one man's conspiracy is another man's business plan
Thursday, January 20, 2005 | Another Cold Day in Another January
Coronation Day dawned cold in Imperial Fortress America. Gunmen strutted and skulked, swaggered shifty eyed, on roofs, on the ground, behind trees. Missiles waited, ready to spurt their untamed fires and shred the flesh of any who might protest too much, turn their eyes toward the sun.
God speaks through Bush.
He has revealed this to his people, shared this confidence, and his loyal subjects waited to hear what God would say through him today.
In solemn adoration they gathered, resplendent in their haute couture stitched by child-slave fingers, the poor had been thoughtfully swept away, with the ice and snow, out of sight, lest their unclean shadows pollute the path of America's righteous and prosperous heart and soul.
It was a day of crystal and limousines, fine wine and glory.
A short distance away, the forces of darkness, the enemies of America, shivered without heaters, or tents, slipped on ice through endless checkpoints in the Authorized Demonstration Zones, a testament to the magnanimity of the Empire, to allow this privilege. A beacon to the world. It was forbidden by Imperial decree to apply salt to the ice here. Gunmen were more alert here, more visible. Howitzers were paraded by, as a reminder.
It was a day of bitter cold, gunpoint and ankle sprains.
As God, speaking through Bush, revealed his plans for additional mass slaughter, and increased revenues for key US business interests, I was privileged to eavesdrop as a middle aged lady recounted another cold day in another January, another crusade of aggression, another coronation of another war criminal.
In a modest Alexandria home, a motherly Episcopal rector's wife stirred pots of soup. "We're used to marchers," she said, smiling as her two dozen or so houseguests, none of whom she had ever met before, stumbled and milled about, groggy and sore from unaccustomed floorsleeping, lined up for the bathroom, made their way into the kitchen, then out the door, and on to Washington.
There were no free speech zones, no checkpoints, the mall itself was the free speech zone. The crowd grew, it swelled, it spilled into the streets, it swarmed over the monuments, it sang, it chanted, it shouted. The crowd waved signs, unfurled banners. The helicopters overhead gave up trying to estimate it.
Black and white, and every shade in between, young and old, rich and poor, the crowd grew larger, louder. The coronation ceased to be the story. This crowd was the story. Stop the war!
Some came with memories of other marches, another march in this same place, a decade before. Some bore the scars of Bull Connor's dogs, memories of hoses, or jails, of a bridge in Selma, Miami, the siege of Chicago, Philadelphia, Mississippi, four little girls in Alabama, Kent State.
Some came with their children, that they might have this memory, somehow sensing that, in the words of Mick Jagger, this could be the last time.
Some lent strong shoulders to aging elders with older memories, and the unshakable conviction that "never again" meant never again to anybody, even a little bit, even if there was money to be made.
Somewhere in the crowd, a murmur, VVAW is coming. And in the distance, they came slowly into view. On and on they came, until as far as the eye could see, a sea of people, marching into another sea, filling the horizon, some limping, some in wheelchairs, on crutches. Some hobbled on artificial limbs, some hopped without them, a few lay on gurneys, wheeled by their companions, on and on they came, the Viet Nam Veterans Against the War.
They kept on coming, by whatever locomotive powers the war had left them with, they joined the chanting, Stop the War!
The crowd without organizers, cell phones or central command, parted to let them pass. Cecil B. could not have done it better.
And still they kept coming, as far as the eye could see.
And the crowd, clergy, atheists, hippies, Black Panthers, stern young SDS fellows, socialists, communists and all, kept on parting like a human red sea, and lifting wind-chapped hands, fingers aching from the cold, they saluted. posted at
Actions like Sep 11 do not happen in a vaccuum.
Long before those hijackers ever stepped foot on the planes the damage
had been done. They were brainwashed with the same type of garbage
propaganda that is spewed from Fatwa's weblog.
Middle Eastern countries are so much more barbaric today and preAmercia than America can ever hope to be...America has only been around 230 years...who did you blame for everything before that Ductape? I am calling a Fatwa on your bullshit!
IMO - terrorist plain and simple. He is an Al queda operative who
should be put in a cage on gitmo Skinner
My favorite..."In Defense of Holocaust Deniers"
I always thought that "The Enemy Within" was just a metaphore for liberalism, that is, until I encountered Ductape Fatwa. He should be in an orange jumpsuit for sure.
peopleforchange.netductape is either a commie, al queda, or a deep cover mole
Tells you something about this asshole doesn't it. He's really serious.
I believe that DF is nothing but a Republican plant...
Ductape is a commie, a terrorist, and he drinks blood too. He drinks
Capitalist blood. He eats unborn babies too
Give me your address and I'll send you $20 and a thank-you note for taking your hatred elsewhere.
A terrorist with a sense of humor!
He ain't nuthin' but shit
inadequate, halfway house bullshit
You are a dumbass. Fuck you and your condescension about us "benighted sheeple." hamletta
Untruthful, damaging bullshit
no better than the neocons and no different than Timothy McVeigh
dailykos.coma turd in the punchbowl...if DF were Joe Hill he probably would have killed himself rather than get put to death.
A compost pile of fecundity
dailykos.comdespicable and literally mentally ill