Lust Games / Void Games / Politics

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel…Installment Four

Posted in Commentary, Drama, literature, political fiction, political novels, political philosophy, Politics, writing with tags analysis, political analysis, political drama, political education, political fiction, power, writing on January 19, 2012 by B Schiff

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power

A Novel

Installment Four

Babe Kenny was facetious. Her mother had left her.

She loved not too wisely but too well, Babe Kenny.

She eluded the grasps of wild eyed men, Babe Kenny.

Queen of sustenance and honor reaped by fucking worship, Babe fucking Kenny.

She baited and cooed, Babe fucking Kenny. She, laughed, darted, promised lusts with her hips, said goodbye with her lips, Babe fucking Kenny. She, inspired trust, Babe Kenny, her voice aching want. Specters, false bravados, itinerant needs, Babe fucking Kenny. A past that wished only to collect on its debt to itself, Babe fucking Kenny.

She liked doing business with men who would conquer the fucking world, Babe fucking Kenny, liked helping flies lose their wings, Babe fucking Kenny; liked helping megalomaniacs get stronger, liked getting with those cynical, perverse to a point, Babe fucking Kenny.

She dealt with policy makers, Babe fucking Kenny. It behooved her to skepticism. She reserved special insight for those special individuals with wholesome abilities, Babe fucking Kenny. She saw and did intelligent things. In matured and intelligent splendor she found time to exhibit depths of understanding, sharpness of vision. Demure and outstanding, Babe fucking Kenny was fascinated. She was tempted to throw herself at the feet of all overriding capacities, all overriding capabilities. Her honor easily marshaled, her awe easily overcome, she was a rotten hostess to money and power.

Babe fucking Kenny, a young woman of twenty five. When not pursuing the ferocious games she was involving herself in, she was involving herself in what she thought to be conditions in her world which could justifiably be called wanting. She did not usually throw off the gains and relics of a misspent past. She did not put on herself the mantel of St Joan, cloaks of sack cloth and ashes, purposes enmeshed with deep burning desires to right all of the inequities, the inequalities, of mankind. She did not commit herself to the creation of a new and better world, did not place altruism upon the list of virtues towards which she aspired.

Much curious as to the nature of the United States, her country, her people, the well from which Daddy sprung, his problems sprung, Babe fucking Kenny, involved herself with some groups involved in aspects of the coming social upheaval. She involved herself with some groups which had primary interests in preventing evil, in maintaining right.

She traveled much, also, in those years, Babe fucking Kenny. She established for herself a satisfactory ability to survive, neatly, efficiently. As a means of continuity, she involved herself with the fields of publishing, running errands, doing some light research for friends connected with national organizations.

She was able to produce what was asked of her without making undue demands, Babe fucking Kenny. She established satisfactory loose relationships that served adequately the aims and desires of all parties involved, Babe fucking Kenny. She went often to Washington. Often she stayed for protracted periods. She did not find herself over weaned, overwhelmed. The many bright young things, the many bright young smiles ran up and down the highways and byways of goodness and charm. This was not a heaven to capture Babe fucking Kenny’s fancy.

An occasional congressman, an occasional sterling thing from State, Justice, tried to convince Babe fucking Kenny of the goodness of his heart, the warmth of his purpose. Babe fucking Kenny was not overly eager to be in the clutches of the idealistic, the cynical wonders who smiled so brightly, worked so feverishly, championed so greatly the dignity of justice, of man, of mankind.

There were media people, there were those with the key to god’s own plan for good and clean living, the revelation of his wonders. In their hearts they knew that they were blessed with vision. Truth and beauty followed in their wake. All would lead the way ever after to the foundations of the noble and true. All bright young things were of firm beliefs. They all saw through sham and injustice.

Babe fucking Kenny, also in Washington, met many of the many who lobbied for the cause of all things great, all things which would make all things greater, all things which would be guaranteed to be great. She met those representing things that had made America what it was.

They were bright and they too were young, the heroes of Babe fucking Kenny. Anxiety jumped upon practicality, strength triumphed reason, disorder was a mother. Disunity fomented. Spring was cherished. The earnest and so pure. Babe fucking Kenny liked them best. Babe fucking Kenny dealt with policy makers. It behooved Babe to skepticism. She reserved insight for those special individuals with wholesome abilities. They saw and did intelligent things. Charmingly lucid. In matured and intelligent splendor they found time to exhibit the depths of their understanding.

The earnest and pure. Babe fucking Kenny liked them best.

* * * * * * * * * *

Johnny boy, Rachel. I trusted them as much as I could, as much as circumstance allowed.

Johnny boy found himself to be the attenuated hero of his dreams.

He had landed in New York at the age of six as had many before.

He hustled. He was a smart boy, in his element.

Johnny boy was three years old, stuck in the hell hole of North Africa. One who once knew the captain of the ship that brought him there spotted Johnny boy, claimed him, made arrangements for his custody. Johnny boy, a much traveled little boy, made his way from the steppes of central Asia to a house on a hill outside of Washington, D. C. He had a set of neighbors at great pains to insure his happiness. He had a home, a maid. He had an abundance of friends who knew not why they liked him so. Life was good. New York City. The city was magic, then, the place to be. Wonder, madness, darkness, light, dreams. Johnny boy came shortly.

Johnny had been graduated from college with a degree in Mathematics. There was a comparative ease of economic pressures in those years. The school offered him necessity, not fellowship which he did not crave. The students with whom he came in contact were nice enough, a bit banal, some naïve. Mirrors of sophistication, they offered little more than the continuation of the sophomorics he found so prevalent.

Johnny boy found no particular use for them, no particular need to sift through the chaff to get to the wheat. Johnny boy was quite content to let college boys and girls be college boys and girls and he was quite content to allow them all to exist as happy little children, knowledgeable and all knowing, the cream of god’s creatures on his green little earth. There was chatter and interests. Tonics. Flatulence.

Johnny boy, Rachel.

There were times when they had felt themselves very much apart of each other’s lives. There were times when the thought of the other brought no more than a nod of recognition, a remembrance of pain. Together Johnny boy and Rachel had finally conquered the devil, so it seemed. Too wise they were to be running around like two little horses asses. Johnny boy would not be bothered with demonic nonsense. There were more and more liabilities to deal with, situational liabilities.

Rachel had done, seen. She too loved the help. Marriage was something. It could exist without having to immerse itself into the world of eternal indulgence. They would run the game for a while. They would be romantic.

Johnny boy fought a war. It was a mean little war. It was everyone’s favorite little war. He had enlisted in the Army. The life he found after college was not overpoweringly fertile

Emiliana Garcia, his maid, had died. He was left with no one that he cared for. Emiliana Garcia was his family.

He was empty, Johnny boy was. There were no great distractions. There was a lot of noise. Johnny wanted to do something with himself, to fight. He wanted to be a proficient killer. The knowledge and the discipline would not hurt him. He might spend his life drifting. For this he was not ready.

He learned. He served. Johnny fought a mean little war. It was a dirty little war. It was everyone’s favorite little war. He was enlisted in the Army. Life was an indulgence.

He went. He returned. A commissioned man. He learned a great deal, Johnny boy.

Soon after he went to France, then to Africa. He served. Mercenary life was an indulgence. He acquired some money. He went to enjoy the offerings of the Mediterranean coast. It was warm. There was sun. In Spain he watched searchers of truth and beauty cover the southern coast. Exotic pleasures offered much. Pleasures, dreams.

Johnny boy did not begrudge the new order of the lost, their fun, their enjoyment, their style. Pleasant in some ways, interesting, the grasp at life. He had knowledge of many things, Johnny boy. Not yet the full degree of greatness promised. Banal predecessors had managed to cross his path. Emiliana Garcia was his maid, was his family.

He bade his time, Johnny boy. Johnny boy found in the companionship of some of his friends some understanding of the trials of man that he did not find elsewhere.

There was the understanding of the way of life that went with trial, trouble when it was a constant. The world had many sides to offer the lovers of all things porous and knowing. Johnny boy had reservoirs of mean confrontations in his wake, reservoirs of mean kills.

Johnny boy left from Spain and returned to the United States, to New York, to the Village which had been his home. He stayed only a short while. He moved to Washington. D.C. He knew people in government work. He found an apartment. He looked for things to do. The cynical and the snide. The adventurous and cruel. The smart and the just. Nonchalance and complacency. Simpatico. Virtue shined upon the great unwashed in the lands of dreams.

There was poetry in the spirit that loved to implement for all the best of all possible worlds, the spirit which so nobly implemented the hopes and dreams of mankind with devotion to duty, with little implementations of fond little wants.

It was very good, John had grown to think, that there were so many who were so assiduously spending so much of their time looking out for gross deployment of noble honor. The domesticated pets were facile and they were happy. They were domesticated. They were frivolous creatures who opposed the good. They were all around.

Johnny boy had often seen the dregs of unbridled, beloved ignorance valiantly go into battle, time after time, with the greater dregs of same. Johnny boy, in America, was becoming more and more fascinated by unvarnished confrontation, unvarnished abilities to make magical the beat, beat, beat of bloodshed, the beat, beat, beat of beloved ignorance.

Johnny boy, Rachel. Surprise, not necessarily delight. Rachel was a wonderful girl in her way. Rachel was smart, he had met few smarter. She was good, very, very good. Rachel demanded much in return for her goodness. She wanted much in the way of hard and cold reserve. She was warm when she had to be warm, Rachel. She was not always to touch. She could be ice, ice which well protected vestiges of movement.

Rachel was good, very, very good, but Rachel was wary and Rachel was one who liked being wary, one who could manage to be wary. Rachel was good, very, very good, but Rachel would not let the thoughts of her heart come out and play. Rachel did not care to be among those who demanded that she be wise, very, very wise.

Rachel was good, very, very good but Rachel was not going to let anyone prevent Rachel from following the paths she set out to follow. Rachel was good, very, very good but Rachel was not going to open up her little heart for the sake of anything or anyone because Rachel shared her little heart with none and nothing and Rachel maneuvered from the outside looking in. Rachel was sublime.

Johnny boy, Rachel.

Rachel, Johnny boy.

Rachel was not happy.

Johnny boy was true, very, very true. Johnny would stick. Johnny would stay and do what had to be done. Johnny would be there if needed. He could leave if not. Johnny boy was true.

Johnny was a cynical bastard who was rotten and self centered to the core but Johnny boy was true. He was a wanderer, a panderer, a bum. He was lazy and he cared not to move. He was unimpressed by the joys of interaction. Johnny boy was intent on being left alone. He wanted his peace. Johnny boy wanted not to be put upon by anything or anybody. Johnny was what his god had made him. The world was full of poor lost bastards. Johnny boy owed his god a fine steady trek through his world, sneered at the conversations of man, was not about to be anybody’s helper, chose his company carefully.

Johnny boy did not care to be to be anyone’s holy redeemer. He didn’t trust the beautiful. He worshipped the damned. He thought that he was a fucking idiot for even opening his eyes in the morning.

Johnny boy, Rachel. Rachel, Johnny boy. Johnny boy was true. Johnny boy was good. Johnny boy would stick. He would stay and do what had to be done.

Sometimes the mirror got too ugly, sometimes too nice.

Johnny boy, Rachel. Rachel, Johnny boy. God’s gift to each other. Johnny boy, Rachel. Rachel, Johnny boy. There were more and more liabilities to deal with, situational liabilities. They would run the gamut for a while. They would be romantic.

They were exhuming the dead, Johnny boy, Rachel .

Rachel provided experience, experience pressed with flowers in the photograph album of my life. Johnny boy, in America, more and more fascinated by unvarnished abilities to make magical the beat, beat, beat of his heartstrings.

My Rachel was a moment in time. She was a quick fix of a moment and she was open to challenge and she was the sweet young song playing, a riff in mood, a haunting melody, a delicate tune..

Johnny boy, Rachel.

Rachel, Johnny boy.

Sucked the life out of each other.

Sucked the death out of each other.

“I will be lusts depository for you, Johnny boy,” Rachel said to Johnny boy to make him smile.

* * * * * * * * * *

Dominance Games / Politics…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…http://dominancegamespolitics.com/

books… http://bschiff.com/

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Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel…Installment Three

Posted in books, Commentary, Drama, literature, political philosophy, political science, Politics, writing with tags political analysis, political commentary, political drama, political education, political fiction, power on January 15, 2012 by B Schiff

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power

A Novel

Installment Three

My world is a wanton place with playthings in long spacious corridors angling in to slice and vanquish as they present their great homage to prosperity and glitter.

She was the last best hope of daunting sin, Amy.

She drew hearts out as a magnet, Amy.

She drew spirits with ferocious fire.

Purges were purges.

Amy screwed Death for eternity and Death took Amy as his own.

Amy screwed Death for eternity and Amy took as Death her own.

Somewhere in her passions she fused with fulfillment.

* * * * * * * * * *

Disembarked from Europe, the damned war, discharged, Richard fucking Kenny went home. He would pick up his life. He would pick up his wife. He would settle his life.

Richard fucking Kenny’s wife made money. She made money for herself. She knew people, Richard fucking Kenny’s wife. She could take her pick of all different kinds of suave, Richard Kenny’s wife. She could dance naked in the streets of the Bowery when snow was in season, Richard Kenny’s wife.

Recuperating Soldiers had been assigned to areas in the South of fucking France. There was aid and comfort given. Richard fucking Kenny took pleasure, rest, recreation.

There were not many people there not of French citizenry, sans armies; there was one woman there, an expatriated American. She gloried in the life there. Her money was safe. She was a political sparrow, a rare bird of hidden prey. She respected her politics. She grappled with the circumstance of war. She had been widowed in New York, had found it in her best interests not to remarry. Her husband was precocious in corruption, precocious in death. She had refined sensibilities, Richard fucking Kenny’s wife; defined realities.

Richard fucking Kenny’s wife had known Richard fucking Kenny in New York. She had known Sweet Amy. She had been seen and left by all of the usual snakes. There was usual carnage she had seen on the battle fields of the slick and willful.

The once and past husband of Richard fucking Kenny’s wife married smartly. He was older, she, younger. Her own background had been moneyed, once. Much of what held it went the way of all flesh. She was alluring, attractive. She was lean and lithe, had sincere, perceptive eyes. She was smart enough not to be slain by inches.

Rational thinkers. She was descended from rational thinkers. She was educated, fascinated, Richard fucking Kenny’s wife. She knew pity. Never young and callow, tribute was hers. Those who were not saved was not saved. She garnered respect for the infinities of presumed strength. Richard fucking Kenny’s wife knew the games of her fathers, her mothers.

* * * * * * * * * *

There were newspaper people, those with the key to plans for good and clean living, blessed vision, truth, beauty. Faith, hope, charity. An abundance of knowledge Richard fucking Kenny’s wife had. She would enter Richard’s party, sleek deviate, naked, fallow, susceptible to the weak, marginal and strong, a scholar herself in the study and practice of her arts.

She was pleasant, perfunctory, Richard fucking Kenny’s wife. She showed Richard fucking Kenny respect. He showed her the same. She was a woman of much substance, Richard fucking Kenny’s wife. Richard fucking Kenny showed her respect. It was more than respect for a wife. That she was the mother of Babe only seems right. Babe was of her. Babe was special.

Like her mommy and daddy before her Babe Kenny loved the dance. It allowed her enjoyment, companionship. It gave her pleasure. Daddy, Richard fucking Kenny, was not heaven’s gift to the goodness needed somewhere, somehow on god’s green earth but Babe fucking Kenny knew that Daddy had the requisite degrees of meanness and joy. Richard fucking Kenny had his points. Daddy was a good man. He had shame in his past. About such things as Babe was concerned, daddy was one who understood.

Richard fucking Kenny did not want that his Babe should have the type of life that he had had. He vowed to remove her from the types of pressures that had made life for him, at times, a very trying experience. If little Babe grew up to be just another run of the mill flighty little bitch then so be it. He would try his best to help make her canny and wise to the ways of the world as he saw it, smart enough to know when and how to speak, to whom and for what reason to speak.

Richard fucking Kenny had great hopes that he would have his little girl grow up to not be a damned little whiner, to not be one enmeshed of trivial nonsensical banal emptiness. He did not want his Babe to be married to the damned pretentious, the usual clowns and hangers on, the high place and good breeding numbing flag waving absurd.

Between the jumping fools he knew that paraded as men and the laughing idiots he knew that paraded as women, Richard fucking Kenny knew that it was a bad fucking proposition to expect that his little girl grow up to be anything like a fine and decent person. For sure, Richard fucking Kenny knew that there was no damned such thing. He also knew that his dream was cock-eyed and dumb and that if he had ever met such a woman as he had to himself described he would probably kick her in the fucking ass and try to turn her into the damned no good fucking whore that he would have been sure that she fucking had been.

Richard fucking Kenny wanted his Babe to have some guts. He wanted her to be able to have a little bit of fucking class, have some reserve, some manners. Given what he knew of the damned fucking world he knew he was hoping for too damned fucking much. There were many things which were simply not in the repertoires of the worlds in which he lived, probably not in the repertoires of any world in which anyone fucking lived except for the little dream fucking world he had in his fucking mind that would make and allow his fucking little girl to be at least bearable.

She, Babe Kenny knew herself to be an American citizen and she felt that New York, offering what she thought to be at least a different world from the one in which she lived, offered the largest chance for her to attain the understandings and plays she so clamored after. She, Babe fucking Kenny felt that someday she might very well turn out to be some poor little rich fucking bitch with some fucking asinine Italian fucking lover dangling from her rich fucking little arm and some other asinine little fucking peccadillo with the fucking cook’s fucking little fucking daughter to scream about to her worthless fucking friends. For the mean, though, she would look towards, for, something else. If she failed there would be all of those rancid little pleasures waiting. If she failed to find that which she was looking for she knew that the fucking cook would have an sick fuck assed daughter with death in her fucking heart, that the asinine fucking Italian lover would be a stiff and that he would fucking try to steel her money and make her crazy.

Babe fucking Kenny felt that there was not much more to be had for her, her father, in the South of fucking France. It had become a poisoned well.

She had then a fondness for the English speaking peoples, and she would not have been adverse to either London or Paris if Richard fucking Kenny could find some fucking cause to see either of those places as desirable. Babe fucking Kenny knew that daddy was not one who held New York as his favorite place, having long since given up its ghost, and from what she could make out, having long since given up its ghost with fucking pleasure.

Babe fucking Kenny, then, would try to find a way to force movement to London, or at least Paris, but she would hope for a way to return the family to New York from whence it came. She would, she knew, be able to move where and when she wanted. She was free, she had means. She could do as she damn well pleased.

* * * * * * * * * *

Dominance Games / Politics…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…http://dominancegamespolitics.com/

books… http://bschiff.com/

refer

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Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel…Installment Two

Posted in analysis, books, Commentary, Drama, literature, Mystery, political philosophy, political science, Politics, writing with tags Commentary, fiction, political drama, political fiction on January 11, 2012 by B Schiff

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power

A Novel

Installment Two

There were foreign objects; there was pain. It was the 6th of fucking June.

Dreams for Richard fucking Kenny.

A putrid soldier’s dreams.

Richard fucking Kenny found himself with the first assault waves of American heroes climbing up the fucking beaches of fucking Normandy.

Kraut soldiers were without bitter appreciation.

Richard fucking Kenny hit the beach on the shores very early in the fucking morning.

Richard fucking Kenny in the middle of a fucking, stinking, dirty, fucking, fuck assed, fucking foxhole in the middle of the fucking, stinking, dirty, fucking fuck assed screw assed fucking war.

Richard fucking Kenny became a dirty, fucking hero, another fucking smart assed, wise assed fucking wise guy, wise assed fucking savior.

* * * * * * * * * *

Many forms, many shapes the All fucking American fucking hero. He said many different fucking things. He was sure to turn into a no good fucking asshole sooner or later. Poor Richard fucking Kenny.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the fucking war.

He survived it. The first day, the first day off the fucking beach.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the second day, the second day off the fucking beach.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the third day.

Richard Kenny survived the fourth day.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the first fucking month off the fucking beach.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the first fucking year off the fucking beach.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the fucking war.

* * * * * * * * * *

She was the last best hope of daunting sin, Amy.

Amy. Sweet, sweet, Amy.

* * * * * * * * * *

Dominance Games / Politics…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…http://dominancegamespolitics.com/

books… http://bschiff.com/

refer

To donate for post or site as you may wish….. sin is sin
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Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel…Installment 0ne

Posted in books, dominance, Drama, literature, Mystery, political philosophy, political science, Politics, writing with tags Commentary, fiction, political drama, political fiction on January 8, 2012 by B Schiff

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power

A Novel

Time a strange longing myth. The world an art. Muses watch blandly from the sidelines. The kill is the winning bastard, chasing down the scurrying flock. From the weight of sin, noble honor, comes a tempered stew that radiates out from the sinews and muscles of poor challenging bastards; that radiates out from hubris, aggression, want.

Mean and lust are tempo. Conflict urges towards damnation, urges towards the visceral thrills of the rewards of power.

She is quite the sensual, wondrous toy who transpires through time, through dimension. Quite the user, the hustler, the seer, the queen. Quite the mystery who comes up in myth and mist.

Cynicism is wrapped in soft cloth. Truth floats through gauzy mists. There is fear, intimidation, loss. There is ecstasy, the traps of history, of identity, of will, of territory, of belief. There is passion. There is wisdom. There are kills, histories with long roots, many mothers, unyielding fathers. There are neon lit nights and strong doses of tough. There are memories, cold hard facts.

Actions, taken through time are taken by those who are the prisoners of an uneasy chase, prisoners of the ghosts of wily survival. Motion follows paths easing towards searing savagery and redemption. Many walk in uneasy terrain. The kill is the winning bastard, chasing down the scurrying flock. Beauty, honor, revenge show dangerous enticement, coming sometimes hard, sometimes not at all. Honor, freedom, power, will, rush through the thickets of deadly time.

Conflict urges towards damnation, urges towards the visceral thrills of the rewards of power. There is dismissiveness, domination, fears of power, the traps of circumstance, will, cynicism, of want.

Swirling plays for the depths of men’s souls stir the chase. Swirling plays for power and greed stir the games at hand. There is sustenance in the drinking up of the brew offered by the tainted mixes of hunger and reserve, the tainted mixes of driven characters in cool focused rage.

Swirls of action and consequence run frolicsome charges through roads taken by those weak enough to pursue them. Pursuits of harsh base pleasures and purposes provide a world of gamesmanship, sorrow. There are enticing, foggy, predatory pasts. Life is full. It harbors heightened existence, clashes of will, of instinct.

A stark landscape is created, one that does that which it has to do, that forges that which it has to forge, that sets up that which it has to set up.

Death seeks his muse.

* * * * * * * * * *

Richard fucking Kenny developed his modicum of veneer. He used it on the broken who had money to spend as they wiled away looking rich, empty, bored and rusty. It was the easy buck, like dealing seconds. Richard fucking Kenny was left to fend for himself with nothing save his momma’s good looks, his daddy’s cunning. Spread out, rancid, tired, Richard fucking Kenny’s women who weren’t there broke the dreams of those who were and all were enjoined. Sweet, sweet Amy, my dear little Babe.

Sweet Amy was always leverage, was always neutralized. Cheap bastards always knew their names, Richard fucking Kenny, Amy, sweet, sweet Amy. Cheap bastards knew they kept their own council, traveled light through rancid jungles of open pits of open sores.

Richard fucking Kenny looked for the ravages of weakness, took pleasure in watching gerbils squirm.

Richard fucking Kenny’s entry. The sweet sense of nastiness, the odor of disdain. All of the fucking men at the fucking table of Richard fucking Kenny’s life found Richard fucking Kenny a shield to covet, a bastard to savage.

In 1942, in New York City, Richard fucking Kenny was trying very hard to get out of the fucking army. There were no fruits for his labors. He was sorry. Richard fucking Kenney wanted out from the bottom side of an existence that had since lost its glamorous facade. Richard fucking Kenney did not want to continue associations with the people with whom he had been associated.

Fuck the deranged fucking lunatics.

Little Addie, this fucking Hitler idiot was a damn menace to the damned fucking world, no fucking sense of proportion, no fucking reason. The world was made up of an abundance of damn suckers. Any crazy asshole who knew how to make the suckers jump up and down in their fucking cages could make a fine little life for himself. Little fuck Addie, this fucking Hitler idiot, only confirmed Richard fucking Kenny’s fucking beliefs.

Little fuck Addie, this fucking Hitler idiot, and his goose assed fucking, crazed fuck assed fucking friends knew all the fucking games that Richard fucking Kenny, his fucking friends knew so well, learned so well, taught so well. All of the neat little fuck assed fucking tricks learned dealing with the other fuck assed fucking suckers in his damned sweet rides through the piss holes of the Western World…Richard fucking Kenny knew them well, taught them well.

Little fuck Addie, this fucking Hitler idiot, and all his crazed fuck assed goose assed fucking friends were fucking stench, bad fucking medicine, bad fucking assholes, fucking Jew baiters, fucking bad mean grief, fucking medicine, bad assed fucking times. Richard fucking Kenny. The fucking world could fuck itself silly. Richard fucking Kenny could fucking fuck himself silly.

Despite his best efforts and great resources Richard fucking Kenny was inducted into the Army in the spring of 1943.

He was shipped south. He had to employ some of the tactics and friends of his New York associations. Too many certain southern gentlemen and others, in fond and happy anticipation, were filled with thrills at the thought of having a one hundred percent New York Jew boy at their fucking disposal. That this was the way of things Richard fucking Kenny knew. He was in a position, however, to make the certain southern gentlemen and others fucking sorry that they disliked him so.

In the fall of 1943 Richard fucking Kenny and his fuck assed fucking friends were shipped overseas, were dispatched to be stationed in the south of fucking England. Richard fucking Kenny was training for he knew not what, for purposes for which he cared exceedingly less. Fucking Admiral fucking Dewey, Black Jack fucking Pershing, friggin’ Winston friggin’ Churchill, that fucking crazy man, Macarthur, Jimmy fucking Doolittle and his whole fucking bunch of damned friggin’ Flying fucking Tigers, fuck assed strutting Montgomery and all of the friggin’ British Tommies lying end to fucking end on their god damned fucking limey stained ass stained fucking bellies couldn’t make god damned fucking Richard fucking Hymie Kharnovski give two fucking shits about this god damned fucking war.

Richard fucking Kenny was not of the mind to allow some damned fucking yo-yo of a fucking Kraut fucking paperhanger be the cause of him breathing his last fucking breath in some god damned fucking stinking European fucking stink hole.

The goddamned fucking krauts ought to have their goddamned fucking asses mangled just for getting Richard fucking Kenny into this goddamned fucking mess. The goddamned fucking Japs should also rot in fucking fuck assed, rotten, fucking saki hell.

* * * * * * * * * *

Dominance Games / Politics…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…http://dominancegamespolitics.com/

books… http://bschiff.com/

refer

To donate for post or site as you may wish….. sin is sin
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http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2011/07/how-to-turn-republicans-and-democrats-into-americans/8521/

Dominance Games: One more damned time…..the rancid bastards

Posted in Commentary, current events, media, News, partsanship, political analysis, political satire, political science, Politics, satire, Uncategorized, writing with tags Commentary, current events, Democracy, Government, news, opinion, political analysis, political commentary, political drama, political fiction, political satire, power, Public interest, satire, social criticism on June 17, 2011 by B Schiff

Simple damned questions. What lovelies evolve to power and control? What lovelies evolve away? What are the sweet little mechanisms thereof? Who gives enough of a damn to recognize broken mechanisms? Who gives enough of a damn to give a damn about how a vote is no more than a show and the vote for things preset and gamed in the first place is a damned stupid show. Its the system stupid. Its the suckers stupid. It the ideology stupid.

And once again ..with feeling…

And….

And…..

The red roses are red

The blue violets are blue

Violate my little life…..

Love the rancid bastards

We all stand in line.

Mickey Edwards The Atlantic How to turn Democrats and Republicans into Americans

David Moberg In These Times Unions work to turn the tide

http://inthesetimes.com/article/11461/unions_work_to_turn_the_tide

politics, news, commentary, analysis Dominance Games / Politics http://dominancegamesb.wordpress.com/

books… http://bschiff.com/

http://www.economist.com/node/18744533

Dominance Games: Capitulation wins the day

Posted in Commentary, current events, News, opinion, Politics, Uncategorized, writing with tags Commentary, current events, news, opinion, political drama, political education, politics, power, Public interest, Righteousness, social criticism, writing on May 30, 2011 by B Schiff

And the virulent shall be pure and the pure shall lead and the true shall beckon heaven and the good shall be forthright.

And the secure shall be strong and the tolerant shall falter and the self righteous shall be our sultry light in the skies.

And the humble shall be honored and the loud shall not be silenced. The quiet shall not simmer. The reflective shall have no time, shall have no home. The reflective shall be taught to do no other thing.

The rich shall be of fire. The poor shall be of disdain. The winds shall not be of reaping. The thieves shall not be of compromise.

Backs shall be straight. Limbs shall be strong. Aim shall be true. Thoughts shall be lustful.

Home shall be where the heart is. The righteous shall right all wrongs.

The fire in the belly shall be not sated. The searing sting of justice shall not wane. The heart of the hunters shall not go unused. The prey of the hunters shall not hide.

The living miasma of organic thought shall truck no compromise. The beating hearts of hope shall not be abandoned. The pure and the true shall not be sullied by remorse or retribution. The powerful shall not fear their lives.

Freedom from hurt. Hurt the world commodity. Killers kill. Owners own. Breakers break. Change comes from forces accommodating the lusts of the disenfranchised, the lusts of the put upon, the lusts of the thugs, the lusts of the head bangers, the vile rots who can hurt.

A sword for the swordless. A knife for the knifeless. Power for the powerless. A guarantee of fear to the fearless, fear of retribution to the winless, fear of recrimination to the lossless, fear of death to the daft, the dank dreamers, the wayward skunks.

Satiate the lust of the lustful, the hates of the hard, the blood lust of the thirsty. Dreams are pleasant. Talk is good. Will is cheap. Work works nicely. Capitulation wins the day.

The Economist Boundlessly loyal to the great monster

Jeffrey Goldberg The Atlantic Danger Tyrants

http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2011/06/danger-falling-tyrants/8493/

F. Brinley Bruton msnbc.msn.com

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/42225974/ns/world_news-europe

politics, news, commentary, analysis http://dominancegamesb.wordpress.com/

books… http://bschiff.com/

http://www.cjr.org/behind_the_news/controversy_at_fox_news_north.php

Dominance Games: Speak loudly and club the bastards to death

Posted in Commentary, current events, News, opinion, Politics, Uncategorized, writing with tags Commentary, current events, Lies damned lies and statistics, opinion, political analysis, political commentary, political drama, political fiction, politics, power, Righteousness, social criticism, writing on May 24, 2011 by B Schiff

I think they like it. Zoos come and go and animals act up and perform and I think they like it. Trendy rackets of self immolation get thrown under the bus and to the wolves. I think they like it The players play and they kiss their own behinds. I think they like. The fight enjoined, the bating bated, the hate hated, the smarms smarmed. I think they like it.

The moods moody. The lights misty. The dancing seals dancing. Blood sport sporting. Kill sport killing. Derision sport deriding. They damned well like it.

Commentary as machete for the lazy and the rich. Toys to be abused for the ones who take wings off of flies. Hateful hates. Vile devils. Deemed demons. They damned well love it.

Hope is for those who work at something. Hate is the all purpose passport. Define thine self. Color tawdry and putrid thine enemy devil. Tactics. Tactics. Tactics. Tougher. Stronger. Simpler. More vivid. More emasculating. More basically simple.

Ahh..the devils are coming. The devils are coming. Speak loudly and club the bastards to death. The devils make us play dirty. They implore us to the noble tricks of the trade. Kill the bastards. Blood sport. Blood lust. Blood. Taste the taste.

Some are better at it than others. The real politics.

By Craig Silverman Columbia Journalism Review

By MIchael Tomaski The Daily Beast

http://www.thedailybeast.com/blogs-and-stories/2011-05-20/neocons-at-play-making-liberals-squirm/?cid=hp:beastoriginalsL2

politics, news, commentary, analysis http://dominancegamesb.wordpress.com/

books… http://bschiff.com/

http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2011/06/death-by-tabloid/8491/

Lust Games: Live the pornographic

Posted in Commentary, News, Politics, Uncategorized, writing with tags Commentary, Democracy, Education, Government, journalism, Lies damned lies and statistics, political commentary, political drama, political education, politics, power, social criticism, writing on May 20, 2011 by B Schiff

Public images and public brands can easily become inverted. Those noble souls exercising free will and petrified manner easily choose against their own self interests all the time. Their perceptions are weak. Their premises are false. Their logical constructs are frayed and superfluous. They bring to the table of meager existence a predisposition towards abject dimness and poverty of mind. They see not the heavens on earth offered them in their anguish as they self identify as noble souls, outlying outlaws, searing revolutionaries, defenders of the faith, persons of sound judgment and cool reason.

Thought is sold. It is not bought. Freedom of thought is sold. It is not bought. Economic self interest is passed around and given away. It is laughed away and made to look foolish. The cloudy images of the sane and tolerant world are floated up and about, up and away by those knowing this endpoint of human endeavor and these clouds are massively comical and hopelessly ironic. If only there were those of reason and virtue amongst the daily thugs of public discourse. If only there were those of reason and virtue amongst those who stood tall and straight and bashed head for sustenance. If only there were those that did not foam at the mouth and love always and always the red meat of swollen enemies.

The obtuse and the inbred know nothing save the next meal. The sweet tastes of sweet tastes trump always the soothing health foods of good doctors. The wretched can never simply see what is to be seen. The wretched can never simply experience what is there to be experienced, what is there bigger than a breadbox.

Enemies mine those who will not see. Enemies mine those who will not hear. Enemies mine those who live the cheap thrills and hot candy. Enemies mine those who live the pornographic. We all live the pornographic. We all love the pornographic.

Xan Rice The Atlantic

http://bschiff.com/ the rancid bastards ….. the true…..the dumb …… the honored creed. books….novels

http://www.harpers.org/archive/2011/04/hbc-90008063

Dominance Games: They work the trenches

Posted in Commentary, current events, News, opinion, Politics, Uncategorized, writing with tags Business, current events, economics, Education, Government, Lies damned lies and statistics, news, opinion, political commentary, political drama, politics, politics noir, Public interest, Righteousness, social criticism, writing on May 16, 2011 by B Schiff

In my name they go to war. In my name they rule the waves of production, the seas of competence. In my name they accommodate the needs and wants of the needy, the wants and aspirations of the desirous, the happy little frolics of the serious and the moral.

In my name they please. They distribute goods and services. They distribute hearts and minds. They distribute ease and sanity.

In my name they sower with efficiency, plunder with joy, return to me the dregs upon my investment. They produce. They camouflage. They placate and the are that between us and a world without function.

In my name they do what there is that has to be done. In my name they do it well. They do it adroitly. They have no spasms of regret. They are professional.

In my name they grease the wheels of a better more sane world. In my name they await their applause humbly. In my name they regard the slings and arrows of dark screamers with regret and in my name they view with sad detachment. They know better. In my name.

In my name they are seasoned. In my name they are worldly and wise and in my name they know the functions of the world. In my name they are of one with the veils of hidden charity of spirit and the veils of the hidden philanthropy of the heart. They are at one with progress in my name. In my name we need ask no more.

In my name they are what they are. In my name they act as they can. In my name they act where they can. They are good because they are. In my name they are all that they can be. In my name they act. For themselves they act. It is that true noble philosophy that serves. They act so that I can be free.

And I support them.

The cost of costs

from Harpers by Scott Horton

The usual usual from The Washington Post

http://www.washingtonpost.com/business/economy/obama-slams-oil-company-profits-as-gas-prices-surge/2011/04/29/AFPhwyGF_story.html

The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true.

http://bschiff.com/