to by Chinese women with bound feet. And since that's outlawed, or so they say, now in China, I have by my own ways managed to insure that an entire mountain tribe has become an untribe and all the women have their feet bound to sing to the silkworms used to make my sheets.
And let me tell you about the lace that I use for toilet paper some day.
We are well situated here, with people such as Howard Zinn and Noam Chomsky and all of the Useful Idiots of Hollywood who speak so movingly about the errors and sins of Americans, and that all these can be expunged only if we follow the lead of enlightened people such as Algore and Our Many Titted Empress Hillary Vagina.
People who will think for the masses. People who will take money from the masses and tell them not to resent it. In other words, our sort of people.
at last, equal rights for all creatures.
forward with the class struggle.
like the penguins, down with individuality.
Comrades, least we not forgot those oppressed Afgani sheep. Those horrible Afgan tribesmen used to make them wear those Burkas so that no other man shall look upon the faces of their mates.
Until the USAofKKK liberated those poor sheep they could not go go to school, work, wear make-up etc. Now those sheep are liberated just like their western counterparts.
Thank you O-BAAAAAAAAAA-ma for continuing to fight for the right of all oppressed sheep.
Fur is murder, ya think?
Pardon the fact that a pathogen of some sort has joined my cell community and is fomenting a mucosal revolt that makes reading preceding posts too challenging at present.
However, I think I have found a musical variant of Animal Farm, yet it seems to ridicule interspecies relations:
You are proletarianly welcome. When your name appears on the ACORN voter registry list, I will exhume you (if I have to wait until the Siberian thaw, so be it) to dress you in the fleece you so right deserve as an honor befitting such a more equal Party member.
By the way, if you want humbling, listen to Mozart's 5th piano concerto. I listened to it last night while driving in San Antonio. He was, what, 10? You can hear it if you know but it's better than half the music done by most every composer because even then his wit was obvious.
I must call the The Red Priest of Venice at once!
In Spring, Star Jones finds her eloquence in realization. In Summer, we basque in the heat of ineptitude. In Fall, Divine and Chi-Chi La Rue are like leaves from the tree being fell. In Winter, we feast our eyes on the abyss of blackholes as it flows into the darkness from which it came.
Now what cuteness would you like to entice that can not be bent over the bed with my scalpel? What mirror shall I look into that I have not seen it's face in hell? Or shall we grease the rear ends of each other and case the sheep on her her throne...
The wit of the boy wonder is grand indeed, but his cage is selected, and the red priest eats delicate wonder in darkness.
Five steps from your backyard I have the flesh readily cooking on my BBQ.
Would you like to come over for a bite?
"...the flesh readily cooking on my BBQ." I hear Hannibal Lecter. I like that in a man. After all, there are so many uses for dear Hannibal when one of the doctors at Jifi-Lobo has a bad case of the DTs and manages to, er, harm a comrade who is just in for a minor tune-up. You know, the sort of tune-up that you need when you listen to the glistening words of His O'liness and a cloud of wonder, just wonder, mind you, crosses your mind and you consider it's possible, just barely possible, that is, that he, no HE is nothing more than a construct of the bull sessions of the bien pensant flavored with the bare-knuckle politics of Chicago.
If you ever suspect that President Zero cannot walk on water and just by a wave of his hands suspect all the laws of nature, including economics, it's time to take an immersion blender to your prefrontal lobes.
Then you won't mind talking to Keith Olbermann.
Or Glen Milstead, John Water's Divine, who really did eat dog poo in Pink Flamingos.
You know, I think that Star looks a lot more like Chi Chi, don't you? But I'm betting that Chi Chi wouldn't get so bent out of shape with the people who paid for something for her, as Star did about her wedding.
I do agree Comrade, there is a slight resemblance. They are fascinating wonders, whom, if my dear friend Kubrick, were to know then, A Clockwork Orange, might just have featured such wondrous droogs. Rather than meager children of dance and song.
Comrade, Vivaldi is The Red Priest of Venice, surely you know this. As a good doctor, I shall try to be generous to your lambs, those of the slight tune-up variety, but as you know... my slight of scalpel is fit for Graveyards, and Gulags.
Do Tell Dear Mr. Olberman, The Cock says hi....
Why, just the other day Marshall Pupovich, of all people, was over at the Rancho de Rio Grande and he expressed a thought which was not slaveringly idolatrous to His O'liness and Nansky Peloski. Instantly I drugged with a handful of roofies and took him down to Jifi-Lobo.
For his own good, you know, for his own good.
The enablers at the NYT report crows can learn to pay for things! Well, . Truth is indeed stranger than fiction, especially when manufactured.
We all know that everything sounds better in French--well, I have never believed it but fools will pay more. Since the ascension of His O'liness, why do we not call it Jifi l'Oba?
After all, Lobotomy and Obama have a good deal in common.
Meet Mr Giggles
Commissar Red Star CEO Hemlock Hospitalityä INC
Director of Kicking Doors at Midnight
Keeper of the sacred Plasma Cutter
Herdsman of Rainbow Farting Unicorns
Keeper of the Faith
Will you continue to call your new member of the family Mr. Giggles? If you have trouble disciplining Mr. Giggles, I suggest a picture of Miss Resentment, darling Michelle.
Come to think of it, does Mr. Giggles have a brother? That might be the only way that I can keep Bruno from my Amex card.
What did you say, Lassie?
You don't want to be made a dependent?
You will then have to pay taxes when you are older?
Ruff, Ruff, Ruff-Ruff, Ruff-Ruff,
You prefer to stay underground, and unnoticed, because humans have already messed things up enough already?
But what about the people at the People's Cube? You like them, don't you?
They are very funny some times, but others, they behave like fools.
Do you care to mention any names?
Names? Now you want me to name names?
No. That's all right. You don't have to name names.
I'm just glad I can sneak away from this gulag once in while and am not addicted to it like you are.
There's more to life than beets and vodka, you know.
I guess you have a point, Lassie.
Try this. Whenever some shit-for-brains comes in and annoys you with his time-bothering self-importance, smile and sigh, saying that you know that he's had a good day because every idiot on earth was before your desk. And look right at him
Such is man's own amour propre that not a single person has gotten it and I've used it dozens of times.
Here is an anecdotal account: At a family gathering with my in-laws, I was not amused when I discovered that one such relation, a female of the profession, a virago, termagant, if you get the picture, was mocking me, without even the decency to do it behind my back. First, I waited, composed myself a little, and then, when the time was right, I approached her with the dumbest, most innocent look I could conjure on my face, and said, after some friendly chit-chat, with no hint whatsoever that I was speaking of her in particular, that I was glad I no longer worked for lawyers, as I would rather clean a commode than look a lawyer in the face. She looked at me with the greatest sympathy, and commiseration. It was priceless.
I like that method. I'll use it everytime somebody really starts to get off acting better than me. Or every time I have to suffer lectures about sex's beauty.
Here's another tool. Where I live some people from the Old Country feel better is a deal is negotiated in front of some seeming figure of authority; it's odd when you hear the word patron in a Spanish conversation. There is always endless bickering over little money, there being little money, and it will all be negotiated in front of your desk, with you supplying facts and suggestions. For a $5K house.
Or only one party can be there. But now is not the time to engage in the folly of explaining the workings of Texas real-estate law, or the idea of contracts. Say, "What is you did x and then y? That would mean z." This gets a start. Then there will be more circling. Bear in. "I think it would be a good idea of you did x and then y and you'd have z." Now you're getting more attention instead of the inchoate fog inside the people's heads.
Finally lean back in the chair, fix each one with a gimlet eye, and say, sweetly but in tones which will NOT be denied, "Now. You do x." If necessary go to the other party. "And you do y."
Continue without letting them talk about anything else. Repeat with increasing intensity until you say, "Now you'll do.....?" "x" and bring it on home. Saves hours. I'm not kidding.
Then the sent me a letter asking me to check to see that the taxes were paid, even though she'd just paid them. I wrote back from the law firm of "Douie, Cheatham and Howe" saying that owing to a joint investigation of the Office of the Comptroller of the Currency, the Securities and Exchange Commission, and the Texas Attorney General E&W had been permanently put out of busines, and signed it Emil Fahrquarson.
I got a call from the tax assessor-collector, a good friend, who asked, "Theocritus, is there anything wrong? I got this letter..."
This goes to show that some people naturally have no need of Jifi-Lobo and indeed have skulls so hard that all the industrial diamonds made by GE could not penetrate their minds. Red Star's plasma cutter is ineffectual against heads like hers.
So I nominate Mary for Editor of Doctrinal Purity at the dailykos.
I looked up Culo de Pecos on Google and the only context in which it came up was "Groupthink" via Commissar Theocritus. There's something fishy here. Where, exactly is this Culo de Pecos? Is it near the Boca de Midland? Or the Braso de Odessa? Or where?
And, it's a good thing that tax assessor-collector was indeed, a good friend, Mr. Fahrquarson.
Here is the office that Douie, Cheatham and How took over. Notice the five fancy glass-block windows, and considering my prestige in the community, no more than two or three dozen of them have been shot out.
Notice the condition of the street. (Actually Houston is sending engineers to find out how to improve Kirby and University and Shepherd to that standard.) The building behind the tree is the Lucius Bunton III Federal Courthouse, a pharaonic monument to a federal judge who had a penchant for quoting trashy novels in his opinions. Such was the state of his mind. To the right is the Courthouse.
I'll give you one more story. Until 9/13/93 when Texas had the first change ever in the laws of descent and distribution, when one spouse died his children inherited his half of the community property. This meant that when Maria was going to live a daughter's house she had to get her children to sign their half interest over to her.
Joe came to me with the problem. Eight children. One daughter in San Antonio wouldn't sign. He came in twice a week. "Joe, do you know where she works?"
"Take your mother and get in the car and go to San Antonio. Wait until she gets off work and take her with these papers and get her to a bank that's open until six. Make her sign."
It worked. But if the family is over six children, it's 50/50 that one of them will be in prison. No one in prison ever signs anything for free, even to his wife, to his mother. He needs the money. The current bribe is $200.00.
Drier air has a remarkable rejuvenating and beautifying effect on my feminine features.
Speaking of land, I once had a dream that an Arab Sheik had purchased a sizable chunk of Texas, and succeeded in seceding from the union, declared Sharia Law, and there was nothing we could do about it. Just a dream. However, when I heard that Prince Abdullah visited that rabid Bush dog's compound near Crawford, and had purchased some land, my dream came vividly back to me. If Prince Abdullah so wished to do this, now--with our current leader being his devout and obedient subject--would be the perfect time to establish his fiefdom.
The dream itself, did have a nightmarish quality to it, I must admit.
Perhaps, one day, West Texas will be the saffron capital of the hemisphere. Stranger things have happened.
Of course you need to Spread the Good Socialist Word. For the Children™, for the Planet™, to propitiate Gaia™, to better effect the Progressive World of Next Tuesday™.
Because you just aren't a good progressive unless you hate yourself and hate America.
You will have to watch Michael Moore movies and read the DKos for a month in penance for that.
Also in that first year I got athlete's foot and jock itch, and a fungus in my ear canal. Then mould would eat the fungus, and crack the ear canal, and eat through the ear drum. Then the fungus would fight the mould, and it would start all over. For two years, until I found a compounding pharmacy and a smart old doctor, I had little hearing in my left ear and it's still somewhat damaged. I figure that I'll take the dry to being infected with fungus from head to tow with an embarrassing stop in between.
Since you enjoy paleontology, so you salivate when you see Nansky Peloski's face? I am told that households with dogs have to be careful showing them pictures of her, and dogs do not in general pay attention to pictures, or mirrors, as they have no scent. Comradette Nansky has surpassed even normal animal behavior.