Is Ted Cruz A Natural Born Citizen?

By Penelope Dreadful

Over the last few nights I marginally got into a forum discussion with some people who maintain that Ted Cruz is NOT a natural born citizen, and thus ineligible to run for the Presidency. This is not a subject that I find interesting in the least, and from my brief exposure to “Birthers”, not one that I wish to debate about. Their legal reasoning seems to consist of pulling some ersatz quasi-legal conclusion out of their ass, and then pontificating about it.

Luckily, my BFF, Squeeky Fromm Girl Reporter, is an expert on the topic. She tried (mostly unsuccessfully) over the last 4 or 5 years to get me into it, but I don’t find Internet Arguments to be a productive use of time. I mean really, when have you ever seen an online commenter change their mind and admit they were wrong? NEVER! Several years ago she posted a column at The Birther Think Tank, wherein she posited a Birther lawsuit against Ted Cruz in the year 2020, and then wrote an opinion as if a judge decided the issue. I just finished reading it, and she did an excellent job! So, I am going to repost it here, in full. The heart of it is this pdf of the decision:


And, here is the link to the original story:

And, NO Squeeky! I am not getting into this Birther stuff! 🙂 Now, her original post from 2013:

With 2020 Foresight! The Ted Cruz Birther Lawsuit


Hmmm, I see Mario Apuzzo, An Old Hat, And A Huge Stack Of . . . Bird Cage Liners???

Well, I have been working my tail off on this one! I got to asking myself what would happen if Sen. Ted Cruz, or some other person who was born outside the country, ran for the presidency. Surely if the parents weren’t both American citizens, the whole silly two citizen parents stuff would rear its goofy head again.

But exactly how would the Birthers frame the argument? And how would the Defendants respond? Reading the law review articles would help with spotting the issues, but there is nothing like getting your hands dirty to get a good handle on things. The standard responses to date would not apply across the board in this case. For example, the Wong Kim Ark decision was based on a person who was born inside the United States. This was Obama’s situation, also.

Sooo, I pretended it was the year 2020, and Sen. Ted Cruz was running for office. Cruz was born in Canada and became a citizen of the United States at birth. It is easy to imagine a Birther(s) signing up to run for President, as some did this last year, in an effort to pass the standing hurdle. It is also reasonable that an Emergency Petition for Injunctive Relief would be filed in an attempt to remove Cruz from the ballot. As a method to present the scenario, I chose to write a decision as a United States District Judge denying this Injunctive Relief to the Birther. This method would present the main points of both sides, and a possible result.

For purposes of illustration, I chose Mario Apuzzo, Esq. as the Imaginary Birther, representing himself pro se. This is because he is sooo predictable, and sooo old hat. The old hat idiom means, “seen or done many times and no longer interesting. Trite. Stale. Predictable.” There is another meaning for those who have vulgar tongues, but I will skip that because this is mostly a G rated place.

Below is a pdf of my decision. I left out some of the things you normally find in a decision such as the procedural stuff. This was done to keep it shorter and simpler to read. I hope from the decision the reader can get a feel for how the Birther argument would be structured, and how a Defendant would respond.

This is strictly my opinion, and there are certainly other legal strategies that could be utilized by the Birthers or Defendants. I invite my readers, Obot, Anti-Birther, and Birther to submit their own thoughts via email attachment. I will be glad to update this article with their work along with proper attribution.

While this may not seem like the height of fun, it has to be better than a surprise visit from the Secret Service such as experienced by the readers of other websites. Enjoy!

Apuzzo Order

Squeeky Fromm
Girl Reporter

(ignore this just a pdf here for link purposes:


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A Little Off The Wall???

By Sacks Roamer

It’s the political season, and my “friend”, Squeeky Fromm-Girl Reporter, is brimming over with ideas. Here is her latest one:


Shades of Willie Horton! 😮

“Willie Who???”, asks the 32 year old Girl Reporter.

Sacks Roamer
The Unknown Blogger

Note 1. The background image is from the Ferguson Riots.

Note 2. My friend, Squeeky, was feeling lazy and didn’t want to do a separate post for this, but apparently Big Pharma is behind the Dems:




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Sie Kommen A Long Way, Baby!!!

By Mick “Spin” Dumdell

It has been 35 years since photographer Helmut Newton’s (1920-2004) pair of iconic photographs, Sie Kommen! (Here They Come!) came out in 1981. First we see the four models dressed:


Then we see them in the same poses, undressed:


From the link below in Note 1., we get Newton’s intent. (Plus that link contains more artistic photographs, which I have printed off for my private collection of nude photographs.  I take my job seriously and study this kind of thing a lot so I can be a more intelligent blogger.) Anyway, I digress:

In many ways Helmut mocks the fashion industry as he strengthens it. He blatantly exposes a side of it that is difficult to detect or absent in other fashion photography. Take for example one of his better known works ‘Sie kommen!’ (‘Here They Come!’), which copies are sold for more than $55,000. It is a two part image, one image depicts the models clothed and the other they are in the exact same position, but nude. In a strange way the nude depiction lacks much of the sexuality you’d expect, due to aggressive posturing. Their nudity has become dress, they are in essence fashion warriors. They say, ‘Look, but don’t touch. Look, we are coming… but not for you.’ They send the message, as with fashion, ‘Look and die with desire.’ While this may not be the desire of the beholder, it is definitely that of the fashion wearer.

I find the above Ebony Cover makes me reminisce about Sie Kommen! with its four beautiful and assertive Black women.

It is only because of the diligent and tireless work of liberal and progressive Americans everywhere that a cover such as the one above could see the light of day. Once, it would have drawn catcalls, boos, and hisses from racist white troglodytes. Now, these assertive black women, these Queens, can strut their stuff, and say, in effect, “Yeah! Uh huh! Whatcha Gonna Do About It , Cracker!”  Ebony needs to complete the series and let us see them in the same pose, nude. Just like the white girls.

While America has come a long way in its attitudes about Black Beauty, let us not forget that the struggle against White Privilege continues! Like I always say, “Racism is hard to find unless you are actively searching for it!”

Yours very truly,

Mick “Spin” Dumdell

Note 1. Helmut Newton: Wiki says,

Helmut Newton (born Helmut Neustädter; 31 October 1920 – 23 January 2004) was a German-Australian photographer. He was a “prolific, widely imitated fashion photographer whose provocative, erotically charged black-and-white photos were a mainstay of Vogue and other publications.”[1]

More at the link below, and it is a fascinating read, well worth your while. This small excerpt:

Born in Berlin in 1920 to a wealthy Jewish family, Helmut Newton was a delicate child prone to fainting. When he was around 8 years old his brother began showing him the ‘gutter’ of Berlin, a red light district which was inhabited by prostitutes like the ‘Red Erna’, who wore thigh boots and carried a whip. Helmut remembers, “my eyes were poppin’ out of my head.” But the Newtons lived at the other end of the social scale, vacationing at posh European spas and hotels that would later become his backdrops. At 12 he saved his money to purchase his first camera at a five-and-dime. The first roll of film he shot was at an underground subway. The whole role came back black except for the one image he shot above ground. A few years later he decided to travel abroad and become a famous photo reporter. “In 1936 I arranged to have myself thrown out of school as a hopeless pupil,” says Helmut. With the help of his mother Helmut began working as an apprentice for Else Simon, a female fashion-and-portrait photographer who operated a studio under the name of Yva. His father’s prophetic response to the chosen path was, “My boy, you’ll end up on the gutter.”

His first job as an assistant lasted for two years and was abruptly ended in 1938 when the Nazis stepped up their attack on the Jews. Yva was forced to close her studio, and later died in a concentration camp. Helmut fled Germany to Singapore and worked as a photojournalist for the ‘Singapore Strait Times’. “The next few years had little to do with photography; I was busy keeping my head above water and trying to avoid starvation. I rarely gave the paper the kind of photos they were hoping for,” he recalls.

In 1971 while in New York for a Vogue assignment, Helmut suffered a major heart-attack which would change his life and transform his photography. With the encouragement from his wife June, Helmut pursued overtly sexual themes in his photos, deriving elements from his own history to instill a menacing edge to his works. This edge brought him to the forefront of fashion photography and possibly made him the most influential figure in his field during the 1970’s. Women were pictured bolder and more aggressive, usually in disquieting situations, photographed in a a realistic reportage style. While the bulk of his models were depicted as members of the social elite, they would be ‘caught’ in seedy environments exploring kinky fantasies with prostitutes and cross-dressers. And then alternating this juxtaposition showing members from the margins of society engaged in fetish driven meetings with the social elite, surrounded by sumptuous hotels and ancient midnight streets, all of them saturated with decadence, luxury, and privilege. While American Vogue would only published distilled version of this period, his most risqué photos were accepted by European magazines. “The term ‘political correctness’ has always appalled me, reminding me of Orwell’s ‘thought police’ and fascist regimes,” he comments on censorship in America.

Helmut published his first book ‘White Women’ in 1976, which featured the most radical selections from this period. Despite negative American reviews it sold some 1500 copies in a week there. ‘The Eyes of Laura Mars’ was a Hollywood film inspired by the photos by Helmut Newton. Ironically the photos he contributed to the film were not satisfactory. The director wanted scenes of blood and corpses which were of no interest to Helmut. He defended his fashion photos as erotic rather than violent.


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Bernie Sanders Goes Ghetto On Hillary!

By Sacks Roamer

One of my “Sekrit Sources” has provided me an advance copy of Bernie Sanders’ new campaign ad.


Remember, you seen it here first. (Oh, I sure hope this isn’t a hoax!)

Sacks Roamer
The Unknown Blogger


Note 1. My BFF, Penelope Dreadful, just asked my “friend”, Squeeky Fromm Girl Reporter, to compose an Irish Poem for Katherine Timpf, a FOXNews contributor, who was worrying about the Grim Reaper and his scythe. (Is that a phallic symbol???) Anyway, sooo, I sobered Squeeky up  with some cold water to the face, and some Lola Savannah Almond Joy coffee, and voila!:

The Timpf-erence Movement???
An Irish Poem by Squeeky Fromm

There once was a lady named Timpf-
Who sadly is now cold and limpf!
But I know she’d a thunk,
We all should get drunk!
Sooo, Top Shelf for me! I won’t scrimpf!

Squeeky Fromm
Girl Reporter



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Wholly Crap!!! A Political Irish Poem

By Sacks Roamer

Sacre Merde! What is this???


My “friend” Squeeky Fromm, Girl Reporter just pounded out an Irish Poem to commemorate Mitt Romney’s flop speech today. Hope you enjoy it!

Sacks Roamer
The Unknown Blogger


Note 1.  Plus, A Hillary Pic! Based on the 1963 film, Cleopatra, starring Elizabeth Taylor.



Asp is like a pun on “ask”. . .you know Cleopatra committed suicide with an “asp”. . .the snake. Oh, never mind.

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What The L??? A Simple, Desultory Romney Poem

By Sacks Roamer


Well, sometimes less is more.

Sacks Roamer
The Unknown Blogger

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The Emperor’s New Sex? (A Modern Fairy Tale)


Good Kate; I Am A Gentleman.

The Emperor’s New Clothes

Many years ago there lived an emperor who loved new ideas and fads so much that he spent all his money chasing about trying to be avant garde. He tried riding to the theater in his new stretch Tesla S limousine only to have the batteries catch fire and nearly burn his entire entourage to death. He tried a Vegan diet, but developed a strange allergy to tofu and had to have the Royal Physician perform an emergency blood transfusion from an overweight meat-eating peasant donor. He had the largest collection of New Age Crystals the world had ever seen to induce good karma.

One day two swindlers came to the emperor’s city. They said that they were sex-changers, claiming that they knew how to change the sex of any person. They told the Emperor that this was the all the rage among the enlightened classes across the world, and that changing sex was becoming de rigeur  if one wanted to remain relevant and newsworthy.

“It would be wonderful to change sexes,” thought the emperor. “Then, no one could claim that I was waging a war on women whenever I dismissed one Royal Consort for another younger Consort, and I could see who among my court were truly modern and progressive. So he immediately gave the two swindlers a great sum of money to change his sex.

They set up their equipment and went to work. First came the hormone shots and the wigs. The Emperor’s body hair was all waxed away, which really stung. Then came all the new clothes.  Some falsies were placed in the clothes since the hormones were really just shots of Vitamin B-12, because the swindlers were not licensed to do this sort of work.

“I really want to see myself in the mirror!” thought the emperor, but he was a bit uneasy when he recalled that anyone who was not impressed with his change might actually be a conservative homophobic hater, and unfit for his position. Of course, he himself had nothing to fear, but still he decided to send for someone else to come see how the work was progressing.

“I’ll send for my honest old prime minister,” thought the emperor. I’ll put this dress on and rely on him to see how the change is coming along. He is very sensible, and no one is more worthy of his position than he.

So the good old prime minister went into the hall where the two swindlers sat shaping a blob of silicone. “Goodness!” thought the old minister, opening his eyes wide. ” The Emperor looks like a silly, tired old queen in drag!” But he did not say so.

The two swindlers invited him to step closer, asking him if the Emperor wasn’t a beautiful and sexy woman. They pointed to the Emperor, and the poor old prime minister opened his eyes wider and wider. “Gracious” he thought. “He has day old beard stubble, and a pronounced Adam’s Apple? I wouldn’t hit this on my drunkest night. Is it possible that I am homophobic? I have never thought so. Am I unfit for my position? No one must know this. No, it will never do for me to say that I was unable to see how beautiful the Emperor is.”

“You aren’t saying anything!” said one of the swindlers.

“Oh, he, I mean she is magnificent! The sexiest of the sexy!” said the old minister, peering through his glasses. “And that little black dress so accentuates his, I mean her figure!”

“That makes us happy!” said the two swindlers, and the Emperor also breathed a sigh of relief.

The swindlers now asked for more money, and more gold, to continue with the transformation, and they continued to shape the blobs of silicone, and a fanny pack to add feminine curves to the Emperor’s male derriere.

The emperor sent other officials as well to observe the progress. They too were startled when they saw the Emperor, but they too told him how wonderful she looked, and advised him to have his coming out party in a grand procession. The entire city was alive in praise of the Emperor. “Magnifique! What bravery! Good show!” they said, in all languages. The emperor awarded the swindlers with medals of honor.

The swindlers stayed up the entire night before the procession was to take place, finshing the silicone body parts. Everyone could see that they were in a great rush to finish the emperor’s new sex change. Finally they announced, “Behold! We are finished!”

“Would his imperial majesty, if it please his grace, kindly remove his clothes.” said the swindlers. “Then we will fit you with your new body, right here in front of the large mirror.”

The Emperor took off all his clothes, and the swindlers began gluing the additional silicone curves on him, piece by piece, along with the falsies.  Then they put the dress and the wig on him, and the emperor turned and looked at himself into the mirror.

“Yes, I am ready!” said the Emperor. “I guess I am beautiful?” He turned once again toward the mirror, because it had to appear as though he were admiring himself in all his glory.

The emperor walked beneath the beautiful canopy in the procession, and all the people in the street and in their windows said, “Goodness, the Emperor,  I mean Empress  is incomparable! What a beautiful dress! What beautiful hair! What a woman!” No one wanted it to be noticed that he thought the Empress looked rather silly, and nothing at all like a real woman, for then it would be said that he was unfit for his position or that he was homophobic.

About that time, one of the Empress’s silicone boobs became unglued and fell to the ground. The Empress bent over to pick it up, and her wig fell off. To make matters worse, the back of her dress split open, and from the rear, certain male body parts became visible.

“But he’s still a man!” said a small child, noticing the Empress’s schlong.

“Good Lord, let us hear the voice of an innocent child!” said the father, and whispered to another what the child had said.

“A small child said that the Empress has a schlong, and is still a man!”

Finally everyone was saying, “The Empress has a schlong, and is still a man!”

The Emperor, or Empress, whichever, shuddered, for he knew that they were right, but he thought, “The procession must go on!” He carried himself even more proudly, and the chamberlains walked along behind him as if nothing was wrong, and they all hoped they could keep this from appearing on FOXNews.

Sacks Roamer
The Unknown Blogger

FootNote 1. The Image appears to be Drag Queen, Wettie White.

FootNote 2. The story is adapted from the version of The Emperor’s New Clothes, found here:

FootNote 3. The Caption.

The Taming Of The Shrew

From Patsy Rodenburg’s “Speaking Shalespeare”, pages 170-171


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Twin Beds And Political Correctness

By Sacks Roamer


The Petrie Dish???

Political correctness is NOT a new thing in American culture. The above Image is one example. REAL married couples did not sleep in twin beds like little kids at a  summer camp. They might sleep in separate bedrooms if they were on the outs, but twin beds would have only been used by married couples who had some kind of medical disorder.

So why were married couples portrayed this way? Here’s part of the answer:

Bed Sharing – Traditionally, all married TV couples in the 1950s and early 1960s were required sleep in separate (twin beds) to uphold moral codes of the times. Many of the top couples of all time such as Rob and Laura Petrie, and even Ward and June Cleaver never had the satisfaction of knocking knees in the same bed in front of the American public.

The first TV program to show a husband and wife sharing the same bed on a regular basis occurred in 1947 on the Dumont sitcom MARY KAY AND JOHNNY. TV’s first sitcom ever. The program told the tale of a newly married couple living in Greenwich Village. Unfortunately, no copies of the show exist so we must rely on the documented memories of others to prove the point. Later in the 1950s Ozzie and Harriet broke the taboo and were seen in the same bed.

The other part of the answer is simply, “Political Correctness.” Back in those days Christianity was pretty much a presumed fact of life for most Americans. Many public schools started the day with mass recital of The Lord’s Prayer, and blessings were said before lunch.

In this atmosphere, overt representations of sexuality were simply considered skeevy, even though the Bible urged people to be fruitful and multiply. And, most children were not unaware of the fact that their parents slept in the same bed. They might not be aware of all that went on in bed, but they knew that twin beds were for kids, not grownups. Of course the preachers, pastors, and dedicated Christian proponents pushed for this stuff and kept the pressure up. America would just have to pretend that married couples slept in twin beds. This made the upper middle class busybody-type white folks happy.

The result of this phase of political correctness was that the completely unrealistic was presented as normal and realistic. Now, we are entering a new phase of political correctness. The proponents of rules-free sexuality are playing the same game as their Christian counterparts, and with the same religious fervor.

While most people, if left to their own devices, would probably opine that Bruce Jenner is some kind of nut for wanting to pretend he is a woman, they are instead forced by societal pressure to call him brave and daring. Television shows are adding obligatory gay characters they same way they added obligatory titty-flashing sex scenes when “R” ratings first came out.  There is little realism to the characters. They are happy, carefree and full of love and caring for each other. Nobody gets HIV/AIDS.  Mentioning high rates of STDS is taboo. Evil villains are the homophobic Christians who don’t rejoice in the rules-free sex.

While this is just a continuation of the rampant sexual romps that began on television when the twins beds went by the wayside in 1968, I think there is an important difference between the two manifestations. Both are silly and unrealistic, but Rob and Laura Petrie’s silliness didn’t result in a 33% STD rate, 60 millions abortions, 600,000+ deaths from AIDS, and young boys waiting to reach the age when they can legally opt to cut their penises off.

Sacks Roamer
The Unknown Blogger

FootNote: The Image is from the 1960’s Dick Van Dyke show.


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Poem from Riders Of The Purple Wage by Philip Jose Farmer

By Penelope Dreadful


I wanted to call attention to a less-well-known-than-it-should-be poem found within a science fiction novella, Riders of The Purple Wage  by Phillip Jose Farmer. Wiki says:

Riders of the Purple Wage is a science fiction novella by Philip José Farmer. It appeared in Dangerous Visions, the famous New Wave science fiction anthology compiled by Harlan Ellison, in 1967, and won the Hugo Award for best novella in 1968, jointly with Weyr Search by Anne McCaffrey.

Riders of the Purple Wage is an extrapolation of the mid-twentieth century’s tendency towards state supervision and consumer-oriented economic planning. In the story, all citizens receive a salary (the purple wage) from the government, to which everyone is entitled just by being born. The population is self-segregated into relatively small communities, with a controlled environment, and keeps in contact with the rest of the world through the Fido, a combination television and videophone. The typical dwelling is an egg-shaped house, outside of which is a realistic simulation of an open environment with sky, sun and moon. In reality each community is on one level of a multi-level arcology. For those who dislike this lifestyle, there are wildlife reserves where they can join “tribes” of Native Americans and like-minded Anglos, living closer to nature for a while. Some choose this lifestyle permanently.

Art (and art appreciation) are prominently displayed in this society; artists receive press coverage comparable to that of today’s movie stars. Hardly less glamorous are the art critics, each of whom has a pet theory about art. A critic also acts as an agent or manager, promoting the work of one or more artists, especially if their work seems to support his ideas. The story revolves around one of these pampered artists, who sometimes find themselves uninspired, due to the lack of major conflicts in society.

Sexual relations and sexual orientation are portrayed as absolutely free from prejudice. The main character is bisexual, and it is implied that most of his acquaintances have had at least experimental relations with members of both sexes. Several forms of birth control are also commonplace, encouraged by the government and freely discussed. See also: Sex in science fiction.

For people who do not want to bother with social interaction, there is the fornixator, a device that supplies sexual pleasure on demand by direct stimulation of the brain’s pleasure centers. The fornixator is technically illegal, but tolerated by the government because its users are happy, do not demand anything else, and usually do not procreate.

Two new sets of customs have arisen which profoundly influence the story. By tradition, everyone has a Naming Day when they are grown, at which point they select a name which reflects their outlook on life, their chosen profession, or the way they want others to see them. The second change derives from the so-called “Panamorite” religion, which features total sexual freedom including oral sex between parents and their children. One source of frustration for the main character is his mother’s decision to “cut him off” from intimate physical contact, a situation made worse by her becoming morbidly obese, which is not unusual in this society.

This is a blurb from an online study guide:

Farmer tells Chib’s story through a dazzling series of puns, wordplay, and allusions, often interrupting the narrative with bizarre headlines — “Excretion Is the Bitter Part of Valor” — and equally strange “quotations” from such imaginary works as Grandpa’s How I Screwed Uncle Sam and Other Private Ejaculations. The precedent for this literary extravagance is James Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake (1939). Joyce, the archetype of the rebellious artist in our era, sensed a deadening atmosphere of frustration and disintegration in modern society. His refuge (like Chib’s) was in art, where he worked the most absolute and brilliant experimentation ever per-formed on the novel. Finnegan’s Wake contains multiple levels of meaning in each word and jams several English and even foreign words into one. The result is a unique Joycean language that is a dismaying puzzle to some readers and soaring poetry to others.

The poem is found on page 35, in the chapter, The Only Good Critic Is A Dead Critic:

Omar Runic’s Extemporaneous Poem
From Philip Jose Farmer’s
Riders Of The Purple Wage

“Call me Ahab, not Ishmael.
For I have hooked the Leviathan.
I am the wild ass’s colt born to a man.
Lo, my eye has seen it all!
My bosom is like wine that has no vent.
I am a sea with doors, but the doors are stuck.
Watch out! The skin will burst; the doors will break.

“You are Nimrod, I say to my friend, Chib.
And now is the hour when God says to his angels,
If this is what he can do as a beginning, then
Nothing is impossible for him.
He will be blowing his horn before
The ramparts of Heaven and shouting for
The Moon as hostage, the Virgin as wife,
And demanding a cut on the profits
From the Great Whore of Babylon.”

“Melville wrote of me long before I was born.
I’m the man who wants to comprehend
The Universe but comprehend on my terms.
I am Ahab whose hate must pierce, shatter,
All impediment of Time, Space, or Subject
Mortality and hurl my fierce
Incandescence into the Womb of Creation,
Disturbing in its Lair whatever Force or
Unknown Thing-in-Itself crouches there,
Remote, removed, unrevealed.”

“_Quid nunc? Cui bono_?
Time? Space? Substance? Accident?
When you die — Hell? Nirvana?
Nothing is nothing to think about.
The canons of philosophy boom.
Their projectiles are duds.
The ammo heaps of theology blow up,
Set off by the saboteur Reason.

“Call me Ephraim, for I was halted
At the Ford of God and could not tongue
The sibilance to let me pass.

Well, I can’t pronounce shibboleth,
But I can say shit!”

“Sir, I exist! And don’t tell me,
As you did Crane, that that creates
No obligation in you towards me.
I am a man; I am unique.
I’ve thrown the Bread out the window,
Pissed in the Wine, pulled the plug
From the bottom of the Ark, cut the Tree
For firewood, and if there were a Holy
Ghost, I’d goose him.

But I know that it all does not mean
A God damned thing,
That nothing means nothing,
That is is is and not-is not is is-not
That a rose is a rose is a
That we are here and will not be
And that is all we can know!”

“The earth lurches like a ship going down,
Its back almost broken by the flood of
Excrement from the heavens and the deeps,
What God in His terrible munificence
Has granted on hearing Ahab cry,
Bullshit! Bullshit!

“I weep to think that this is Man
And this his end. But wait!
On the crest of the flood, a three-master
Of antique shape. The Flying Dutchman!
And Ahab is astride a ship’s deck once more.

Laugh, you Fates, and mock, you Norns!
For I am Ahab and I am Man,
And though I cannot break a hole
Through the wall of What Seems
To grab a handful of What Is,
Yet, I will keep on punching.
And I and my crew will not give up,
Though the timbers split beneath our feet
And we sink to become indistinguishable
From the general excrement.
“For a moment that will burn on the
Eye of God forever, Ahab stands
Outlined against the blaze of Orion,
Fist clenched, a bloody phallus,
Like Zeus exhibiting the trophy of
The unmanning of his father Cronus.
And then he and his crew and ship
Dip and hurtle headlong over
The edge of the world.
And from what I hear, they are still








Here is a pdf of the entire novella:

Riders of The Purple Wage by Philip Jose Farmer

And here is a Word doc. format copy:

The Riders Of The Purple Wage

I hope that you all enjoy this poem. I just bought the paperback! I hope the publisher puts out a new edition one of these years, or Kindle or scribd picks it up. For now, it is out of print.

Penelope Dreadful

FootNote: The Image is from City Lit’s production of a Arnold Aprill’s play adapted from the novella. Here are the reviews:

Riders of the Purple Wage Newspaper Reviews

City Lit’s lame staging hobbles ‘Riders’ satire by Albert Williams First appeared in: Chicago Sun-Times, Dec 5 1989

When Philip Jose Farmer wrote the novella Riders of the Purple Wage in 1967, the sexual revolution was still in adolescence, and no one had heard of AIDS. Public mentions of abortion and contraception were taboo. Television was dominated by three commercial networks. Drugs were confined to the fringes of society. And the National Endowment for the Arts was just a couple of years old.

Today, ideas that seemed far out 22 years ago are part of our daily life, exaggerated only slightly for satiric effect in City Lit Theater’s stage version of Farmer’s novella. Government-sponsored birth control, omnipresent two-way TV with limitless channels (called Fido), widespread use of artificial pleasure inducers and politically influenced grants for avant-garde artists (the “purple wage” of the title) – Farmer’s visions of Beverly Hills in the 23rd century seem very familiar in City Lit’s staging, running through Jan. 14 at Live Bait Theater, 3914 N. Clark. (Tickets: 271-1100.)

The hero of “Riders” is a “neo-primitive” painter named Chibiabos Elgreco Winnegan.

Chib, portrayed as a punky kid with a lean and hungry look by Steve Emerson, is troubled by his dominating mama (played as a grossly fleshy human puppet), hung up on his pregnant girlfriend, tormented by corrupt critics and hype-happy hangers-on, and guided erratically by his rascally great-great-grandfather, an “ancient marinator” who bears a strong resemblance to Walt Whitman.

City Lit’s adaptation of Farmer’s story, though generally faithful, drags down the writer’s flights of fancy with an all-too-earthbound production. Eric Barnes’ original songs, in styles spoofing Cole Porter and Gilbert and Sullivan, enliven the proceedings somewhat, but seem unconnected to the script. And Arnold Aprill’s direction of the young, 11-member cast is filled with clunky movement, cluttered blocking and uncertain intentions.
Weakest of all is the show’s attempt at bringing to life Farmer’s bawdy and freewheeling comedy.

Instead of the anarchic and ambisexual exuberance of the 1960s youth rebellion that inspired Farmer’s satire, Aprill and his design team – Tom Bachtell (sets), Faye Fisher-Ward (costumes), Thomas C. Hase (lights) and Jim Janacek (special effects) – have created cute, colorful, unchallenging images that could have stepped right out of the MTV-style commercials that glut Saturday morning TV kids’ shows.

And despite some energetic individual performances by Donna Jerousek as a fortune-teller, David Ward as a babbling cultural commentator and Robb Williams as a venomous power broker, the actors’ efforts at sexual satire come off about as daring as an episode of “Pee-wee’s Playhouse.”

“Artists should be allowed freedom of expression,” declares one character in the play, “so long as they stop upsetting everyone.”

But City Lit’s mild staging isn’t likely to upset anyone – so it misses the point.

Amateurishness takes `Purple Wage’ for a ride by Richard Christiansen, Entertainment editor. First appeared in: Chicago Tribune, Dec 5 1989

Everyone in “Riders of the Purple Wage” appears to be having a very good time in City Lit Theater’s adaptation of Philip Jose Farmer’s science-fiction satire. Unfortunately, it takes too long before their raucous, bumptious merrymaking lets the audience in on the fun.

Farmer’s 1967 story, much revered in sci-fi circles (of which I am not a member), takes place in the television-dominated, post-Orwellian world of A.D. 2189, but its central, overheated concern-the dilemma of an independent artist trying to maintain his integrity in the face of financial necessity and critical frippery-is essentially timeless.

Chibiabos Elgreco Winnegan, Farmer’s rebel hero, is a young painter beset by several problems, many of them stridently sexual: a whorish mother who fools around (and tap dances), a bosomy girlfriend who wants to abort their child and a flamingly gay critic who offers a favorable review in exchange for sex.

Buttressing Chib’s resolve, however, is his beloved 120-year-old great-great grandfather Winnegan (Cameron Pfiffner, smoking a cigar and wearing red, white and blue undershorts), a crusty codger on the run from government spies who encourages his protege to follow his heart.

Decked out with outrageous costumes and ingenious props, “Wage” takes almost a full act before it defines its world and finds direction for its plot. Even then, much of the atmosphere is murky and too much of the performance is over-the-top campy, as if amateurishness had been equated with zestfulness.

Innumerable bad puns and obscure literary references lard the text, and every once in a while hints of the complex financial and social structuring of Chib’s world surfaces in bits and pieces.

The actors act as if they know what’s going on in this mad scramble. Steve Emerson is a lanky, likable Chib, and in the swirling supporting cast, Betsy Freytag has some loud-mouthed fun as a Tarot card-reading hoyden.

Some of the production’s happiest touches come from its musical number inserts, harmoniously sung and neatly danced by the cast. The music and lyrics are by Eric Barnes, and they’re so clever that they make one want to hear more.
`Riders of the Purple Wage’

A play adapted and directed by Arnold Aprill from the story by Philip Jose Farmer, with scenery by Tom Bachtell, costumes by Faye Ward Fisher, lighting by Tom Hase, sound by David Kodeski, special effects by Jim Janacek. Opened Nov. 29 in a City Lit Theater Company production at Live Bait Theatre, 3914 N. Clark St., and plays at 8 p.m. Thursday through Saturday and 7 p.m. Sunday, through Jan. 14. Running time: 2:05. Tickets are $14 and $16. Phone 312-271-1100.

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