A Time To Be Better Than Them

Every time this fucking shit where my computer blows up or lightning takes out our fucking cable for six days I feel like I gotta come back to th' Orchestra with some corker or another. So all three of you will know I'm still in there with you, fighting the good fight, tossing petards into The Man's flannel boxers.

This one was bad, man. Anyone who's wonderin' why their emails are getting the cold shoulder now you'll understand.

So! It's been a solemn day, my dearies; a time to reflect on justice and Th' Lord's Harsh Retribution. No, I don't mean VD or th' runs. I'm talking about Kenny Boy. Looks like th' CIA slipped some paragoric in his infant blood, man. He know too much. Now he's beyond mortal cares, babe.

And it is at times like these, isn't it, that we stop and ponder our humanity. Most of us reel in the resentment and hatred and spend a little of our compassion because we're big of heart and stout of resolve. Yes, Lay was a fistulent, polesmoking little sphincter of a beady-eyed sucker of warts but at the end of it all he was just a man. And one person's pain and mortality is as serious and as worthy of empathy as that of another, doc. That's what we learned from th' sixties, brother. That and how to put the records on before you start to peak 'cause in a half hour you won't be able to find your dick or remember your name and that face in the mirror will smirk and dance, won't it?

No one deserves the 50,000 watt jolt of a stopped heart, man. No one deserves to stare Death in th' face and to realize they've fucked their last 50 working folk. Ken was a child once, with a mother that loved him, and he watched dust motes dance in rays of summer sunshine jest like the rest of did. And he probably had a little dog that wagged its tail and yipped as he brought it a tasty snack. There was a first love and the first death of a loved one and the joys and agonies of parenthood. There were summer nights and winter mornings and tearful Christmases where the Lays wondered how they'd make it through another Tierra Del Fuego winter, what with the "Lay" offs and all.

So I, in the spirit of empathy and magnanimity, am going to hold out my hand in support of the Lay family right now and what must be for them a very dark hour. We're all branches on the same ol' polesminking human tree, sisters and brothers. I hope it was quick for the man, and I hope he had achieved some semblance of peace when the hour arrived.

Yeah, you know what's coming now. I almost want to skip it just for the sake of betraying the formula. Yeah, I want to break it like John wanted to break the Beatles, man. I want to destroy Th' Orchestra, this thing that has come to consume my life and the lives of countless others around this rosy old globe of our'n. I want to rent it asplunder so I can rediscover my "roots".

Anyway, arriving at the inevitable:

I don't give a fuck that fucking Ken Lay shit the fucking bed today. I hope his tongue flopped like a beached fucking trout as he fretted and strutted his last, jerkin' like a cheap japanese wind-up toy. I hope the fucking maids and shit checked the hallways and stuff to make sure the coast was clear and then smiled at him as he gacked.

I'm so sick of th' fucking Greedy. Fat, stinking little offal-sucking piglets, fighting dirty at the teat. Fighting dirty and making sport of thousands upon thousands of people's lives. Fucking Ken Lay. Rotten, sour, wrinkled little soul. Curdled little bitch. It's times like these I wish I believed in heaven and hell, man.

64 years of causing pain and distress. Pain and regret and guilt. From the instant he burst forth with a curdled, affronted little shriek he's been taking money out of somebody's god damn pocket. If I'm bollocking myself karmically for saying it I just don't give a fig: Good fucking riddance. Good fucking riddance, Ken Lay. You dirty fucking rotter. Dirty little sod.