The Sus Domestica in the Room

I'm pretty much a hard-ass bitch. Ask anyone, and some of them are dead.

There's also my bleeding-heart skag side.

In the interests of Clarity (a good name for a cat), call me Schizzo (a good name for a hard-ass bleeding-heart).

Given my druthers, I'd druther live in a cave with a pack of wolves than in the midst of the Family of Man. This is why I'll never be a card-carrying Buddhist, though I lean in that direction like a drunkard toward a bottle. While I embrace the Buddhist tenets of compassion for all living things and the wisdom of the Middle Way, I struggle mightily with the idea of compassion toward all things human, misanthropic hermit that I am.

This means I pretty much despise the human race and would rather live in a cave with a pack of wolves. In case I wasn't clear enough on that point. I'm human by way of an accident of birth. It's not my fault.

Last week a front page headline in the morning paper read:

"Pork Plant Probe's Focus: Pig Brains"
"Experts theorize that workers struck by a mysterious illness at two plants
inhaled brain tissue sprayed into the air during its removal."

I gasped as I read this. Still trusting after all these years, what a sap. Then I noted a non-related headline beneath the first:

"Americans Struggle With Epidemic Obesity"

This was accompanied by a photo of some male human's gut cascading over his Dockers like a tsunami. And Good Morning To You, Too, Dickwad! I sat stunned, coffee cup...but not my disbelief...suspended. Is this a fucking intelligence test? What the fuck is wrong with this fucking picture? Are human fucking beings really this fucking retarded?

I'll say it again, for the sake of Clarity, my beloved cat: I do not want to be associated with a race of beings who would blithely suction the brains out of some animal, the better to stuff its remaining flesh into their own guts, and then complain when the above-described horror makes them sick and fat.

Questions? Dial 1-800-Rocket-Science.

All of which is to explain why I went online and ordered an Obama '08 button. $2.75 S&H, 2-3 weeks delivery. Deliver us from evil. From ourselves. From anyone with a name like Huckabee ("Let's play Rhyme Time, class!").

It's not that Mister Obama is a Buddhist, he's not. He probably eats pork, the asshole. And, unlike the genetic-experiments-gone-wrong which make up the vast majority of his fellow politicos, all signs point to his being human. But as much as I detest humanity, a large portion of which seems to be gravitating in Mister Obama's direction, he's managed single-handedly to tap some latent species memory deep in my battered psyche. Something having to do with...dare I say it?...hope. HOPE. I just dictionary-dot-commed that word and there are no synonyms listed. None. Nada. There's only HOPE. And I'm not talking about some two-bit town in Arkansas, stupid.

I know I know, what a sap. It's the bleeding-heart skag part rearing its overly-dyed-blonde head. I can just hear the comments, and I have one thing to say: Shut The Fuck Up. I don't want to hear it. I'm in my manic phase, let me enjoy it. Joy in any form is hard to come by these days.

Mr. O. has inspired me. Got a problem with that? Other than wine over $7.99 a bottle or the view from my cabin window, inspiration in any form is also hard to come by. He inspires me because of the off-chance that he might actually be The Real Thing. A human being with the potential to transcend being human. And even if this turns out not to be true, he's at least reacquainted some of us with the possibility of The Real Thing. Which in recent history seems to have gone the way of the buffalo. The pig. The cow. The whole fucking ark.

But don't get me wrong, I'm only talking politics here. In general the human race appears to be faltering at the starting gate. Too much brain tissue in the air, and not enough where it should be.

My name is Schizzo and I approve this message.