A Freebie from Freemont

If the Republicans put him up to this, they have successfully unleashed the Greene Turd Squall of Bullshit.

Governor Deval Patrick has a message for his campaign this year— you can choose to move forward or you can choose to move backward. It remains to be seen if this campaign slogan will pay off in the polls. But one thing that’s for sure after last night’s election in Massachusetts is that it’s better than nothing at all. If the Democrats want to lose this November, they’ll do just that—nothing. They will play the moderate route and decide not to push this healthcare bill through the House before Scott Brown takes office. So, go ahead and do it, you fucks—play it safe. Don’t take a stand against the Republican obstructionists.  I can hear your bullshit quacks and coo’s already. But know that if you do this you can expect just what everyone’s been predicting for this November.

The healthcare bill is much like fucking Jay Leno, the way I see it. Most of America watched Leno on the Tonight Show because they are stupid people. They like lame jokes and they haven’t the slightest idea what good, edgy comedy is.  Much is the same with healthcare. These old, stupid fucks that make up half this country will keep taking it up the ass with a lame system that doesn’t work because they are perfectly comfortable with the safety inside the status quo.

So, it becomes up to the Democrats to take a chance and show the American public what it is that the American public really needs. Jesus-fucking-Christ—is this the same party that rallied behind a black man named Barack Obama for the presidency? Or will it turn into the party that stood back while Martha Coakley ran a conservative, weak campaign and allowed the treasured senate seat of Edward M. Kennedy be lost to a fucking guy who drives a truck?

Well, let me tell you something, you lame Democrat fucks— I hate trucks. And if you stand by while this one drives itself right through your healthcare plan, you will get what you deserve. So, what is it then? Is it time to move forward or is time to take a giant, conservative step back?

If the healthcare bill is pushed through the House right now, Gramma will eventually wake up and realize that she’s still alive. If it’s not, the question is: will you?

Your Political Strategist for Hire,

Mr. Freemont Barrington

Friends of Free,

I apologize that there was no correspondence on this blog Sunday or yesterday.  But, having shown up at the Democratic rally on Sunday for Martha Coakley, I was instantly appalled by the lack of both enthusiasm and creative canvassing  techniques. I spent the good portion of two hours scouring the Northeastern campus for young, vibrant Americans willing to make the local news with displays of force against the ‘Scott Brown Bus to Nowhere in Particular.’ However, it became apparent from the start that mine would be a losing effort and that college kids are, indeed, as they always seem these days, only interested in pussy, pizza, and pot.

That being the case, I abandoned my cry for protest and decided (since I was already there) to partake in two of these passive pastimes.  I already had a big bag of weed on me and it’s been quite a while since I’ve had a girl in her early twenties. You’d be fucking surprised how easy it is to pick up a chick when you’re older, smarter, and carrying grass on that campus.

Thus, instead of attacking the ‘Scott Brown Bus to Nowhere,’ I decided to take up the offer from a young woman to retire back to her dorm room. All was right for a quick fuck— she had the booze, I had the chronic, Haiti and a Democratic campaign decimated by plate tectonics.

So, after having a lustful and pleasant fuck, I left the dorm building empty and wide-eyed.  The world seemed different to me— almost more like the quiet and slowly fucked Rochester, New York I’d left a few short hours earlier.

The ground— it was shifting under our feet. The indifference smelled like the quietness just before a storm. It was a bust about to burst; a swollen colostomy bag of shit; a loss that didn’t even seem worth losing. I looked up at the grey, empty sky and all it looked like was a long and steady rain.

I’d have to say it’s time to cut our losses and start eating our dead.

- Free

They say that decisions are made by those who show up.  Well, this certainly couldn’t have been more the case than in the Democratic primary election this past Tuesday for Teddy K’s vacated death seat.  If you live in the scum bag state of Massachusetts like me, you probably know that Martha Coakley, the front-runner, won by a fucking landslide in a primary that was marred by extremely low voter turnout.  She was the polling well the entire race and coasted to victory— ball swiping the three men that stood in her way.  

Despite my usual annoyance with the overall hackeyness of these candidates, I casted a goddamn ballot on Tuesday night.  And let me tell you— my special election eve started off in mind fuck fashion.  I strolled into the proper precinct as I usually do— dick in hand and sunglasses over my face.  And in what to my wondering eyes should appear but two Alzheiming old hags with a fat aid in each ear.  With their little glazed-over eyes I knew this wouldn’t be quick, so I took a deep breath and removed my hand from my dick.

What took place next was an unexaggerated ten minutes of repeating my name and address to the clueless old wench, until finally I took hold of her book and pointed to my name.  At that point the local cop on duty stepped in (as he must have seen my agitation building).

“You’re not allowed to touch the book,” he said.

“Perhaps I wouldn’t have to if your volunteers weren’t so slight in their shyness to a hundred years of age,” I said.

“That’s not very nice.”

“Well, they can’t hear anyways,” I said.

I then faced back to the desk again and pointed to my name on the page.  The ballot was handed over as the old folks sat aghast and the cop now on high alert.  It was off to the voting.  To the staring, the hair wrestling.  The rubbing of eyes.  The feeling of utter disappointment as I peered in at the ticket.  A write-in perhaps?  A protest vote?  A staging of an indecent exposure triggering an arrest that would at least give me a venue in which to express my disgust for our united indifference towards this election? In the end, I decided to use the marker (we use black markers to vote in Mass) to color my nails, draw x’s on my cheeks, and, finally, cast my vote.

On the way out, there’s another checkpoint and, yes, more of the song and fucking dance again.  This time with a red-faced geriatric— a balding woman whose hearing aide was fortunately better than the genes that produced her hairline.  After the name and address confirmation, I put the ballot through the machine as the cop eyed the fresh marker on my face.  

“What did ya do there?” was his comment.

“I marked the disgust on my face for this horse shit precinct in this treacherous state.”

“Watch your mouth,” he said.

“What?” I said.  “You don’t find this state to be treacherous?”

With that, I was able to walk out— successfully giving the geriatrics and the pig a thing or two to ponder in that empty room of ignorance and indifference and disappointment.

A day later, what do we have but a landslide victory by the front-running Democrat who lead this race of disinterest from its start?  A satisfying triumph for the women of Massachusetts, they are saying, in what was traditionally an ‘all boys club.’  But, really, is this anything of a victory?  Sometimes decisions are made by those who show up.  And sometimes elections are won because of a lack of a better option.

We love indifference, though, don’t we?  It sits like an old house stench— even here where the American revolution was born— capturing the life of the tired and wicked and slow.  We love the safety in not knowing enough to care.  We love the easy answer.  We love to eat pig shit for our breakfast here in Massachusetts and digest it with a squinting face, a gurgling stomach.  And that’s the way it’ll be unless we decide to kill the fucking pig, cook it up, and live off its excrement no more.

And, as far as Martha goes, oh local friends of Freemont— I say get yourself to a Q & A or a ra-ra Coakley rally and try a ‘pull my finger’ joke on her.  If she laughs it off, we have a legitimate candidate and worthy successor to Teddy K.  

- Freemont

American Pow wow

Location: United States Senate, Washignton, D.C.

Combing Hair Straight: The buffalo are gone.  We must move from here.

Farting Mouth: The river still runs.  The wife still fucks.

Combing Hair Straight: The river will dry.  The wife will die.  And there will be no more fucking.

Farting Mouth: The elders cleanse their undersides on the river’s edge.  They defecate there and the river carries away their shit.

Combing Hair Straight: The children will die without the buffalo.  Their will be no feed for mothers’ wombs, no blood for the milk of their teats.  

Farting Mouth: Cough, cough.

Combing Hair Straight: Did you just fart from your mouth?  Or were you clearing your throat?

Farting Mouth: That was a mouth fart.  And I’d like to stay here, by the river.  Buffalo or not. 

Curt Schilling has, in a very juvenile manner, recently mentioned running for Ted Kennedy’s vacant Senate seat here in Massachusetts on his bull shit blog: 38 bitches.  You may think that acknowledging his posts on my own blog is as equally juvenile.  However, as a juvenile blogger myself, I feel it my duty to come to the table here and offer my advise to Schil.

Curt-

You are a bloated beast with an IQ the same as that eleven-year-old boy who could throw hard in Little League.  If you put together a campaign for the Senate it would be an incredible let down comparable only to when you tried to quit dip after your ugly, fried-skinned wife got melanoma.  You have nothing to offer society anymore.  Your baseball career, while having its bullshit heroic moments, will be overshadowed by your lingering presence in the Boston community and your loud mouth, which grows at the ratio of your retired gut.  You are nothing more than a ra-ra America caveman who deserves to have his wife expire prematurely.  I would never consider giving to your charity let alone hand a quarter to your children if they were starving in the streets because you are a loud-mouth, self-proclaimed soothsayer who lacks anything close to the intelligence that you believe you possess.  May your children die serving in the desert some day.  May they look into your eyes and only see a selfish prick of a father. May the sun’s hot rays never stop beating down on your family until Doomsday.  And may your horse shit blog even attempt a response to this.

Go fuck yourself, you fear mongering  whore.  Your god will never save you.  May it be an eternal afterlife of failure.

- Freemont Barrington