So it's the fourth of July, a day in which far too many in the States tell themselves and each other fanciful fairy tales about freedom, liberty, and generally how gawddamn great we have it here. It is an intentionally distracting narrative which keeps folks focused on reinforcing the pollyanna version of what we are and how we came to be that way, rather than, say, examining how far afield our own reality is from the myths mouthed breathlessly today.
The Curmudgeon isn't going to try to make anyone feel bad about cooking out today, or fireworks displays, or anything of the sort. If one has to listen to the marches of Sousa, why not in the middle of summer?
In fact, there will be just a bit more celebration than previously planned in this, and no doubt other backyards today. Jesse Helms, a bane of humanity, has slipped his ghoulish coil and now rots in hell.
A quick reminder, here:
This is a corpse flower- so named because it bloom reeks of rotting death. It blooms very rarely, and only briefly.
This is Jesse Helms, whose death-rot preceded his actual passing by decades. The stench and stain left by Helms will sadly malinger.
Rot in hell, Helms.
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