WORLD SQUASH
Something Elliot Might Say or Think! Lol.
oh . . . I wrote this yesterday, more in context today.
Yossarian knew he was lying, but did not interrupt as Chief White Halfoat went on to claim that he had never heard from his parents again. That didn't bother him too much, though, for he had only their word for it that they were his parents, and since they had lied to him about so many other things, they could just as well have been lying to him about that too.
LYDIG. POPINJAY. PLANTING FALSE MEMORY.
IT IS THE LAW! Now, if you have 150 extended family members, planting, misinformation in your mind, from the time you are 5 years old, and you are just seeing your mom, hanging with her, and observing her, through, your young mind, with mom, thinking, that while divorced, obviously, I did not abandon you, because I am with you all the time, every weekend, drive you to guitar lessons, spend every fucking weekend, picking you and your little band up, driving 300 miles, round trip, over a three year period, fighting, for the last, 10 years to save your music, that, it is highly obvious, that, I have always been there for you, no matter, how remote and how far, even running for 5 years, to save your life, while writing a blog, to promote your music . . . I saw a welcome mat, yesterday, while walking to the Hammond House, in Greenwood, that showed, tons of aunts, crawling all over the welcome mat! Little boys, who adore their mothers, turn into men, too . . . big ass boobs are distractions for them, especially, when, auntie, is hanging with cool dudes, like Kennedy, and tons of cops, who all hate your mother, and, love your aunt, who, is the closest looking to your mom and acts, more like her, now, than, your mother, whom, you haven't been around for fucking 20 years! They robbed me and my kids, of my relationships, my life, their lives, and did all they could, to destroy our family, love, and closeness, so they could, get to the kids, whom, looking back, on my life, and my kids, lives, being, from, a spy family, have been, on the genetic radar screen, all their lives! THE RECRUIT! BUT HE HAS HIS DAD'S GENES, AND TURNS ON HIS RECRUITER!
This dialogue, comes as close to what my kids had to endure, there whole lives, starting when they were very young!
LIEUTENANT SCHEISSKOPF (FRANK OF INTERPOL)
- "Yes, sir," mumbled Clevinger. "Of justice, sir. That you couldn't find---"
- "Justice?" The colonel was astounded. "What is justice?"
- "Justice, sir---"
- "That's not what justice is," the colonel jeered, and began pounding the table again with his big fat hand. "That's what Karle Marx is. I'll tell you what justice is. Justice is a knee in the gut from the floor on the chin at night sneaky with a knife brought up down on the magazine of a battleship sandbagged underhanded in the dark without a word of warning. Garroting. That's what justice is when, we've all got to be tough enough and rough enough to fight Billy Petrolle. From the hip. Get it?
- "No, sir."
- "Don't sir me!"
- "Yes, sir." . . .
- It was all very confusing to Clevinger. There were many strange things taking place, but the strangest of all, to Clevinger, was the hatred, the brutal, uncloaked, inexorable hatred of the members of the Action Board, glazing their unforgiving expressions with a hard, vindictive surface, glowing in their narrowed eyes malignantly like inextinguishable coals. Clevinger was stunned to discover it. They would have lynched him if they could. They were three grown men and he was a boy, and they hated him and wished him dead. They had hated him before he came, hated him while he was there, hated him after he left, carried their hatred for him away malignantly like some pampered treasure after they separated from each other and went to their solitude. . . .
- Clevinger recoiled from their hatred as though from a blinding light. These three men who hated him spoke his language and were his uniform, but he saw their loveless faces set immutably into cramped, mean lines of hostility and understood instantly that nowhere in the world, not in all the fascist tanks or planes or submarines, not in the bunkers, behind the machine guns or mortars or behind the blowing flame throwers, not even among all the expert gunners of the crack Hermann Goering Antiaircraft Division or among the grisly connivers in all the beer halls in Munich and everywhere else, were there men who hated him more.
DUCK DELIVERY
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