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Home The Feuilleton of MilSan and MikWag
The Feuilleton of MilSan and MikWag

New Airline Upgrades

Fifteen minutes into the on-line-boarding-pass-printing process, one encounters the following options:


Seat with no baby within ten rows – $25

Seat not next to fat person – $10

Seat next to nymphomaniac – $200

Priority exiting during emergency – $45


Flight instruction – $150/half hour

Taxiing – $10 minute

Landing practice – $1000

Skydiving – $200


In flight entertainment

Barrel roll – $300 per roll

Zero gravity – $500 per minute

Buzz the White House – $50,000 plus legal costs

Hitting golf balls off the stern – $250 per bucket


In flight services

Dinner with the Captain – $75 per person, minimum party size 4

Marriage ceremony – $250

Lap dance by flight attendant – $100 per song


How to Kill Political Attack Ads and Fox News in a Single Blow: A guide for progressives

From April to September, cable and satellite companies had a net loss of about 330,000 customers.

NY Times Dec. 7 2010


My fellow Americans!

(a) Are you sick to death of political attack ads?

(b) Are you sick to death of Hannity, Palin, Newt the Grinch and the other chubby guy?

(c) Do you miss Bill Moyers?  Do you yearn for news that is as objective as The PBS News Hour, and Washington Week in Review?

(d) Or do you simply want to kick Rupert Murdoch in the nuts?

If you answered 'yes' to any of the above questions, here's what you do:  Cancel your cable subscription.  The revenues at News Corp. will take a hit, and Herr Murdoch will find himself on the floor holding his miserly nuts.  You, on the other hand, will be taking a stroll, visiting with your friends or sitting at the local bar watching football.


eFeuilleton's Endorsements for the mid-term U.S. Congressional Elections

[p.s. The mid-term results are in.  The nations of the world who were hoping against hope that the patient would recover, now must resign themselves, like the bereaved sitting at vigil]









False equivalences broadcasting continuously on the state-owned

Nasha Pravda ("Our Truth"), formerly Fox News, 2014



Since the beginning of the industrial revolution, there has been a struggle between corporations and working people in America—an economic struggle.


The working people gradually gained a larger share of the wealth of the country.


The high-water mark was set in the 1960s.


Then the tide turned.  Corporations, with the assistance of both political parties but mostly the Republicans, used every means possible, both legal and illegal, to take back the economic gains of the working people.  Corporations gained enormous influence in city, state, and federal governments.  They wrote legislation, built bridges to nowhere, took control of newspapers and of television prime time.


You see, the corporations figured it out.  They learned that the working class can be manipulated by propaganda.  They learned that relatively small investments of money can buy elections.  That small investments of money can yield large returns in federal tax breaks.


The corporations are like bad dogs now…  Or addicts.


How BP’s Anthony Hayward Flout wouldn’t get the oil out!

BP’s Anthony Hayward Flout
Just wouldn’t get the oil out!
He scoured the news, and spiced up his charms,
Candied the web and folded his arms,
And though Obama did scream and shout,
Tony just would not get the oil out.
He was not very worried who’s kicking his ass
He knew that his business will whomever surpass.
He fattened his pockets with crude oil pounds
With a miser’s regard for the ominous sounds
Obama could not get Anthony fired,
His managers too have in failure conspired.

As crude gushed to the top:
Oiling birds, drop by drop,
Chunks of oil float atop.
Please swap it, get it to stop!

The ocean, it covers to the shore,
Cracking the reefs, life to deplore
With benzene rinds and oily stones,
Dripping thick drops from pelicones,
BP’s tackling the oil spill,
Looks in vain for magic pill. . .
Tony is lost beyond any doubt
He simply would not get the oil out
He takes his yacht Sunday and sails out,
“I want my life back,” he was able to shout.

Fish are gone and men of the sea
This future of theirs they no longer see.
They’re in despair, file a plea
Only to hear, “We’ll pay a fee.”
The shrimpers are angry, the oysters are dead,
But poisonous oil is still plenty to  spread
De’ crabs ‘dey all brown; ‘dey no longer red
Obama! Obama! Do something to help.
Obama was diddling, he thought and he prayed
His image in crude was starting to fade
His TV was on and disaster replayed
All screens seemed so muddy with oil cascade
He wishes he’d stop it with his Nobel’s head
But the statute was little and hard to embed
The well is disastrous, he finally said,
Hard is to find the savior’s thread.

He dialed the Congress, he called PhDs,
But his aids couldn’t dig for the proper IDs
Obama then dialed Wasilla
To find Sarah on her villa.

Drrrrrill! Drill!! rang her phone, Drrrrill! Drill!
--- Is this Bill? Is this pill? Or the Hill?
---Ms. Palin, I am calling about the spill
---Oh, Obama, c’mon, let us chill!


The Republican Mafia

(in a men's room somewhere between the north and south wings of the Capitol)

-- Eh, Don Mitch, whaddabout the democrats?..

-- F* those hard-ons. Y'knowwadI'mtalkingabout.

-- But we told Obama we was gonna compromise...

-- F* Obama...

-- Whaddabout the American public?..

-- F* the American public.  You're the Teflon Speaker... fancy suits, crocodile tears... they respeck that.

-- Whaddabout the press?..

-- F* the press.

-- Eh, we gottado something... Y'knowwadI'msaying...

-- Eh, Don Boner, paisan... I respeck your thing, you respeck my thing.  You have an interest on the south wing and I have interest is on the north. I owe a some people a favor so I'm making a request  for your help.   My associates and I don't forget who our friends are.

-- Whaddabout Krugman?  He told everybody we're blackmailing...

-- F* Krugman.  We're just extorting.  He doesn't even know the diff.

-- Err… You never said nothin about not blackmailing.

-- Fogedaboudit.  Our friends have a tax problem.  If we don't fix their problem, they gonna lose alot of money.  Whaddayathink they gonna do to us when they lose $700 billion dollars?  Whaddayathink the Koch's gonna do if they lose a billion each?   You gotta block everything on the South side until we take care of their tax problem.

-- Err…I got a little problem with my boys, they don't wanna block everything.  They wanna do something... Y'know bada bing bada boom...

-- F* your boys.

-- Whaddabout the new boys coming in?

-- F* the tea partiers.  We'll get something on them, they'll do what I... I mean we... say.

-- Whaddabout the New Start Treaty.  Pollonium Putin said some things to Larry King...

-- I fogeddedaboutdat.   That's one guy you gotta respeck...

-- Yeah, you gotta respeck the f*ing Russians.


The Brass Check Updated: American Journalism à la Rupert (Murdoch)

I sent a comment to Mr. Herbert of The NY Times today that the mind-numbing chatter that he ascribes to the political class derives, in fact, from his journalistic class.

I can never tell why the Times on occasion fails to transmit my comments to its authors.  What could possibly be offensive about my observation that Fox News is a perpetrator of disinformation and personal attacks that in no way differ from those documented by the Pulitzer prize winning Mr. Upton Sinclair in his extraordinary 1920 book The Brass Check: A Study of American Journalism?

Mr. Sinclair, in this self-published book, documented how corporations took control of newspapers, magazines, and even the AP wire service, and how their conduct was as criminal as that of the meat packers of Chicago, who Sinclair also exposed in his also extraordinary 1906 book The Jungle.  Then, like now, the media was manufacturing a product, falsely labelled "100% Truth," but which, upon laboratory analysis, comprised inert filler, lies and disinformation.  A product produced by and for the corporate owners -- oil companies, coal companies, meat packers, copper miners, banks, brokers -- just like today.

Sinclair called The Brass Check the most dangerous book he had ever written.

"Zooks!" you say, "I find it hard to believe that today our news product could possibly be contaminated.  It's preposterous!"  "Well then," I say, "show me the series of stories in the NY Times that pursues to closure any of the recent scandals.  Where is the Watergate-like reporting about the betrayal of Valerie Plume?  Where in the NY Times do I find the continuing story of the Koch brothers or sustained coverage of the round-the-clock effort by corporations and rich people to maintain their tax-favored status and deny healthcare coverage to 50,000,000 Americans?"

And that's the NY Times!

"Or show me," I continue, "a single major paper whose journalists came out in support of the rights of Keith Olbermann?   And tell me that CBS did not prohibit its entire staff from attending Jon Stewart's rally for sanity"



Somewhere in Florida…


— Hello?

— Hello?  Pastor Jones?

— Uh… his Holiness isn’t taking calls.  May God be with you.

— Tell him it’s the White House.


— Pastor Jones, — says Obama — thank you for taking my call…  How are you?

— Uh…  How are you, Mr. President?

— Well, pastor, I'll tell you why I called… General Petraeus seems to think that if you go ahead with your plan, y’know, to burn a Koran in your front yard that, well, some of our boys over there in Afghanistan might get killed.

— Mr. President, Jesus threw all of the moneychangers out the temple…

— Yes, Terry, I understand…

— … and if you don’t stop them here they will ram the Sharia code…

— Yes, it’s terrible what they are doing, but I have to ask you for a favor.

— What?

— Would it be OK for me to give your number to Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf up in New York and have him give you a call?

— Mr. President, you want me to talk to an Arab???

— Well, yes…  You see the Imam is thinking of putting up sort of a Muslim swimming pool next to the World Trade Center and the neighbors are getting upset.  So I thought that if you and the Imam could get together and have a beer...

— Mr. President, you want me to a have a beer with a Muslim?

— I see your point, sir.  Imams don’t drink beer.

— How do I know he isn’t going to suicide bomb me?

— Well, Terry, how about if I give you my word that we won’t let him bring any suicide bombs with him, OK?

— Yes, Mr. President.  And may God bless America.


Corn-pone News Network II

Corn-pone News Network II


You tell me whar a man gits his corn pone, en I'll tell you what his 'pinions is."
Mark Twain, Corn-pone Opinions (1900)


Will the reader please cast his eye over the following transcript, and see if he can discover anything harmful in it?

And now, for the last look:  Russian Rap reportedly has a new hero. It’s the unassuming man in the gray sweater right there in the front row. Yup, that’s President Putin. This man who proudly touts his education on the streets of St. Petersburg was nominated for the first annual Russian Street Awards honoring the best in Russian hip hop. The award now came for this performance that you are looking at. But it was not his dance styling the Russian people were impressed with nor was it his rhyming skills. It was what he had to say about hip pop. "Street rap may be a little rough," Putin said, "but it contains social meaning."  He went on “graffiti becomes a real elegant art, break dance is something special.” Even after all those efforts at being hip, President Putin didn’t get the prize. Sorry, Mr. President

[Fareed Zakaria, GPS April 25, 2010 transcriptvideo (57 seconds)]

I heard these lines while watching a clip on CNN.com one Sunday morning a little while ago. They took instant and entire possession of me. All through breakfast they went hipping and hopping through my brain; and when, at last, I rolled up my napkin, I could not tell whether I had eaten anything or not. That Sunday I had my plans all carefully laid out—I was working on another feuilleton. Set fingers on the keyboard, hit the keys, but all I could get it to type was, "President Putin didn’t get the prize." I fought hard for an hour, but it was useless. My head kept spinning around under the idiotic burden of my ravings, "Hip-hop, rap… and snap…President Putin didn't get the prize" and so on and so on, without peace or respite. The day was ruined. I gave up and drifted downtown and presently discovered that my feet were keeping time to a relentless hip-hop.