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!

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