Bailiffs to the left of me, lawyers to the right; judge straight ahead. Half a league, half a league, half a league on. (Whoops… sorry, your honor. Went half a league too far.)
Yes, well… greetings from the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill on this blessed week of giving thanks. Thanks for what? Nothing, that’s what around this dump. Forgive my ill humor… it’s just that the man-sized tuber – our own beloved root vegetable companion – has embarked upon a virtual reign of terror as our municipality’s new mayor. I’ll tell you, friends, you never really know a person (or a sweet potato) until you’ve a.) had them over for holiday dinner, or b.) elected them village mayor or town supervisor. The maxim about absolute power corrupting absolutely may well be ascribed to the extremely limited power conferred upon the executive in charge of the little hamlet that has heretofore reluctantly tolerated the presence of Big Green. Silly me – I thought with one of our very own in that position, we would be safe from sanction, yay unto the ages, we and our progeny (not that we have any as of yet). Oh, I was so wrong. (Spoiler alert: that happens quite a lot.)
I mean, it was only hours after they hung that victory ribbon on his… his… chest-like protuberance that he started issuing edicts of the most punishing character imaginable. First there were the codes enforcement decrees – what we have come to refer to as “The Awful Things”. Matt heard this pounding on the front door, and attached thereupon (with a railroad spike, no less) was a parchment-like posting that advised us in no uncertain terms to leave the premises or face eviction. Yes, there was a grace period – 48 hours. Generous, eh? This much consideration (and no more) from someone we pulled out of the ground with our bare hands. What was he before he met us, eh? A NOTHING! A NOBODY! A…. a… SWEET POTATO! Who brought him up from the unforgiving earth? Who gave him his little wheely cart to ride around in? Who took him from one end of the galaxy to the other as our trusted mascot? (If you need answers to any of this, let me know.)
Well, that was just the start. Next came the firefighters. They were banging on the door, climbing in the windows, selling us raffle tickets, all on the orders of the man-sized tuber. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) was so undone at the sight of these first responders that one of his
capacitors blew and he started listing up and down the halls, emitting smoke and humming “Keep the Ball Rolling” by Jay and the Techniques. Mitch Macaphee, Marvin’s inventor, has been following him around with test equipment as we fend off the firemen. It actually took Anti-Lincoln’s guile to get them to desist. He started selling them (forged) raffle tickets right back. But hot on the heels of that disruption came the codes enforcers – big, burly fellows with measuring tapes, T-squares, and deadly writs from the local magistrate. That’s right – the man-sized tuber had blown us in to a justice of the peace! (A redundant title if ever I heard one, for there can be no justice without peace… or is it vice-versa?)
Either way, we got headaches, and it’s all because of one of our own. And to think I attended tubey’s budding ceremony last year! There’s gratitude for you.

surely passed, and while the announcement, as of this writing, has not yet been made, it’s clear that something like 30,000 to 35,000 more American bodies will be placed between the religious fanatics, drug smugglers, blood-stained warlords, and underworld entrepreneurs that dominate both sides of the Afghan struggle. To what end? Well, we’ve been promised that Obama will explain his strategy in a nationally-televised address this coming week. My guess is that it will be somewhat reminiscent of Bush Jr.’s address announcing the surge in Iraq – a change of strategy concentrating on the fundamentals of securing and holding territory, investing more dollars in reconstruction, and promoting regional cooperation. Bush’s speech was in the wake of the major disaster that his team had created in Iraq, prompting the U.S. institutional foreign policy establishment to, in essence, reassert itself and save the empire. In Obama’s case, concern for the empire is at the very center of his administration, and the burden of rescuing it will continue to be consigned to our “all-volunteer” military force. Whatever the stated strategy may turn out to be, that is the underlying motivation.
comfortable thing to do what’s right. If stopping these wars cost Obama his job, I would hope he would consider it well worth the cost – I can think of worse things to be remembered for… like driving us into another decade of this pointless death and destruction. But to ignore the political calculus of overseas military entanglements is to ignore history. Absent vigorous anti-war activism right here at home – to the tune of many, many thousands in the streets – all of the prevailing political winds will blow Obama toward increasing deployments of military resources to the Afghan “trap”, as Bin Laden called it. As I’ve said in this blog before (probably too many times), this is one of the perils of empire: our foreign policy is supported by a professionalized foreign legion made up of volunteers and mercenaries (or, if you prefer, “contractors”) and floated by borrowed capital, thereby insulating the vast majority of our population from the actual costs of war.
Yes, friends, we’re back home in Indiana… I mean, in upstate New York again. Back at the fabled and storied (actually, three stories, plus the roof and basement) Cheney Hammer Mill. We arrived on the redeye late last night… and by “redeye” I don’t mean an overnight flight from Andrews Airforce Base; rather, an eye-popping super-light speed journey through the outer solar system with a drunken mad scientist at the controls, half-empty quart of redeye clutched in his left paw. Weaving? Yes, we had that. Sudden drops in altitude? Most def. And what about those dramatic gravitational variances? Well, we endured our share, clinging to the exposed plumbing of the upper deck (some of which emitted an eerie green glow – uuuuhhhllll), rolling with the turbulence as our inebriated navigator snaked his way between the planets like celestial highway cones. There were a couple of exciting moments – Mitch Macaphee had missed the memo about that new Saturnian ring, and we plowed right through the sucker with inches to spare – but even with one eye closed (and one brain neutralized), we managed to hit our earthly target.
man, I pulled open the front door and let the uniformed individuals in. They were looking for the man-sized tuber, they told me, and would only say why directly to the tuber himself. When he wheeled himself into the room, one of our visitors hung a ceremonial ribbon around his… well… neck, I guess you could call it. “Congratulations, Mr. Mayor,” said the woman to the tuber, “and welcome home.” And I was like… and tubey was like… and Mitch was like… what the fuck, we were ALL like something I obviously can’t describe, but which approximates surprise and flabbergastedness. (At least not using words. Gestures, perhaps.)
Folks just north of here almost elected the intellectual equivalent of a box of rocks as their congressman. And what the hell, this seemed like it could redound significantly to our benefit, know what I mean? After all, we are just SQUATTERS here, no defined rights at least in the local codebook (except the right to be taken to jail). Now that he’s mayor, tubey can keep the heat off of us. He can, I don’t know, appoint Marvin (my personal robot assistant) as Public Safety Commissioner and Mitch Macaphee as his, I don’t know, budget director. I’m just thinking out loud here. Well, that sounded all well and good, and as they led the new mayor off to his cush mansion in the middle of town, we all sat back and waited for those benefits to start rolling in the front door like over-ripe oranges, fresh-plucked from the plush fronds of the juiciest tree in town. Mmmmm, boy – solid privilege!