Ronald Reagan Hologram to Address 2012 RNC Convention in Tampa?

That's great, lovely. I was in a mall in Chicago in 2002 and they had a static hologram (didn't move, like the real one, and just as intelligent) of St. Ronnie's well-coiffed-and-empty head. That wasn't the first time I'd seen one: the Museum of Science and Industry had the one Salvador Dali did of Alice Cooper's head, with an exposed brain, so I knew he had one, his own conservatism aside. Holograms aren't very convincing up close--the Cooper one was greenish, and it photographed badly. I believe it was made in 1973, when the Watergate hearings were reaching a crescendo.

That Ronnie-the-vegetable one, however, was impressive. They'd shot a close-up of him that had close to a 3/4s wraparound of his head. Every hair (the fucker had dandruff and trout eyes), every pore, every liver spot, every wrinkle, and every glint from his Irish eyes (yes, they were-a'-smil'in, yes) was there in incredible photographic detail. Now, from some angles, sure, the color spectrum started to shift, and it looked transparent--a hologram. Of course, for laughs, I was miming the same moves that put John Wilkes Booth into the annals of history, really milking it for a friend, a lot of yuck-yucks. And yes, there were laughs, 9/11 (the American public) hadn't ruined things as badly, there hadn't been enough time for that yet.

Fox News (entertainment for the emotionally challenged) is throwing around a rumor of a yet-to-be-revealed speaker at the tail end of the GOP mosh pit in Tampa, after all the lawful demonstrators have been brutally, criminally beaten and pepper-sprayed by dirty cops and private security, and after most of the drinking and whoring has sated the...uh, bought press, the delegates, candidates, incumbents, and key SuperPAC donors, maybe a few Rotarians, heh. Because I think their corruption is, in the words of one of the Founding Rapists, self- evident. Why bother writing about it? Because someone in the back row couldn't hear last time, so shut up you loud-mouthed assholes in Section A seating, you animals, you rabble, Jesus. 

So, they had this two-dimensional Tupac on stage not more than a few months ago, and creepy it was dear readers. From what I could see, an actor's body was composited with footage of Shakur's face from a variety of visual sources, but it could have been modeled from imagery too and made lifelike. Either way, the head was generated, the body was not, making this a sentence that was destined to be written one day. Top that, Cybermen. You know, the GOP isn't doing anything new here, as always, but putting out their usual historical revisionism onto vulnerable people who don't know shit about where the country's been in the first place.

They've been flogging everyone with this moronic, delusional (delusions of adequacy, Republicans aren't even that) "no new taxes" bullshit for over 30 years. What does it say about someone when they keep falling for it again and again, expecting different results? Those are gamblers stabbing in the dark, looking for what? A Leader, a dictator, to tell them what to do, and that's a lot of Americans who harbor these authoritarian tendencies, many of whom have convinced themselves otherwise. The old models of male-headed authoritarianism are at a crossroads. These clowns down in Tampa are at a funeral wake, America died long ago, back when they sold out after the sixties and became the most irresponsible citizenry in modern history. Watergate gave millions of Americans what they always wanted: an excuse to no longer be engaged in the political process. Voter apathy gave us Ronald Reagan and while it probably won't give us Mitt Romney, it's given us weak and compromised candidates for well over a generation. That's the fault of the public, and so is the decline of the unions, out of selfishness, laziness, and stunning stupidity.

Everyone knows that a computer generated hologram of a dead corrupt president isn't going to change the fact that everyone owns a piece of this economic and political crisis, no one is immune, not me, not anyone. The wealthy, the criminal management class, and the politicians own the lion's share of this. Every branch of government is to blame. From this, one should get that we have a fundamental flaw in how our society is ordered, what it's centered around. Now go have fun watching the dead guy who gave us a lot of this crisis, the one with the CGI stick rammed up his ass.

"The Inside Job of all Inside Jobs," a forlorn satire, torn from the pages of history, by Matt Janovic

It had been a dreary marriage to Mary Todd and a gloomy four years as president. I am feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders once again, but liberation is finally at hand on this lovely spring day of April 14th.
Had I finally enlisted the rebel sympathizer to kill myself just a day after my speech on granting negroes voting rights? I had. It wasn't as easy as that: I had to navigate through channels connected to the Confederate spy-networks that reached into Canada and, miraculously, and all at once, hit gold. It was a direct line to my nemesis, rebel Confederate President Jefferson Davis, partly by way of the nefarious Knights of the Golden Circle. This Booth is a strange character--and actor--and also a member of this peculiar abomination culled from the rituals and symbology of the beneficent Freemasons.

On our meeting yesterday the actor told me that after the speech he had vowed, "That is the last speech he will ever give." Our undisclosed and surreptitious meeting at a tavern outside of the nation's capital was...brusque. I could see the anticipation in his eyes, and I trembled for our nation, as President Jefferson once wrote, for our God is a just one. Richmond had already fallen a little over a week ago on that date. Just three days prior to our meeting at the tavern, the rebel General Lee had surrendered to that drunk, General Grant. What had it all been for? Yes, the slaveholders threw a tantrum over my winning the election, but the Union was and still is a phantasm. Why do I think this shall repeat itself in our history over a century from now over something so ephemeral as the Union? But the preparations for this were difficult and I could share my secret with no one within--or without of--the confines of the White House, certainly not my military or police sentry escorts.

Indeed, this was as baroque a means of avoiding sitting through that wretched, accursed play Our American Cousin, as anyone could imagine, but there were other issues at hand...

You see, Mary had run up an unconscionable and staggering debt--rivaling the cost of the war between the states--at the establishments of a number of prominent Washington dressmakers. Then, there was the dream that my own assassination had transpired and was viewing myself as some faceless spectator, displayed on the presidential catafalque, deceased. I awoke quite happy from such a phantasm as that! Now, this day of days, this morn, I happened upon my new Secretary of State, Mr. McCullough, and even he remarked that "I never saw Mr. Lincoln so cheerful and happy." Indeed I was this morn! He can never know how happy I have been on this day, the happiest of my life.

But, with her usual perspicacity, Mary chimed in, "Saying such things aloud could bring you bad luck." and I ignored it as I usually do. Why is it that everyone in my midst is either drunk or half-mad? Was it I that appointed them? I'm afraid so, and I don't even want to think about my grave error in appointing Schuyler Colfax. My melungeon ancestors are groaning, my heart yearns for the Appalachin, and perhaps, Portugal. Did I really have melungeon ancestors? Our family tree was a little unclear, but who could care but my political enemies and the now vanquished slave-holding contingency? I am still torn over the war between the states. Future generations will either lionize or scorn my legacy, but I feel assured that I will be mythologized as Cicero and Pericles were, and they will be just as wrong out of convenience...

Our plan--that of my assassin and me--comes tonight in Act III, Scene 2 after 10:00PM. A player will utter the line, "Don't know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal—you sockdologizing old man-trap... ." I have no conception of what "sockdologizing" is, but am very familiar--as my assassin is of the play and its contents--with what a "man-trap" is, hence part of the motive behind my plans for escaping this vale of tears. He knows his part, and his lines, well, and has rehearsed them like any other play.

As I sit here in the final moments before these fateful lines are uttered by the players, when my drunkard police escort Frederick Parker has run off to the tavern with timepiece precision as he has been known to do, and why I chose him, I can only reflect on the humorous possibility that some Southern halfwits in the distant future will run for any exit, for any wild leap of reason, to explain my killing. The irony is inescapable. They will do so to make sense out of an event which has no sense to it because this life has no sense to it. Yet, I feel the strong passion for my fellow man...and the gams of Major Rathbone's lovely fiance, Clara Harris who has also joined us in the presidential box here, tonight at Ford's Theatre. Booth is a strange one, perhaps mad. The South has lost, they have no hope of permanent secession, yet this "man" thinks that he can somehow turn the tide of history. Perhaps he will, but at least I will not have to endure the final act of this accursed play or to face bankruptcy over my wife's addiction to finery.

Mary is wittily saying to me in jest,"What will Miss Harris think of my hanging on to you so?"

My timepiece says it is squarely 10:15PM, and I can hear myself saying, "She won't think anything about it," and I hear a sound coming from behind me.

The End

Postscript, 03.19.2013--And those pages torn from history, those pages were ripped from the spine of John Wilkes Booth's diary, disposed of at a military prison outside of the nation's capital, consumed by the smouldering embers of war...

Coming soon, very soon: A satire on the assassination of Abraham Lincoln titled "The Inside Job of All Inside Jobs"

Soon come, even before Babylon fall!