September 15, 2008
by Volt and Electra Penn

Early in 2001, Dick Cheney and the execs from Shell Oil, BP America, and Exxon/Mobil secretly gathered together in Washington D.C. There, in the nation's capitol, these latter-day-saints of National Socialism put the finishing touches on a plan they'd hatched the previous August at a lavish picnic in the woods.

That Summer-of-2000 outing was more opulent than any Tom Jones affair. After roasting the pig and toasting Mr. Big the festive group then settled down to important 'bidness'. Cheney voluntarily took the hot seat and testified that if the Gangster Business Nazis of the Fourth Reich would give the green light, the U.S. would invade Iraq, set up a puppet government, neutralize the Iraqi population and build military bases to protect U.S. business interests.

At that woodsy meeting Cheney was purported to have asked, "You boys want cheap oil? You'll get it in spades."

The Money Mongers said, "That just sounds too dangerous for us."

The Industrial Industry Lobby said, "Now look here Dick. Over there in Eye-raq you got a bunch of Sunnis who'll slit a Shiite throat on a whistle. And you got the Turkeys who bite the balls off every Kurd they catch - and call it fun."

And the Military Industrial's Complex piped up with, "Dicky, you're dealing with a thousand years of blood feuds that never even up."

That's when Cheney said yeah, yeah he knew all about that bullshit, but not to worry. He went on to guarantee that when, not if, the U.S. bumped off S. Hussein, the Iraqis couldn't help but love us. "And if they don't cooperate, we've got connections," Cheney cackled, "electrical ones that always spark a yes man!"

It was well past midnight as Cheney rattled on about terrorists, airplanes, death and destruction (but not too much) and W.M.Ds. By the time he got to the part about the billions of barrels of free oil, every sleepy eyeball had popped open and glowed voodoo red from the flickering candles.

"We're talking about enough oil in Iraq to grease Halliburton into the 22nd Century," he bragged, and all heads bobbed in 'Pez' unison.

With smeared on smiles, the silk suits agreed. After a secret slide-in handshake they gave Dick the go ahead and the last virgin of the evening to torment. But final approval of the plan awaited a boy-howdy nod from Papa Senior. The very next morning, Cheney had his saddle gassed for a 6 a.m. flight to Texas.

Cheney found Papa straddling his many holdings in Houston and gave him the news. After whittling down a worrisome toothpick of truth or consequences, the old geezer shook the reins of power twice. That signaled the go-ahead for Dick to turn the bull out of the barn.

"It's what Mama wants, too" Papa said. "It'll give her boy a chance to make a name for his self right up there with me."

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, 'We the People' were floating on a tech bubble and plugged into the Internet. Everybody had a hi-tech job doing nothing, and every 6 months everybody got a raise.

Each week tech-company parties sprang up out of thin air chips. Bands were hired to celebrate Thursdays, because that was Friday in a four-day workweek. It was free food, free drinks, free parking, vacations, theater tickets and anything else the CEO's could think of to keep bodies happy pushing paperclips and computer parts around in limbo land.

But the cruel truth was that when everything is content and nothing is sold, when it's all info super-highway and not an electronic flea market, when porno is the industry's biggest money maker and nobody pays to read even if they could, then no one makes money, the bills don't get paid and everything comes unplugged.

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Mass exodus from Hi-tech created a population of electronic Oakies. With that came a monumental shift in thinking of 'how in the hell do I pay the bills?'  That's when the Gangster Business Nazis came to the rescue with flea-picking, shit-kicking servicing work or soldiering. Most of us became paid mercenaries, food-o-philes, health techies and groomers, local foragers and of course hedge fund managers.

Even Alan Greenspan 'got it' enough to get in the act, stretch his imagination to its limit and come up with - 0% percent---as in 'interest only'. How wonderful we thought, free money. However, there was something about that zero that made it even less than nothing.

There were a few whimpers of descent, but the promotional tale went on to shake the media dog. 'We the people' were instructed to stop flushing rent money down the drain and buy a home, because that's an investment which always gives back something more, not less---forever.

A lot of us swallowed the tale, hook, line and subprime mortgage stinker. Even those who should have had more sense bought into the pyramid with exotic Alt-A interest-only loans, and for more than six years, the homey piggy banks' tail grew and grew and grew. And what did we do? That's right, we put two or three home-equity mortgages into the portfolio, too.

Of course the slam dunk Cheney had promised in Iraq rolled around the rim into foul territory. This was good news for the Military Industrial's Complex to drop more bombs. But with the oil still hidden in Iraq, the end result was a red hot shaft of inflation up 'we the people's' asses.

It's now September 2008 and the doomsday clock has ticked down to half a nanosecond past Depression. Some of us are out on the street, some on the sidewalk. The unemployment rate is up. The credit supply is down. Our houses haven't turned into piggybanks after all. They're albatrosses weighing us down in payments. Their promised equity is nonexistent, gone the way of our once-solvent bank accounts.

It's been eight years since that picnic-in-the-woods plan was put into practice. These days the land of milk and sunny doesn't dawn with Kellog rooster good morning. The clueless and mentally challenged stand around fascinated by media images of a sexy new female American political idol to ogle. In the meantime the two mortgage giants Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac have been stripped buck-ass naked, their skinny frames finally exposed.

Last month there was another August picnic of the Fourth Reich. This time instead of the usual ribald behavior there was mostly gloomy talk. The assembly met in the orchard's underground mineshaft, where skulls of the famous and infamous lined the walls. Lifeless stares from the living and the dead greeted Papa Senior, as he slowly took the witness stand.

Papa's ego lay deflated, as crumpled as the hat in his lap. With Eggo smeared across his face, the old man freely confessed that it had been 62 years since he'd planted that stupid damn seed. Papa admitted that he'd always imagined a son with at least one redeeming value, but now realized that due to some bad advice - he and Junior had really fucked up.

After apologizing profusely to all those congregated, Papa gave an executive order to reprogram some software. With the voting machines rigged, the reins of state could be safely passed on to one of the club's oldest and most trusted members.

On the flight home, Papa turned to the grinning white haired man sitting next to him and said, "Your running mate isn't as black as I'd imagined. Not a lot of meat on him, either. But he only has to hang around until elected. Then you can get it right for the Reich."

Now we know. The machines have a special program....and that's why no matter how many soccer moms, born-again Christers, NRA members, queer-haters, right to lifers, book burners, Bible wavers, snake charmers, and hypocritical iconoclastic idjets have fallen in love with an Alaskan hussy - it won't make a double damn bit of difference.

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Have Penn they'll listen. Volt Penn writes speeches for Progressive Populists and reasoned arguments for those on the left of center. He has also written speeches for anybody who has read his work. You can reach Volt Penn through his artist friend, b.b.kemp, at bbkemp@bbkemp.com

Volt/Electra Penn copyright 2008

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