Monday, February 8, 2016

FREE HORSES (All posts in chronological order)

1  Horse Crazy

“Presidential politics trashed our family name and I became the laughingstock of the town drunks.  Big public scenes.  Barfly so blitzed she swayed like a loose fencepost in the wind, jabbing a finger at my nose.  “Why now?  Daddy’s little girl finally comes home when he’s on his deathbed?”  To say nothing of all that came between me and our hometown.  For not long ago my geriatric father put on his WWII 1st Lieutenant’s uniform to run for the presidency.  Of the nation, as invariably had to be explained.  A nation I can’t name because of national security.”

Hello from wherever in the world you’re reading this blog.  I’m your host The Famous Mr. Web, equine blogger extraordinaire.  This blog is dedicated to exposition of the alleged interspecies internet infiltration.  Particularly by us horses.  Starting with the horse liberation manifesto.  The author of the above paragraph is either responsible for posting the manifesto, or is horses’ most illustrious internet patsy.  Depending on which conspiracy theory you prefer.  That’s just how she talked.  Neurotic fumbling.  Apologetic, explaining herself, etc.  Until we horses brought her around.  Since then we’ve never had more fun.  We saw to it the horse libber took up her pen like Wild West locos took up guns.  The world wide web as the horse libber’s OK corral.  The horse liberation manifesto came out during the internet heyday - the golden age of rugged individualism.  When “the miracle of modern science” made it possible for a lone, middle-aged woman to anonymously have her way with the world.  Unable to unite with pitchforks and torches like the olden days, her opponents were reduced to each one spitting at their smart phone in seclusion.

Once she got the hang of horses’ literary device - of which Assbook played a significant role - writing became too easy.  Like shooting fish in a barrel.  Horses finally ruled the internet (even this website is under surveillance for potential interspecies computer hacking.  They know now that horses are watching them).

Radicalizing factors included midlife reviews of favorite childhood TV sitcoms.  The kind of shows that gave the little girls who watched them the name “horse crazy.”   Sitcoms about pithy horses who only spoke to their owners.  One horse patsy went to great lengths attempting to prove to the world that his horse could talk.  That the horse listened in on the phone all the time.  That the horse was head of the household.  And the family business.  That he, the oner, was only a front.  A patsy.  His horse made a fool of him.  Played dumb to all but his owner to the end.

The horse liberation manifesto broke the news to the world.  That horses listen in on phone calls.  Making wisecracks to foil human communications.  We read everything.  Social media, the gamut.  We have sock puppets everywhere.  Ransack mail.  Foil emails, etc.  You name it, hoof prints are on it.  Love to meddle with human communications.  As seen on TV.  Hidden in plain sight for ages.  We love taking the human race for a ride.

2 - the Firebearers

Publication of the horse liberation manifesto naturally resulted in horse truth movements.  Sightings of Pegasus in the sky as sketched by jet trails, etc.  You can’t say you got it from the horse’s mouth - we horses neither confirm nor deny affiliation with humans online - but your friend the Famous Mr. Web here is forced to point out the obvious.  Horsepower?  Just some conspiracy theory, huh?  Tthe writing is all over your car.   Truth hidden in plain sight.  While no one claims authorship of the following, generally it has surfaced in most copycat posts following those attributed to our patsy the horse libber:  [editor’s note:  The horse liberation manifesto has been widely reposted and translated.  Perhaps no two copycat versions are alike.  However the majority begin with something like what is known as the Firebearers rant:]  T

The human race extolls itself as the most intelligent life form on earth.  If not the universe.  All that architecture, industry, great societies, morality, etc.  All this hubris while being pathetically outdone by, for instance, the ants.  Whose orderly endeavor stores food in vast architectural matrixes for all their own.  Unlike many humans they know how to procure for themselves.  Societies working smoothly together towards common goals.  Beavers have engineered dams since long before humans.  Taught the human race everything it knows.  All kinds of architects exist with vast, tidy means of production which don’t burn oil.  Bees and their hives, for instance.  To say nothing of the awkward comparison human aviation holds to birds.  Who are also architects.  Examples abound, but productivity is not unique to humans.  

Two things belong uniquely to humans:  one, while we communicate directly and plainly among ourselves (as our efficient works evidence), humans are burdened with the compunction to abstract language into dense, byzantine codes.  The other problem is that only humans deliberately kindle fire.  A psychosis directly related to being the only creatures cursed to forever wander naked without fur, feathers or scales.  Forever toiling to protect their privates, their feet and to fend off the cold.   Only humans cook food.  Or smoke.  But you didn’t leave it at that.  Lust for fire led to inventing guns.  Then every other abomination imaginable as “industrialized society” (oh how we put you to shame) powered wheels.  Sidelining your old hooved friends while sucking the planet dry of her internal fluids.  Every perverse weapon imaginable.  Electricity and all its gimmickry, an offshoot of combustion and fire.  You are the firebearers. 

Our historical hoof prints are all over everything to do with transportation.  How the lowest, most deranged underbelly of humanity - and there are plenty of humans denying they even are human - slithered forth to usurp our excellent calling with the invention of the internal combustion engine.  Here we labored all those millennia while replenishing the soil as we went.  Now transportation mostly destroys the earth.  Hence world oil wars, devastation of the planet and all the rest [editor’s note:  many translations bear long rants about how it’s all illusion, that people only reincarnate just as fast as their ruling elite can kill them off, etc].   Now you’ve got global worming - the rich are burrowing into the earth to hide from the cataclysmic consequences of the petroleum industry.  Face it. The human race, apart from us, does a mostly horrible job with transportation.  You’re trashing the planet.  You’ve forced our hooves.  We have to act.  

3 -Going Presidential

No one knows better than us horses that the internet - history too - is a galaxy of fables.  Whether the horse libber or anyone else online really exists is up for grabs.  We horses know too much.  But as for horsepower hidden in plain sight, although people have mentioned that their horses spooked since the earth was flat, most people just laughed at the horse liberation manifesto at first (“It’s not real, darling, it’s only the internet”).  Until all the allegedly horse-controlled copycat sites cropped up.  Soon everyone was doing it.  Impostors impersonating horses.   No one knew any longer what species was running the internet.  

As to whether what was written on the horse libber’s blog was her own writing or plagiary from middle eastern impostors, or the donkeys who inspired Assbook -we make no comment to confirm or deny any of the humbug.  You can’t say you got the following information from the horse’s mouth:

The horse libber was from that bumptious generation of women who sipped the chalice of women’s liberation [translators dispute as to whether the actual word is ‘libation’] even before adulthood.  Adherents to that most pernicious conspiracy theory, that men gang up worldwide to oppress women.  In her own words, her motives:  “I was born to write about horses and messianic presidencies.  Like the emperor who awoke from a long illness believing he was God.  He named his horse as his high priest. Then topped that by naming the horse as a Senator.  Once they assassinated him, the Senate was torn between appointing his horse or his “idiot” nephew as successor.  Nothing ever changed.  Electoral politics has been pure buffoonery for millennia.”

Conspiracy theorists seem to agree that the following alleged epoch of the horse libber’s life  made her crack up.  Eventually leading to posting the horse liberation manifesto:

“For the horse libber’s Daddy to show up on the streets of La Chingada sporting a wild white beard and lion’s hairdo framing those piercing blue eyes - blazing at you like Geronimo’s - the old railroad engineer as intense as an oncoming locomotive yet dressed in uniform - was not out of synch with the colonial humanity of the region.  The wild West was famous for men wild as bears, long beards and hair flowing about their shoulders like halos.  Men of blood, fire, smoke, guns and the general sound of hell breaking loose.  Thundering at any passerby he could buttonhole, the horse libber’s Daddy posted himself on the steps of La Chingada’s post office.  Swearing to sue the mass media for suppressing his candidacy.  Furious over private capital blithely stealing that great public trust, the railroads.  Went on nonstop about the monopolization of the mass media.  Raging about what La Chingada’s residents (a population including smatterings of those newsmen later known as “presstitutes” and household name movie stars) considered pure nonsense.  Most people in La Chingada believed his ideas were nothing but bizarre paranoid ramblings.  That he should be locked up for his own good.  The old lieutenant felt like Moses.  Furious, ready to shatter stone tablets into a trillion bits.  Although to casual observers he mostly brought Don Quixote to mind.  At first he had begun his bid for the presidency to make a point about corruption.  But as he was overcome with dementia, he began to talk election fraud, insisting that he was the rightfully elected president.  All there was to do was show up and claim his rightful post.  The horse libber’s Mommy found herself lost in her husband’s ambition.  Hardly wanting to trade her sweet retirement on the farmstead for some vice-stained hovel in the nation’s capital.

Things got interesting when his little darling finally returned home from Greece, Africa, Babylon and all the other farthest-flung outposts on earth  where she had wandered.  The horse libber’s Mommy and Daddy had purportedly been heartbroken that she had forsaken her great calling as an artist to type papers .  Enslaving herself as secretary to the evil banks of Babylon, typing instruments more abstract than any painting on earth.  The horse libber (“the best of them all,” her Daddy was heard to insist) exhibited her paintings around her hometown for awhile.  Seemed like a good market.  Rich, powerful people strutting on sidewalks formerly peopled by railroad employees and cowboys as famous people began buying out the La Chingada region.  Should have been a good market for art.  Yet local gossips had a field day when her art exhibits turned political.  Dadquixote stationing himself beside her paintings, stumping for his political campaign.  Roaring at prospective clients feigning absorption in the horse libber’s artwork while comparing them unfavorably to inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah.  Gallery conversation juxtaposed phrases like “gestural qualities” with “the rug of national corruption under which the filthy detritus of banking and governance has been swept.”  Or “figures captured with a single line” paired with “the bagmen for the corporations that have looted the country,” etc.

The Land of Burning Ground

I'm not here to stir up trouble, but since publication of the horse liberation manifesto, there's a lot of whispering about horses.  Comments allegedly posted by horses turning up all over the internet.  While you're not getting it from the horse's mouth, your friend Mr. Web here can post the following alleged horse rant from some blog or another:

The horse liberation manifesto came out just in time to humiliate any jackass who spoke of elections with a straight face.  Horsepower - the world's best-kept secret hidden in plain sight - found new expression on Assbook.  As far as who was to blame, all roads lead back to La Chingada, the alleged hometown of the horse libber.  Also the social stage on which her late Daddy's presidential campaign took place. 

The world was crying for Assbook, because the usurpation of horse power by elite human rulers in favor of petroleum-burning gadgetry - together with their conspiracy to banish horses from all cities on charges that we pollute too much -  had led the human race to generally make asses of themselves.  Industrialized urban life led to an abstract group of people who generally had stopped believing their own ears and eyes.  They clung to television like a vital organ.  La Chingada could be a great ski resort - billboards along highways urging travelers to have a great vacation by going to La Chingada - but if the TV claimed La Chingada did not exist, most people would believe that instead.  People walked around engaged with Iphones and sundry computers.  Life became a collective hallucination.  Society was so ripe for Assbook, a place where with the flick of a keyboard, anybody you pleased could be tossed into the flaming literary device.  Writing al Dante.  Times also begged for Assbook, because the Holy See had just decreed that the great inferno believed to await the damned was only a literary device.  Professed atheists wept in despair for there to be some lake of fire where the corrupt souls responsible for the world's financial system wasting away, eating its own tail, could forever writhe in torment.  Grumbling against the rich elite seethed on every side:  "If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people who get the most" etc.

Religious authorities rejected the horse liberation manifestor - and subsequent appearance of Assbook - as heresy.  However equine surveillance of humans was popularly pronounced doctrinal once a little poking around turned up well-documented ancient precedent of a prophet quarreling with his ass.

We horse make no statement to confirm or deny the horse libber's authorship of the most popular physical description of La Chingada - the locus of her late Daddy's presidential campaign  to "stamp out corruption."  Radical language and inflammatory words concerning La Chingada go more or less as follows: 

"Apart from context, there is no understanding our family's presidential drama.  Under threat of death I couldn't make up a stranger environment, seated amid the strangest mix of humanity imaginable..  La Chingada is seated upon  mother earth's most bizarre geological expression bar none.  You couldn't make it up.  To start with the lesser oddity,  our hometown, once stolen from the natives, was founded near the world's oldest and most famous national park of the same name.  Formerly known to local tribes as "the land of burning ground," the greater region lies within the world's largest land-based volcanic caldera  Flanked by impenetrable forests prowled by ferocious wild beasts, it smacks of that proverbial book which the heady stench of sulfur brings to mind.  Some legends insist most natives were terrified of the vicinity despite its majestically beautiful mountain panorama of snow-capped peaks.  Countless geysers spurt columns of boiling water high above the treetops.  The ground emits stinky vapors in bubbles, spurts and whistles.  It explodes from apparently sold ground at irregular intervals.  Mud boils violently in natural ovens, the colorful liquids congealing and twisting into grotesque cones from beneath which issue throaty groans and demonic burps.  Natives refused to tell Europeans their legends about La Chingada.   Some historians infer that native tribes feared their conquerors would make pacts with malevolent entities in order to totally vanquish the natives.  In any case, most tribes avoided La Chingada's volcanic splendor whether for reverence, or believing it to be the dwelling of Satan, or mere prudent avoidance of its frequent and unpredictable explosions."    

While many are cautious about taking the horse libber seriously, what she posted about the winds of La Chingada is no secret: 

"Except for proximity to the railroad system La Chingada was built to serve, the town probably never would have been built in its location at hazard to such violent, capricious winter wind.  The first incarnation of the town of La Chingada, a little to the east of where it lies now, entirely blew away one tempestuous winter's night.  Violent winds wadded the settlers' encampment of tents, tarps and Quonset huts behind flimsy fronts into a juggernaut of debris that scudded into a gulch.  Left the astonished settlers to be lashed by frigid gale force winds in varying degrees of nakedness hopping through snowdrifts in the dark,

"History is mute as to whether or not ancient tribves believed ferocious gods were loosed during winter to paint the clouds in sinister toes o steely gray, converting the heavens into a trampoline on which they hurled themselves at every natural obstacle, leaping and wrestling with deafening shrieks of rage.  Not entirely like the behavior of townsmen left behind to survive wintry ills.  But we do know that ancient tribes retreated to the current La Chingada's outskirts during winter.  As any of them could tell you, although summer's allure keeps that postcard-perfect beauty of a town site faithful to her portrait, (as celebrated by oceans of postcards), each year winter gets revenge.  Winds exceed 100 mph in temperatures far below zero Fahrenheit.  Oblique gusts
knock trucks off the highway like popcorn.  Once considered an ideal site for wind farms, hopes waned when wind blasts sheared blades off wind turbines, hurling them windward like the spears of so many imaginary giants waging jihad against La Chingada."

Wednesday, February 3, 2016


Dear readers, idle trolls,

Without me swearing to it, you can believe I wrote this blog - the sum of everything I've learned in my utterly silly nearly 60 years - including the alleged origin of Assbook and the only known journalistic attempt so far of the alleged interspecies invasion of the internet by the animal kingdom including snoopy horses like the famous Mr. Ed, whose witticisms should help make this perhaps the most humorous and savvy blog possible.  But anyone who really knows me, or even thinks they ever did, may say the fruit didn't fall far from the tree.  That this blog is the predictable upshot of a disorderly mind.  What else to expect from the fruitless imaginings of some layabout artist.  Abstruse fantasy not gleaned from meaningful intercourse with rational society. Instead the TV-tortured imagination of the child of some pioneer family.  No mere settlers' colony gone berserk, but from the genuinely loco wild west.  What with its hallucinatory yarns about cowboys and Indians.  Orderly societies, peaceful cities, masterpieces of civil efficiency, productivity, right thinking and and thoughtful planning abound with today's most logical, insightful writers.  Who altogether are the admirable genesis of contemporary masterpieces like the modern mass media.  Consider:  some mother may give birth to a homely child lacking all social grace, driving her insane.  To where she blindfolds the child with grotesque, ill-fitting glasses  at an early age, leaving notes in her diaries to fool future readers into believing her child had something of wits.  But though I seem that mother in relation to this blog, I am the stepmother of "Daddy's little girl" - aka "the horse libber" - The one generally believed to have something to do with release of the horse liberation manifesto, operating as a patsy in the interspecies internet invasion hoax.  I will not comply with social custom, imploring you to overlook her faults and flaws.  Nor to feign ignorance of her exploits and misadventures among the “me generation.”  you, dear reader, are no doubt above such foolishness.  Distant from the ruckus and drivel that spun a cocoon of self-deceit around the likes of her generation via much solipsistic mass media.  The “liberated” kind of women who abused freedom enough to make foreigners hate their countrymen’s precious freedoms.  Nor is there doubt that you, wise reader, unlike Daddy’s little girl, have worked hard all your life, if not exhausting your hands and frame with manual toil, at least working yourself blind enslaved to some computer,  after which you are master of your finances and effects.  A person of keen economic insight after laboring loyally for the greater corporate good all your life.  You are not obliged to overlook her innumerable character defects, insane choices, and capricious responses to self-inflicted problems which naturally brought so much trouble down on her own “long hair” head.  You are free to say anything you like about her epoch and all its controversy without fear of being labeled some conspiracy theorist for simply calling the truth as you see it.  

I only desire to keep this account simple.  Free of advertising, self-congratulatory humbug, links all over posts leading to my other creative triumphs.  All the glee, shallow wit and orgiastic visual clutter found on blogs these days.  For although I’ve researched fort decades composing this modern wild west yarn, above all I have dreaded needing any sort of prologue to so timeless a fable, even if not quite historical.  One hazy afternoon as I sweated and pined over my lack of erudition, crude manners and provincial wild west upbringing - anxious that my blog would lack the meaty citations and robust footnotes of truly professional bloggers - an unexpected visitor came to find me twizzling strands of my hair, surrounded by mountains of books, magazines and messy stick-notes all over the computer,.  Staring at the keyboard as if it might address me.  I either was surprised by a more internet-savvy friend (meaning most everyone on earth, as I amor such an age many would describe me as a fossil), or experienced a lucid hallucination of an ancient Greek academician illuminating the room, or a snot-nosed adolescent computer geek skateboarded in from nowhere dispatched via classified agency involvement.  Depending on which rumors and flames you buy into, for I can neither confirm nor deny any of the above.  I was asked why I paused at the keyboard.  Stammering about my insecurities, me mediocre grasp of world events, and nascent post-middle-age brain fog, I betrayed my fears and bafflement over credibility issues, sketchy footnotes and inadequate reference material, confessing my dread at composing this prologue.  Unwilling to write it at all except for feeling offense at bringing the alleged history  of so liberated a woman as Daddy’s little girl to the world’s attention minus proper introduction.  For what is our poor, information-starved, brainwashed public going to think of some blogger - obscure as dirt all these years - coming out noisily at such an age - an artifact, really, from the dumb epoch before personal computers?    Telling of long-forgotten cobweb-covered legends of the wild west?  In a hack style, yet, lacking all certification and credentials?  Bereft of credibility, with not even one link to support the least word I might type?  Even the most vapid conspiracy theories provide hot links to the bellwether publications of our knowledgeable media pundits and the press.  Research always amply quotes the conservatives or liberals crowning our great experiment in democracy.  All the sooner believed if slathered in some rhetoric approximating religion of any kind.  My account will offer none of this.  Eschewing credibility like the plague.  Memory fails me as to which commentors I’ve followed, which blogs piqued my disorderly imagination, or I would list them in tidy footnotes the way real writers do.  My blog will lack pithy quotes, excerpts from popular songs, any and all explanatory citations from our hallowed politicians and other musty relics of deep state authority.. I conclude that Daddy’s little girl should be relegated to the archives of that mythical place which is or is not my home town - what the Holy See has recently termed a merely figurative place, breaking the hearts of published atheists everywhere for disappointment that there is no eternal fiery inferno awaiting responsible parties to the world banking disorder - that place popularly known to all of  Mexico as “La Chingada.”  Unless by choice or chance some editor or internet hacker should come on the scene to give Daddy’s little girl all the literary color she lacks.  For I am a “dinosaur” devoid of knowledge of modern internet culture.  Also one of those shifty artist types rightfully accused of sloth during reckless flights of fancy (read:  dissociative mind).  Too busy laying around the house to go inquiring of certified authorities to say what I cn say anyway without them.  

No sooner had all such self-doubts slipped from my lips than my visitor clapped a palm to their forehead (or their hoof, I am not at liberty to say which) and shuddering with laughter said:  “Google, silly.”  In response to my dumb look, they elaborated:  “You fooled me! I had you pegged  as smart, perceptive.  The solution is too easy.  You would already have done what I’m about to suggest if you weren’t such a sorry computer-phobic luddite with respect to the internet.   Google away, see if that can’t solve your imaginary obstacles to publication of a history of Daddy’s little girl - paragon of liberated modern femininity.”

“But how to liberate myself to write reference material,” I waffled.

“Google,google,google.  That’s all there is to it.  So your subject is fear of death?  Type that in your search window together with the phrase ‘ancient philosopher’  and viola, quote away.  No one can dispute them.  Or know for certain you haven’t read them.  Because next to no one reads books anyway.  They wouldn’t know Aristotle from [  ] or Cicero from [   ].Pretty up your text with citations in the ancient idiom.  No matter if syntax is off because who reads dead languages anyway?  The creeping literary consumption of search engines has done all your work for you.  Footnotes?  Borrow anybody’s.  Or do you really think cyberpunks will preen through them?    Most all assume you’ve devoured your material in depth, such as commanders-in-chief who quip “when you’re a hammer, everything looks like a nail” decades after even teenagers have wrung the expression dry.  Make up words.  Like the executive who announced to the world “I’m the Decider.”  Almost no one is literate enough to question your erudition anymore.    [editor’s note:  in many translations an image of winged Pegasus appears in a cloud to address the blogger.  Others feature an interview with a talking jenny donkey of such exceedingly tall stature she is believed to hold the world’s record as the world’s biggest she-ass.  Either character resumes with the following discourse:]  Besides,if the spooks have informed me correctly, aren’t you hatching a satire on the mass media?  Comparing your countrymen to Don Quixote who went insane reading books of chivalry?  A protracted public misadventure, cheering foreign wars from the comfort of their living rooms, clustered before their television sets devouring so much industrialized eucharist?  So many knights errant blundering their way through distant boondoggles via the internet and the I-pad?  Did Plato mention that?  Or did religion give us smart  phones?  Why strive to lend authenticity to fiction?  Make it up, as seen on TV.  If it’ really news it won’t make the news.  Or how do you suppose that out of all myriad occurrences on this vast and complex planet, TV watchers only pay attention to their top ten public terrors?  Divine unction?  No.  They cherry pick fears and passions.  So can you.  What need of veracity in the golden age of fictitious media posing as news?  Cite any reference that occurs to your bleary mind.  Call ‘em as you see them.  Fewer words the better.  No rambling arguments about “but pigs don't fly, do they?”  Finally, aren’t you writing about that exquisite resort paradise, La Chingada?  Where the damned are sent for eternal ski vacations?  Haven’t the streets of La Chingada buzzed with speculation about reincarnation ever since they stole the place from the Indians?  Why bother quoting the dead when you can simply bring them back for an encore?  Fry them in words Al Dante.  Or what did everyone think the resurrection of the damned would look like?  To La Chingada with high-flown rhetoric.  Succinctly and roundly give the mass media what it deserves.  When streams of TV sets go sailing out windows, when I-gimmicks mass up in landfills, you will have done no small service to horses, also to what’s left of humanity.”

Such excellent instruction emboldened me to get on with all the episodes, rumors and downright lies about Daddy’s little girl and the alleged interspecies intervention in cyberspace in the quest for world peace and the emergence of a shadowy figure known as the Famous Mr. Web, equine blogger - tales of a young or middle-aged or old woman rumored to be the most liberated of all free women ever born who plied the streets of La Chingada.  Also to acquaint the reader with the man rumored to have married her and brought her back into affiliation with horses.  To their health, and to yours.  Vale!