God help me, I've been watching the first season of Deadwood on DVD again. Last night, I fell asleep in front of the TV just as Al Swearengen was busting the mercy-kill on the poor, mad Reverend Smith. I slept a troubled slumber, full of half-glimpsed visions of Wu's pigs and Alma Garret's graceful neck. When I awoke in the gray light of a joyless dawn, the room smelled of cat-piss and bourbon, and on the table in front of me I found a note scribbled in an unsteady hand....
Fuckin' ethics committees' schoolmarmly fingerwagging notwithstanding, I can't leave go unsaid my envy of the brass balls on the cocksucker.
Your time is not particularly noteworthy for its Christly adherence to principles of personal accountability, is it. Second Fuckin' Gilded Age, is what you're living through. Fuckin' Attorney General sits like a pastry on a pillow, flinging offal at passersby in the thoroughfare as his piss-stained employer, stupid as mud, smiles like a seraph. Washington cocksuckers who planned your own disastrous war on the Dirt-Worshippers, what do they get? Corner offices on K Street, editorial space in the papers to declare the flawlessness of their wisdom, book contracts, regular visits from painted massage therapists.
(And when your own Joanie Stubbs opens her fuckin' yap, exposing the gorgeous hypocrisy of a hosannah-moaning Christer at State -- and potentially ten thousand other miserable hoopleheads -- the town lifts its skirts and emits a yowl of outraged propriety. I give even money that Deborah Jean Palfrey meets an untimely end before Friday.)
But this Wolfowitz. Fucked up right into the presidency of the World Bank -- a capital grifter's license. Cocksucker hits on the sovereign scheme of givin' the world's poor a helping hand -- one girlfriend at a time.
Gotta admire that. A bunco artist is nothing without a pair of ironclad balls, and Wolfie's clang together like churchbells when he walks. See something you want, you fuckin' take it -- let the rabblement wave their arms and gibber at your effrontery. Such exercise is capital for the fuckin' constitution. When the gentry look askance at your appropriation, you reply calmly and with clear-eyed honesty that the fault, dear Brutus, is not with us but with the cocksuckers who want to stand between your mighty office and blessed relief for the world's starving.
This is the awful genius of the grift: the World Bank's fuckin' charter is to spread the money around to the masses -- any fuckin' hooplehead in a blue suit could be its presiding Solon. Wolfie's spent his career conning bone-stupid cocksuckers into belief in his infallible wisdom, despite ample evidence to the contrary; it's how he got the fuckin' job in the first place. To claim that your intellectual endowments are so fuckin' magisterial that a casual con should be posthaste overlooked is an act of audacity that takes balls the size of fuckin' watermelons. He probably has to carry them around in a wheelbarrow, with an armed guard marching ahead to shoo away stunned onlookers.
Can't say that's a bad way to make a living.