By Pitchfork © 2011

Blog of Week of April 25, 2011

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Freely quote with attribution

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S:  Benny?  Do we have to do this?

B:  Yes, we have to do this. And Sam, don’t call me Benny.

S:  Don’t call me Sam.  It’s Uncle Sam.  You might could have been my great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandson; though, would that it were so, I’d deny that lineage.* 

‘Sides, you’re so young.  Ben’s an adult’s name.

*Bo is short of Barack Hussein Obama, II, pronounced boe or boo, depending on which strikes you as more respectful, and may be doubled-up, as in Bo-bo or Boo-boo.

B:  I am an adult.

S:  Not to me, Benny.  That head’s full o’ mush.  When you grow up, if you grow up, then you’ll be Ben to me.

B:  Enough with this ‘grown up’ thing, already.

S:  So, why?  Why this?

B:  Black improv.  Black theatre.  Therapy. 

S:  Benny.  I do not need therapy.

B:  I do.

S:  Ah.

[Pause]

B:  Tub’s OK?  Big enough?  Not too warm?

S:  Plenty of space.  Not too warm.

[Pause]

S:  What’s with these two razor blades I have to hold?

B:  Symbol:  government power, force.  My force.   Mine.  Couldn’t bear to hold ‘em, even touch ‘em, so you have to.  Voted most likely to shed responsibility, I was.  I am so good at it.  Mebbe my greatest virtue.

S:  The tub?  The water?

B:  The country.  Trust.  Complacency.  Consummate corruption at its most glorious.  Government there to help you.  Make it easy for you.  Won’t hardly feel a thing.

S:  You make this up?

B:  All of life is a metaphor.  Everything gets made up.

S:  What’s about this and your therapy?

B:  I need to think this through on another level.

S:  Think what through?

B:  How to get the right footnote in the history books.  You know, legacy.

S:  You got choices, Benny?

B:  Schmuck or savior.

S:  Big diff.  Big diff.

B:  Mebbe not in my case, but they need to have thought so.

S:  They?

B:  Most everybody:  the minority - because they want to, even against their better judgment or knowledge, in order to cover-up and stay 'bout soakin' up the big bucks; or the majority - because they don’t know any better and believe others who don’t know any better, either.

S:  Can we get on with this?

B:  Cooling?

S:  Some.

B:  Here, I’m here to help you.

S:  Benny, you’re here to help you.

[Pause]

B:  Better?

S:  Much.  Now?

B:  My metaphor for your left wrist is for me to keep on porking my money supply.  Your right wrist is for me to shovin’ it up the country’s with my rate rises.

S:  Either way, I bleed out?  I bleed out?  Either way?

B:  Yes, of course.  But, does cui bono include me.

S:  Not to me.

B:  Yes, of course, you ninny.  Bigtime.  Long time.  Took thousands of years to get the hot lights on you.  Might could take thousands more. 

S:  I have the time.  You do not.

B:  That’s why all I’ve got long-long-term is the freakin' footnote.  Some line of happy fantasy will prevail for good old Ben . . . err . . . Benny.

S:  Get on with it, Benny.

B:  So, you bleed out for my higher rates.  Credit-debt markets disappear – some fast, some faster, some right away – governments, commerce, derivatives, sovereign finance . . . you name ‘em.  Value as we knew it is no more.  Phhhtt.

S:  Phhhtt?

B:  You like squirt, squirt, squirt?  Eh?  Phhhtt sounds so erudite, so civilized, so sort of comical, so me:  Phhhtt.  Leak is weak.  Drip, drip misrepresents the gushing.  Yah – Phhhtt.

S:  Or?

B:  I hold the line on my rates, true to my conviction . . . er, hate that word . . . principals, and the rest of the world crushes our credit/debt markets and theirs, and the value of our money in our vaults and theirs in theirs.  Phhhtt.

S:  Sounds like the same Phhhtt to me.

B:  Me, too.  Different enunciation, emphases – same game over.  The Brits spray it.  In South Asia, no matter the language, it sounds like a word.  In Finland, it sounds like a slur.  In Italian, it sounds obscene.

S:  So?  So what?

B:  Old ninny:  the footnote.

S:  Look, Benny.  You’re the heavy hand that trashed the dollar – you and yours and your Treasury troglodytes, with blessings from above.  And your heavy hand was in on it to trash our economy.  You’ve put your Fed foot on the neck of what little’s left of open markets.  You’ve force-fed billions on billions to life-support stock markets to fake ‘salad’ days are here again’. You’ve pumped billions more to try to choke bellwether gold and silver prices down – no panic, no problem.  You’ve propped up bigtime losers not just here but all over the planet with money you don’t have, and they don’t have; for now, they’d like to think that you do . . . not so much as before, but still mostly.  Prices of everything important to everyone I know are going worse, worser on their way to worsest  - you know, the stuff you don’t count.  You are 21^st century America’s Chief of Thieves; you ride with a gang, far as my old eyes can see – across most every sovereign border, an equal opportunity societal wrecking crew.  You’ve missed, misread, misrepresented, misguided, and made a miserable mess of every key moment in all sorts of economics for as far back as I care to recall.

B:  So, it’s not the first time we’re talking about.  Picky.  Picky.  Picky.  You criminalize enough folks around you, you fuzz-up a message almost as good as Greenspan, you count on the sheeple and the sheeple count on you, and then you get Bo-bo for a backstop.  You da man.  You da freakin’ man.

S:  You’ve got two low roads.  That’s it.  Two.  Low.  Roads.

B:  Benny knows low roads.

S:  Fine.  Where are the principals you puke up every time you’re probed for this whiff of American sociopathy or that whiff of national psychopathy?  If I were you, who I blessedly am not, I’d do the right thing between choices stemming from your evil, and fess up, get rates up, and gitrdun. 

B:  Oh, no.

S:  Exactly.  There’s an even lower road.  Stick to your insanities.  Mebbe scare ‘em some by juking this way and jiving that, but come back to negative real rates getting negativer and negativer.

B:  How’s that the lower road?

S:  You know that the same endgame’s either way.  The lower road gives you a slim chance to be blaming it on others.

B:  Ah.  I can do that.  Benny knows blaming.

S:  Think about it.  The tick-bloat players will pop.  The sheeple who got you this far, might could still think well of you.   After all, they’re sheeple. 

B:  Ah.

S:  You know.  Those sneaky Asians.  The Caliphate.  Waskally wepubwicans.  All o’ Washington.  Sunspots.  Whatever.  You know the drill of denial.

B:  Yes.  Yes, I do.

S:  And you’ve got transparency on your side.

B:  What transparency?  You gotta court order?

S:  Exactly.

S:  Take the higher low road, and you’re the tipping point.

B:  Oh, no.

[Pause]

B:  Like my beard?

S:  Sissy.  Could just as well be on Napolitano’s dogga-face.  Leaves me wondering when you get time to do whatever it is you do, blowing so many hours getting washed, dried, combed, trimmed.

B:  I don’t.

S:  Don’t what?

B:  Don’t do much else.

S:  Like my beard?

B:  Nope.  Looks like road leftovers.

[Pause]

B:  Thanks, Sam

S:  For what?

B:  For showing me the better way.

S:  Showing?  The way?

B:  Yes, the way.  Always been a problem for me.  You know how many ways are there?  Which is the best, quick fix?  What about me?  How will it make me appear?  Yah.  What about me?

S:  Look, you ‘hole.  If it was my call, I’d set you to tortured screaming in searing pain for eternity for trashing my country.  You and yours.  Be glad to your marrow that it’s not my call.

B:  Yes, I am very glad.

S:  Chill, Bo-bo’s Benny.  It will be my recommendation.

B:  Oh, no.

[Pause]

S:  Benny, you know Keynes croaked, don’t you?

B:  Shh.  He’s listening.  Right next to me.

S:  Well, ask him, Benny, ‘How are ya feeling, Lanky?’

B:  Be nice.  . . .  We don’t talk to each other, just enjoy the companionship.  It’s a mutual adoration thing.  My repair is in not pressing, and I am sure that he reflects, resonates, revels in relationship.

S:  Benny, seen some giant rabbits lately?

B:  Of course not. . . not lately.

S:  Ah.

B:  How’d you know about the rabbits?

[Pause]

B:  Here, let me help you out of there.

S:  Don’t touch me.

[Pause]

B:  Is there a high road?

S:  Yes, there could have been.

B:  What is it?  Was it?

S:  Gold, silver.  Back the money with one or both – no more fiat, no more faith and credit paper.

B:  Sounds good.

S:  No more central bank.

B:  Sounds bad. 

S: This third road is blocked high and wide with the worst fears of any government, the greatest chains on political power.  Take it, gitrdun.  And the cabals of the corrupt – your false, f..lish friends – would happily rip your warm flesh from your bones with their bare hands, so that you don’t rip their putrid political flesh from theirs.

B:  Oh, no.  That’s why you told me that there were only two roads for me to travel.

S:  Yes, Bennie.

B:  Thank you, Uncle Sam.

S:  Not I.. You.  Thank yourself.  You are who you are, as are the others.  That’s a furshur road not to be taken by the lot of you.  Humility, respect, resolve, reverence, rule of law - that's not about any of you.

[Pause]

S:  And, Bennie?

B:  Yes.

S:  You might could take some time to sit down and seriously discern how much gold Knox has.

B:  Why?

S:  Why not?  What do you know when you don’t know?

B:  I don’t know.  What?

S:  Exactly.

[Pause]

S:  What’s that moaning sound?

B:  Timmy the Whack Job.  In the closet, again.  Over there.  I told him whassup with you and me.  Shriveled like always, got that goony face, and fled back inside another closet.  That one.  Upsetting. 

S:  You’re telling me?

B:  Hard to reckon what he’s saying in there.  Always good news, though, to keep him from an open mic, shut his pie hole.

S:  You’re telling me? 

. . . . . . .

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