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| October 31, 2004 |
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Meditation Close your eyes and open your mind to my frequencies. Think of this question: How does one spot a Democrat? Feel that question float coolly in your mind, being absorbed and assimilated into the deep reaches of your consciousness, like one of those Listerine flashstrips that simultaneously dissolve and explode on your tongue, and be ready to receive knowledge. Don't stress on the answer if it doesn't come to you. Be assured that at the right time I'll provide it for you, as I always do. I just want you to open your mind and relax. Yes, that's it . . . go deep . . . deeper . . . yes . . . that's it . . . all the way . . . let yourself go . . . . There. Again, now, how does one spot a Democrat? By this, my acolytes: by his negativity. Democrats are unevolved, unspiritual beings and therefore have no appreciation for the yin-yang of the universe. When a Democrat hears "global warming," the first and only picture he sees in his emotionally polluted imagination is the poor farmer looking over a field of scorched crops. Conversely, a Republican hears those same words and sees the good in the bad, the necessary duality. What specifically does a Republican see? Real estate. A Republican sees oppurtunities in land ventures. Take me, for example. I've begun investing in land off the northeast coast of Canada. Sounds absurd, but bear with me a moment. Picture it. I see a land made intractable by ice. I see vast acreages of hard, bare ground. The wind rakes across the stiffened face of the frozen tundra like a straight razor across a bum's grizzled mug. The place I'm picturing is Greenland, a misnomer if there ever was one, since there's very little green in the place. At least for now. Because of its hard surface, it's a land still full of untapped resources. Oh, sure, they do a brisk seasonal tourist trade, but it's nothing compared to the perennial influx of vacationers to the Bahamas or the Virgin Islands. What a waste, all of that space just begging for investors to show it some real love and affection. Right now, land values are very low in Greenland, and that's why I'm getting in on it now. Because once this global warming sets in, Greenland will flourish into the verdant wonderland worthy of its lush name. Any land you'll want after that, you'll have to buy from me and my buddies. And Iceland? That'll bear the misnomer then, because the only ice you'll be seeing is the crushed ice hugging that bottle of champagne as you survey your prime holdings from your rattan-bedecked patio. And there are other opportunities not yet explored. After global warming, all that piled up ice at the icecaps is going to have to go somewhere. And guess where that'll be. Well, if you're anywhere near a coastline, probably where you car is parked right now. And let me suggest a new hobby for the current owners of beachfront property: scuba diving, because in the future, that's the only way you'll get to see your lawn. The wise thing to do is to invest in the new beachfront property — in Tennessee and Arkansas! It might seem ridiculous, but that's the Democrat within you — or beside you — emanating negativity. If it's the Democrat inside you, relax and let it evaporate into the ether. I'm telling you it's not only okay to let it go, it's essential to a healthy and privileged life. Now, if it's an actual Democrat beside you laughing at you, that's a different story. I suggest you hit him with something hard in the temple, and when he falls to the floor, keep hitting him until he stops moving. Then call Attorney General Ashcroft and tell him you caught a terrorist. When Ashcroft asks you how you knew for sure the man was a terrorist, roll his body over, take out his wallet, flip through it, then extend to Ashcroft the man's voter registration card. Remember, a vote for Kerry is a vote for the terrorists. Ashcroft will understand. You might even get an accommodation. Okay. That's all over. We've had a good session. So relax again. You're going to wake up. You're going to wake up and return to your normal life, feeling refreshed, and at peace, my having shared with you my wise and assuring thoughts. On my count of three, you will awaken. One . . . two . . .  |
Science Scientists have asked to study my big brain. They want me to first submit to a series of tests, various scans, and then wire me to a series of electrographs. The same scientists have asked I donate my brain to research, after which they'll put it on display in the Ripley's museum. What they're looking for is the source of my prodigious powers. It is difficult for the unenlighted to comprehend the nature of what I am. It's a riddle to them. It's a riddle to me, and I'm the man who's accepted the responsibility of being me. I'm a paradox: I'm both Limbaugh and not Limbaugh; I'm an avatar of Limbaugh, an object in the colossal mind of Great Indivisibility. Receptors of my message — Dittoheads — become lesser avatars, but avatars just the same, basking in my glorious intelligence. They echo the emanations of my existence. It's no wonder I'm the object of amazement to these scientists. The problem with these scientists is, they've failed to comprehend the nature of intelligence. They've wasted time establishing brain-size/body-mass ratios, complex formulae involving dolphins, whales, elephants, and humans. All of these lesser animals stack up pretty well, but they end up falling short of homo sapiens (but surpass most members of the Screen Actors Guild). The other animals lack an element that allows intelligence to truly manifest itself. Here's what that element is: ego. The ego acts as a magnifying glass. The more powerful the ego, the greater the intelligence, and the further out it can be projected with clarity. Whales have no egos. They're known to be amazingly gentle spirited, despite their great size, a trait that soft liberals interpret as the nobility of real power and should serve as an example for humans. I'm unimpressed. Without egos, the whales do nothing but swim around, ocean to ocean, adapting to the environment instead of forcing the environment to adapt to them. This is why they're now relegated to swimming in our sewage. Had they been egotistical enough earlier in evolution, they would have found a way to leave the water and make the dry land their own. Then we'd be stepping in their shit instead of their having to swim in ours. Well, it's too late now, Willy and Nemo and Moby Dick and all you schools of unnamed others. This land is our land. The trouble with scientists is, they don't have the guts to think — then speak — the plain truth. They want it both ways. They first want to establish the dominance of science over religion by pointing out the cold empiricism of the survival of the fittest. But they don't like the feel of that. So in the next breath, they're fretting over the extinction of a few animals. They become doubly vexed when the animal is a mammal. You can't have it both ways, guys. It's either survival of the fittest or the cosmos has us all in one big warm embrace, a liberal notion I roundly reject. If humans cause the extinction of other animals, it stands to reason that in that particular case, mankind is the more fit. So, shut the hell up and get to working on a formula that restores hair loss without giving us tits and diarrhea. Leave the outcome of survival to those of us more fit for the task. Well. How do you like those marbles? What you have just witnessed is a demonstration of thinking from a brain with the correct brain-to-ego ratio. It's solid thinking, grounded in reality, in things you can see. Why Divine Indivisibility has chosen me as the benefactor of this gift is a mystery that will for a long time remain unsolved. Therefore it would be a good thing for mankind if I were to donate my brain to research. It'll be just a gray thing then in a jar, no more than a faucet with no connection to a main water line.  |
Astrology
December 11, 1943. The date surfaced in my consciousness a couple of days ago. It just floated up. At the time, I was listening to one of Buddy Holly's old platters, "Peggy Sue," and wistfully pretending that "Sue" was Peggy Noonan's middle name, and I was singing that song to her. "Wouldn't that be great," I sighed wanly to myself, "if she let me call her 'Peggy Sue'?" Peggy's pretty hot, in my grand-canyon opinion. That is, that's what I think when I allow myself to indulge in thoughts geographically south of my rawhide equator. I prefer to leave that sort of stuff to Democrats. However, when I think of Peggy, it sort of makes me want to run for office as a leftist. On that day, at precisely the instant I was thinking of her in the same way a Democratic president would, the doorbell rang. When I answered it, I was greeted by the overpaid representative of our lumbering U. S. Postal Service. He had a package for me. I signed for it, took the package — it felt like a book — slammed the door in the postman's face, then turned my attention to the wrapping. As I clawed away a swathe of the paper, I immediately recognized the cover underneath. It was a copy of Peggy's last book, A Heart, A Cross and a Flag. From Peggy, herself! I already had a copy, one I stole from Sean Hannity, the one she had autographed for him. I finished unwrapping it and opened the front cover. She had autographed it for me! I gulped, could feel myself blushing, and that song came back to my mind. I hummed as I turned the book over and pondered the dilemma now facing me: Should I return to Sean the copy I had stolen from him? How would I return it without admitting I stole it? Several scenarios immediately sprang into my big amazing brain. I could call him up. I could call him up and say, "Sean, do you remember that night you and I sat in your den, and we were trying to decide which building in D. C. would have the best vantage if we decided to snipe as many liberals as possible before a SWAT team took us out? Remember that? And how you then went off asking for details in the scenario, about what sort of scope we'd be using and the bullet caliber and would the rifle be automatic or semi-automatic, all a big show to remind me that you served in the marines, while I was 4F because of that polyp in my colon. . . . " At this point of the imagined telephone conversation, I caught myself moving my lips, as a resentment had welled up. He's always throwing it up in my face, my 4F. After he's had a few beers, he tucks his chin back like a taller man looking down at a smaller one, and he puts on a god-awful Schwarznegger impersonation: "Rush is a little tiny girlie man." One time he went on about how he believed polyps were caused by prissiness. He really went on like he really believed it, then when I was getting really mad, he jabbed my shoulder and laughed, and said, "Man, I'm just funning you, Rush." We almost came to fisticuffs that night. What I was going to say in that imagined conversation — before I got myself worked up and interrupted myself — was, "on that day, Sean, I left in a huff, and in my hurry to leave I accidentally scooped up your autographed copy of Peggy's book." He might have believed it, and even if he didn't, he couldn't prove I was lying. So the hell with him. Anyway, I calmed myself down and for the sake of mental thoroughness, I finished my imagined conversation, with Hannity the sucker for every bit of it. After the last period was poinked with finality after the last word, and I had stopped moving my lips, that date — December 11, 1943 — came to me. It just popped into my head. At that point — with the "Peggy Sue" song and that book coming right afterwards — I'm thinking this, too, must have a connection. I applied the various sciences to it — astrology, numerology, cryptology, praxeology, thaumatology — and it wasn't until I applied psephology that I derived an answer. Here's what it was: It's John Kerry's birthday. I'm still parsing what the Divine Indivisibility is trying to tell me, and what it wants me to tell you. But our time has run out for today. Until the next time, remember these words: "A vote for Kerry is a vote for whales."  |