Fog Machines
Fog:
The fog comes
on
little cat feet.
It sits looking
over
harbor and city
on
silent haunches
and then moves on.
Who told you that your life
would not be foggy? We sin much. Sin is foggy. We deceive much. "Sin", is failure, being in error, missing the mark. Deceit
is foggy. We need fog to mask sin and
deception. Oh, everything ends in death? Everything except arrogance, that is. We
need fog to dim our last mortal light. Sin puts out the light. Then, the fog rolls
in. Confessions end with a flick of a
switch and footsteps down the hall. A deceptive door usually clanks shut. Then,
it all seeps out into the back streets. Once the back streets begin to move,
the intellectuals and the politicians are swept aside. “A
trumpet shall sound and the dead shall be raised, raised incorruptible”.
Political fog is the weaponized bullet from the gun barrel of the mind. It gets
into the secret places of the soul. It’s messy. Armies use it to kill. Fleets
of ships hide in it. Diplomats wallow in it. Fools report it. They just make
fog. A foggy mind is memory’s thief. Only diplomats skulk in Foggy Bottoms. They
stink of the fog of war. They eat the fog of battle. They sleep in foggy bogs.
Drenched in fogginess with no foghorn to defog us, to help us hit the mark,
avoid error and failure, to avoid sin.
Queer is it not? Only the British seem to like it very much.
They managed to spoil the known world with their fog of empire. Stiff
upper lip and all that, what? Jolly good. Left, right, left right… Now, there’s
a good lad. For King and Country. I say, old bean…just watch a British politician
campaigning in Scotland. It’s like watching a drunk selling a car to a
bartender who’s getting a blow job.
Alex O’Laughlin:
“My trumpeting
sounds like a goose farting in the fog.”
American fog, equally toxic,
has a useful DNA, Marketing. After all, Americans
want profit not empire. The IRS can break down your door and shoot you in the
face. Pay your fog tax before your death tax. It’s perfectly legal for them to
shoot you, you know. So hide your profit in a fog. But how do you hide it? Ah, create
a row over indecorous pissing. Whose ass
can sit on what bowl where? That’s a matter of foggy bottoms with transcendental
import. It’s called ‘inheritance tax’. Wolves hunt in the fog.
Want votes? Make fog. Making
fog is not so easy these days. You might get caught. Back in the day it was a
lot easier. Why, you could campaign to a 1964 audience of Irish Catholics in
Boston and remind them that you have lunch with Cardinal Cushing at Anthony’s once a week. Then, you could rush
over to Revere and take a picture with Whitey Bulger fingering a pistol in Joe’s Pizza Parlor. You’d get all the votes. It’s the logic that sounds
like a pasta, ignoratio illenchi, (ignorance
of the conclusion). In plain speak; fog. It used to work all the time, but
there are no Irish Catholics in Boston any more. The pedophile priests screwed
them into oblivion. And Whitey Bulger finally
went to jail before Hell.
Now, there are just
namby-pambies, mealy-mouth eunuchs making churchly fog machines about trans-gender
bathrooms, diversity, and your civil right to be bat-shit crazy in public
accommodations. Pump more 'racist' fog and they soon forget about the pedophile priests.
Don’t blame God. God went up the chimneys of Auschwitz, Bergen-Belsen and Dachau.
Smoke of burned bodies is hard to distinguish from fog. You have to be a
discerning expert. You have to know your Bolsheviks from your Democrats.
Joseph Conrad:
“It is not the
clear-sighted who rule the world. Great achievements are accomplished in a
blessed, warm fog.”
Churlish priests are pathetic
fog makers next to elected officials. In politics, fog making approaches pure
being. “I fog, therefore I am.” Fog
is the only reality, truth, goodness and beauty.
Looking for a toilet? Piss with
lunatics in San Francisco fog. Looking for terrorists? Invade the wrong country
in the fog of war. Looking for a job? Raise the minimum wage. Fog. Want an education? Get taught by catamites. Fog. Want a leader? Settle for a criminal.
Fog. Like to be entertained? Crawl into a sewer. Fog. Searching for heroes? Hug
a fool. Fog. Saving money for retirement? Buy a lotto ticket. Fog. Get sick? Hurry
up. Die quickly. Fog.
Everyone must suffer because only
one suffers. Fog. Studies have shown. Fog. Justice demands. Fog. Go to college.
Fog. Join the Army. Get stoned. Fog. Just do it. Fog. Buy this. Buy that. Fog. Be sexy. Be thin.
Fog. It’s common knowledge. Fog. If it feels good, do it. Fog. There are no
rules. Fog. Give your fair share. Fog. A Future to Believe In. Fog. Hope and
Change. Fog. Make America Great Again. Fog.
Bill Watterson:
“The purpose of
writing is to inflate weak ideas, obscure pure reasoning, and inhibit clarity.
With a little practice, writing can be an intimidating and impenetrable fog!”
Hurry up. Be successful. Get an
education. Be tolerant. Be inclusive. Be transparent. Pay your taxes. Love
fools. Forgive criminals. Welcome thieves, liars and transsexuals groping in a
sexual fog. Free rapists. Vote early. Vote often. Lose weight. Eat vegan.
Become an atheist. Find a whore. Fit in. Blow dope. Go along. Shut up. Abort
yourself. Buy a shotgun. But wait! ‘Fogdog’ is worth 12 points in Scrabble, and 14 points in Words with Friends.
Do you remember the foggy day in
London town when these foggers got into your misty mind? You didn’t put them
there did you? No? Who did? Were you schooled to take each one out and examine
it closely as a watchmaker does with springs and gears? Did you personally
decide which ones to keep and which to replace? No? Then, that’s why your mind
is foggy.
No wonder monks enter
monasteries to rake dung in the fog. Nuns often bake cookies and burn candles
in the fog. The Archabbot hunts acolytes in the fog. It makes perfect sense.
This life is the illusion of echoes and shadows of fogeyisms. Another world beckons. A world without farts
or fog. See. Aim. Fire. The proper countries get invaded and vanquished.
Rapists are castrated. Thieves lose their hands. Islamic terrorists are
accurately described. No one lies. Wise teachers lead young minds. Leaders are
heroes. No one whores. Entertainment is enlightening. There are no taxes. No
one has to fit in. No one must piss with a lunatic. No one questions what their
genitalia are for. No one needs a gun. Rules are unnecessary. No one covets, so
no one steals or goes to war. That’s why monks and nuns keep the vow of
silence. There is no need to cry. Speech is only necessary for those who have
nothing to say. That’s why God does not speak.
So, beware the bromides they
bid you take. They come on tiny feet wrapped in chestnuts. Clichés to munch
with cognac and cigars. Homilies form the pulpit. Platitudes from your uncle
Arthur. Conventional wisdom from the Dean. Old wife’s tales. Party line from
the comrade. Penance from the priest. Adage from folk lore and proverbs from
holy books. If you know what’s good for you’ll hide in the Fog; shrouding, deceptive,
indecorous, decadent, arrogant resentful and impertinent fog. Wait for the sun to burn it off.
Wipe it off the mirror with your hand. See yourself for what you are. Fog is
temporary. You are eternal.
Dewitt Bodeen:
“Even as fog
continues to lie in the valleys, so does ancient sin cling to the low places,
the depressions in the world’s consciousness.”
God is back from lunch. The fog
is lifting.
_________________________
--- Mark
McIntire
SBCC Philosophy Department,
Retired
...the national story @
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--- Mark McIntire