Cocaine in the White House

Sitting at a café in Bali (Canggu) where the streets are strewn with tiny wicker baskets made out of bamboo leaves in the form of Canang sari. An offering to the gods includes rice, flowers, incense, fruits, spices, sweets, and cigarettes.

You’ll also sometimes see Nazi symbols—while the original swastika is “the oldest religious symbol in existence and is found in many cultures and religions. In Balinese Hinduism, it represents good fortune.”

On Sundays, Balinese people wear traditional clothing. Women wear a white or colored kebaya (shirt), a sarong-style batik kamben around their waist, and a flower in their hair. Men wear something similar, albeit in the form of a white dress shirt (in American parlance), and an udeng or “a square cloth that is properly tied around the head bearing the symbol of or expression of ngiket manah – the concentration of the mind.”

Wikipedia: “Canang sari is offered every day to Sang Hyang Widhi Wasa as a form of thanking for the peace given to the world; it is the simplest daily household offering.”

I wrote those words last Saturday while drowning in weeks and months of rejections and working and moving around across continents from Bogota, Colombia, to Toronto, Canada, to just outside Tokyo, Japan, to Jakarta, Indonesia. There, the heat made my balls sweat.

See, I can’t start writing like some dapper British gentleman. That’s just not my style.

Instead, I’m sitting in cutoff jean shorts that are black and smelly. And I’m working on my fourth large bottle of Bintang in the last six or seven hours. Listening to Brahms.

I guess my spelling’s gotten worse since last football season. And so has the globe. The planet festers now with ill-speaking germs called homo sapiens who’ve doused themselves with narcissistic self-promotion as the Earth slowly burns. There’s no time anymore for being dapper or gentlemanly.

Or maybe that’s just getting dramatic.

For example, there’s time to get down in the White House. And now that I’ve finished having phone sex with my Thai girlfriend—allow me to explain.

The Barack Obama administration started out innocently enough. The entire country got pissed at eight years of that make-believe cowboy who talked with a Southern drawl but who had really been raised in New England. What the fuck, Jack?

So, the Obama years were supposed to be promising. Somewhere along the lines (a terrible, shit-eating phrase) Kurt Vonnegut died, and according to Google (I just looked it up), Vonnegut died before Obama took office.

In a recent documentary, Vonnegut is heard giving lectures across the country in his waning old age, much like Noam Chomsky did for decades. In one of the lectures, Vonnegut offered one word for future generations who will soon be dealing with decades of mucking the fucking planet and raping it for a profit: “Sorry.”

And, you know. Sometimes with a woman—sorry isn’t good enough.

As Mother Nature tilts on her axis, and as her oceans freeze up, and as her core disentangles itself, as the circular vibrations wilt into hexagons, and whatever that means—well, it doesn’t matter. The whole Earth has gone haywire.

The poles might get reversed. So that means, if you’re reading this in 2045, you might be hearing it backwards and upside down. Sort of like your Aunt Myrtle after she slips on the coke bag you left at the front door when you came home after binging for three days straight and got fired in the process from your second job at the nearby Amazon warehouse.

Now that Myrtle’s dead, can we rent out her room to some refugees from Zimbabwe? No, we can’t. Now eat your French toast.

But I thought French was on strike?

No, actually it’s France. Amen.

The lectures. Ah, yes. Chomsky went around the American universities to give lectures about the evil-doers who’d captured the White House for their own personal gain. Some of them believed in god. Others believed in nothing. But they all gathered for one basic idea, and that’s that America is the one god-fearing nation across the planet in a pool of black, floating on a rock, in an endless abyss.

I need Brahms now in D Major.

And so, the tomfoolery extended itself into shit like getting rid of gold—people weren’t allowed to fend for themselves. And then it turned into an endless money-making machine that was attached to the banking system. There went J. P. Morgan on an early-morning stroll. Next to him—John D. Rockefeller.

Together, they twirled their mustaches, waxen and polished from the lint-sucking proletariat. Or whatever Marx had cooked up in the backwoods of Russia. Or wasn’t it Germany?

The real big kick in the nuts came when the entire Russian monarchy got whacked in the cellar of their country house. That shook the world for the next century. While the counter-revolutionaries went traipsing through the forests, holding onto their guns like pitchforks, the invisible men of the Revolution aimed at the maids, the king—the Tsar and his family—and blew holes into planet Earth’s ideas for whatever went down in North America over a century beforehand.

That set the stage for the 20th century. Think about it. An entire monarchy getting whacked in the basement like dogs. That was no good—the wars brooded and the kings and queens of Europe wet their pants. They clung to their jewelry. That could never happen to them.

What I’m getting at is this. Cocaine in the White House because, why not? Cocaine in the White House because nobody has dealt drugs better and longer and faster and harder than those running it.

Ronald Reagan pleaded CONFUSION when implicated in a massive government conspiracy of selling drugs and weapons in exchange for hostages and missiles between Iran and Nicaragua. These were the same types of people who sold the world on the idea of indoctrinating uneducated tribes in Afghanistan that jihad was the answer to their prayers.

These were the same people who bombed Libya, Somalia, Iraq, and Syria into shitstain smithereens—for peace. Democracy and Freedom, of course.

They said Saddam Hussein had Weapons of Mass Destruction. What they left out was even more important—he’d been trained on them by the U.S.A.

Cocaine in the White House, because we make the rules that others have to follow. Not us. Cocaine in the White House, because the other guy has a horrible criminal lineage. Not us.

Democrats and Republicans colluding with each other to blame Russia, China, Iran, North Korea, Iraq, Afghanistan, Sudan, Somalia, Yemen, and others—are running out of options. Time to nuke ourselves into freedom and obscurity. Let’s make a movie about it, then forget the whole fucking episode.

The planet’s warming. Who cares? The planet’s getting rainy and colder. So what?

Scientists in Australia wear condoms not because of religious fervor. And professors teach their students to go outside.

In America, the president’s son snorts a line. Or maybe it’s a rainbow. Yeah. It’s a red, white, and blue flag. We’re all heading for better pastures. Vote blue next November. Count on us.

Meanwhile, the lectures fall by the wayside. For inexperienced malcontents to disregard their confirmation bias. After all, we all know what it’s like to wake up from a long night out.

“The Treasury Department and Federal Reserve Chairman are running the country,” Chomsky tells the kids.

Everybody laughs.

If it were today, and not the late 90s, he could ask the kids to Google Vietnam.

Go there instead.