Saturday, April 16, 2016

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 [queue up horselaugh track] -  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."