October 28th, 2004

benpeek

have the fbi been to your house?

i'm sure it's been wildly pushed round the livejournal community, but i'm going to link it anyhow, in case you haven't seen it. (plus, i get a lot of traffic outside livejournal.)

from anniesj:

"A couple of weeks ago, following the last presidential debate, I said some rather inflammatory things about George W. Bush in a public post in my LJ, done in a satirical style. We laughed, we ranted, we all said some things. I thought it was a fairly harmless (and rather obvious) attempt at humor in the face of annoyance, and while a couple of people were offended, as is typical behavior from me, I saw something shiny and forgot about it, thinking that the whole thing was over and done and nothing else would come of what I said.

I was wrong.

At 9:45 last night, the Secret Service showed up on my mother's front door to talk to me about what I said about the President, as what I said could apparently be misconstrued as a threat to his life. After about ten minutes of talking to me and my family, they quickly came to the conclusion that I was not a threat to national security (mostly because we are the least threatening people in the entire world) and told me that they would not recommend that any further action be taken with my case. However, I do now have a file with the FBI that includes my photograph, my e-mail address, and the location of my LJ. This will follow me around for the rest of my life, regardless of the fact that the Secret Service knows that I am not a threat."

the rest is here.
benpeek

The Murder Meme

in what will, no doubt, prove to a bad idea (or at least one i regret tomorrow), i've come up with a new livejournal protest meme.

i came up with it while reading the post about the fbi showing up at a blogger's house. i thought to myself: this world is fucking uptight. kids can't write violence in schools. people can't say that they don't like presidents (or maybe prime ministers, but who knows about that). nintendo is suing someone who listed their games on a board related to the suicidegirls.com site. it's just getting out of hand. the world needs to chill. so i came up with a new meme to help the world chill.

usually, memes are stupid. lets be honest: what book do you like, music no one else has, if you can chew gum and walk, and when was the last time you had sex with your father. stuff like that.

this meme, is different.

this meme is about satire.

this meme is about picking yourself a world leader, and then describing how they were brutally murdered.

what you do is simple: you pick a world leader you don't like, and in a paragraph, give the rundown on how they were brutally murdered. we're talking the blood, the details, the screaming, and the giant pretzel shaped monster that rose out the sea and jammed its salted fist down the throat of a world leader, about really killing them.  then you put in your subject heading 'How to Brutally Murder ' so that google and all the other search engines can pick it up and share in your satirical wit and ability to write these things.

it is not, and this should be pretty damn obvious, about really killing anybody. it's a satire, and a satire is "a composition in verse or prose ridiculing vice or folly or lampooning individual(s)" and so your brutal murder should adhere to that concept in one form or another.

if you decide to do this meme, post the rules first, followed by your brutal murder.

if you're thinking this is a bad idea, well, maybe it is. i'm unsure on the intelligence behind it myself, but it kinda pisses me off, people being unable to write what they want. i mean, how ridiculous is that? now, in truth, i know this isn't much. it's a pretty small thing, but i hear there's this thing called a blogsphere, and i dream of a world where the net search engines are swimming in the satires that depict the brutal murders of world leaders.
  • Current Music
    Refused - Refused Are Fuckin Dead
benpeek

How to Brutally Murder George W. Bush.

It was Tuesday, and the American President was standing at his bedroom window. Hair uncombed, eyes squinting into the midday sun, hand scratching his unshaved chin, Presidential pajamas wrinkled, and unclipped toenails running through the carpet... George W. Bush wasn't quite sure what to do. Tuesday. Almost the middle of the week. Yet outside were giant, brown biscuit and heavily salted legs that stretched twenty, maybe thirty feet into the air before connecting to a thick biscuit base.

"Lemme ask," drawled George W. as the bedroom door opened. "Just tell me straight that you're seeing this."

"Sir?" said the aide's faint voice. The door closed. "I'm not quite sure, sir, but you--"

"You're seeing those things out there, right?

"Sir?"

"Yeah." George W. paused, lent against the glass, and began to count. "It's like giant things, yeah? Huge fucking... well, giant salty snacks. I mean, you're seeing the giant salty snacks, yeah?"

"...Absolutely, Sir," replied the aide. "But you have a phone call, Sir."

George W. picked up the white phone, but paused. There was something about the aide. Something that wasn't quite right. A texture to his skin. It was hard to describe. It was smooth, yeah, sure, and the aide was hairless, and there was something that made George W. Bush want to lean forward and lick him, to run his tongue up along his neck, to dip in between those hard lips... but more than that, there was something about the colour that didn't strike him as right. Brown. Dark, dark brown. A colour that had always left him uncomfortable. A colour that he instinctively made him want to pull out his home made lethal injection kit. That colour.

"Sir?"

But he wanted to nibble. To taste. To lick. To crack open a beer and sit back with it on his lap, to work his lips across it, to have his hands feel across ever inch, and work down to the hard, hard centre--

The pain in his chest was secondary. The phone fell to the ground with a dull thud. The Presidential pajamas soiled. George W. looked dimly at the stick like fist protruding through his chest. It was so brown. God he hated that colour. Hated it so much.

"They should've made... made white ones," he murmured faintly, his legs failing.

"Indeed," replied the aide, his fist still lodged in his chest. It was all that held the body upright. That useless, ugly little meat body that had been nothing but a menace to his people. "But the flavour is all off."
benpeek

author targeted.

here's the link to an author who got raided for her research in the states. figure i'd provide it as a bookend to the first piece:

SB: Did you have any reason to suspect you were being targeted for a raid, any advance notice?

Dilyn: No. Not a clue. Although, for a while prior to the raid, I thought I was being stalked. Mail was missing from my box, I caught someone searching my trash, I saw a prowler in my yard and actually called the police. One of my neighbors saw someone watching from across the street--she wasn’t sure if it was my house or hers. She called the police, too--turns out they were taking surveillance photos.


link here.
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    Iggy Pop - Sixteen
benpeek

Howard Hears "Open Sesame."

from the bbc:

"Australia's John Howard has captured control of his country's Senate, making him the most powerful prime minister in 24 years. Final counting of votes from the 9 October election showed Mr Howard's coalition won 39 of 76 Senate seats. It means he becomes the first man in decades to control both the upper and lower houses of parliament.

...

Senator Ron Boswell of the National Party, partner to Mr Howard's Liberals, said he phoned Mr Howard with the words "open sesame" in congratulation, but went on to deny the Senate would now be simply a rubber stamp for government policy."

because, you know, the words after open sesame are always, 'got some id, mate?'

the rest of it is here.
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    Woody Allen - Night Club Years 1964-68