static on the dial channeling Slim Harpo in the dark

By now, you already know the Pig's Flew across the borders. The Pigs are wearing lipstick, jumping species and making purses out of their ears - out from which occasionally dribble all the nickels and dimes to purchase those exciting new security enhancements waiting in the wings that missed out on earlier no-bid contracts, all those other times they hoped to be included and were not. The Pigs simply saw a hole in the homeland's fencing, a brief window of opportunity we could say, where they might squeeze through the razorwire during the global meltdown when few would be paying any attention to the remote possibility Another Awful Crisis readying to shower over the little people on Planet Earth would emerge, snorting, oinking and flapping in formation high above the Drug Cartels and Cattle-Prodded Muslims Scandal, all the way up to Center Stage. Indeed, they made a grand entrance, so grand, so highly anointed, bathed in colored lighting and flashing strobes, with reverent introductions and historical parallels striking deeply into the heartbeat of global consciousness, replete with official seals on the podiums and lapels of the speakers from the highest levels within the all-benevolent Illusion, that whatever else was occupying the bloggers and twitter set, was deleted, again, from the sands of time, never to be investigated, never to be subjected to inquiry by any bipartisan/partisan commission, only to remain in blur, somewhere on the outer limits of humanity's cul de sac, a dead-end street with a circle at the end where you run round and round until you drop.

The Flying Pigs backup singers are apparently under the tutelage of the same techno-choreographer working the Bailout Reapers and the Lost Bullhorn Boys, wouldn't you say? They're pretty good, but not really good. You might say they are baaad, but not authentically proficient overall because they spoil the surprise by overexposing their endgame, time after time, leaving gaping holes in the script. That is typical of this genre, isn't it, to flatter themselves in altruistic spotlights while the audience falls from the mezzanine into the orchestra where everyone is floating upside down in breached sewage, gasping those last gasps behind water soaked cloths, realizing in the sartorial death spiral, they should have gone to the sports stadium, not the home theater, all along. Now its too late. They say its a liquid situation. They say YOU need to do something about it, such as observe a nutritious diet and avoid human contact, or obviously, they will, even though we can not imagine where on Earth they'd find the liquidity to pull this off ... unless they've been piggybanking, sweaty and nervous, orgasmic over the immediate transition this very growth opportunity presents their voracious urge to control.

Now, that is ONLY the opener for the Flying Pigs. Their pay-to-play payola hit is hot-waxed everywhere, popular in every remote smoke-filled hashish tea venue and Bayou Esso gas and Starlight diner, from the mangroves to the camel markets, they want us to hyper-anticipate by pre-purchasing the remaining songs soon to be released and show our love by shouting the mantra and volunteering our bodies and our children in service to the cause.

I hate to say it, but I never really grooved on grunge, when I work, I require mellow quiet to allow the purity of that unnameable higher Force to locate and pass through me as a willing vehicle of its creative expressions. We tend to think hell must be something like Gustav Dore's illustrations for Dante's Inferno, but actually, Dore put together rather meek tip-of-the iceberg imagery that doesn't hold a candle to the hell on Earth for humanity when the Illusion gets jamming on the endgame.