Health Reform Info 080809 - 081509

Friends, these are some recent Comments on various articles and blogs from the New York Times, Daily Beast, to the wonderful Wendell Potter. I post these here for you to take phrases or thoughts or info to be arrows in your quiver re the healthcare debate.
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081509
http://www.thedailybeast.com/cheat-sheet/item/obama-death-panel-argument-dishonest/health-care/?cid=cs:comments2#commentarea
Senator upChuck Ghastley is a slitherer. He *knows* that the insurance corporations operate under a "medical-loss-ratio" and that, my compatriots, really is a death panel. Wall Street considers *any* claim paid out to a sick person, a "medical loss." If your gigantic greedy insurance corporation has a ratio of paying out too many claims, it gets brutally punished by Wall Street. (Recently a 2% rise in claims-paid resulted in a 20% drop in the stock price. Google Wendell Potter, Cigna whistleblower.)

If you want to keep paying Aetna slitherer CEO Ron Williams' $24 million dollar annual compensation or slitherer United Wealth Care Corp Steve Hemsley's $102,741 dollar per hour compensation, please I beg you to do that. Be my bloody guest. I, thanks, would prefer a choice. I'd rather pay 4% administrative costs rather than 20%-24%. It's up to you. Let my choice be up to me. Hmmmm, sounds like liberty to me.
==
2nd comment
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/08/opinion/08collins.html?_r=1
We all need to know that the Wall Street Orcs-in-Suits control your health non-care. Google Wendell Potter the ex Cigna big shot PR guy who's now a whistleblower (http://prwatch.org/user/35267/track) & you'll see that people like CEO Ron Williams of Aetna making $24-million-dollars a year are not going to moderate quietly. Mr. Williams is the Rescind-And-Purge=Evil champion of the Universe.

There's RAPE -- Rescind-And-Purge=Evil. If you get sick, that Mr. Williams of Aetna got the Gigantic Bucks because he fomented a computer program to comb any claims for the slightest pretext for the insurance corporations to rescind the coverage you thought you had. It's enough to gag a maggot.

Re Purge, if you're a small business and have a modest group plan, if one of your employees actually gets sick and needs to interfere with pure unfettered bloodsucking of premiums, your small business will get a huge increase in premiums to purge or force you from their rolls.

The unspeakable medical-loss-ratio means that a health-scam corporation's stock is flayed by Wall Street for any health care they actually pay out to sick people. Any claims paid are a "medical-loss" -- they want them premiums for stockholders, not for patients. Incredibly, payment for patients is considered a "medical-loss" by the Vampire Capitalism of our current Wall Street.

My mind reels at the deep ugliness of the system. This is Bernie-Madoff-League scamming, done by the best confusion & legerdelying that fathomless Big Bucks can buy.

If you want to keep paying an average of $14 million dollar annual medical-industrial-complex CEO salaries, be my guest. I'd prefer the choice of a public option where the money goes to help me or you. Gee, what a novel idea. (Self-employed, I haven't had health coverage since 1979 -- 262,800 hours waiting in line . . .)

LBJ said, "I will fight for Medicare as long as I have breath in my body." Our current leaders need an injection of LBJ-Fight. Speak boldly. …

More ► More ▼

Friends, these are some recent Comments on various articles and blogs from the New York Times, Daily Beast, to the wonderful Wendell Potter. I post these here for you to take phrases or thoughts or info to be arrows in your quiver re the healthcare debate.
==
081509
http://www.thedailybeast.com/cheat-sheet/item/obama-death-panel-argument-dishonest/health-care/?cid=cs:comments2#commentarea
Senator upChuck Ghastley is a slitherer. He *knows* that the insurance corporations operate under a "medical-loss-ratio" and that, my compatriots, really is a death panel. Wall Street considers *any* claim paid out to a sick person, a "medical loss." If your gigantic greedy insurance corporation has a ratio of paying out too many claims, it gets brutally punished by Wall Street. (Recently a 2% rise in claims-paid resulted in a 20% drop in the stock price. Google Wendell Potter, Cigna whistleblower.)

If you want to keep paying Aetna slitherer CEO Ron Williams' $24 million dollar annual compensation or slitherer United Wealth Care Corp Steve Hemsley's $102,741 dollar per hour compensation, please I beg you to do that. Be my bloody guest. I, thanks, would prefer a choice. I'd rather pay 4% administrative costs rather than 20%-24%. It's up to you. Let my choice be up to me. Hmmmm, sounds like liberty to me.
==
2nd comment
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/08/opinion/08collins.html?_r=1
We all need to know that the Wall Street Orcs-in-Suits control your health non-care. Google Wendell Potter the ex Cigna big shot PR guy who's now a whistleblower (http://prwatch.org/user/35267/track) & you'll see that people like CEO Ron Williams of Aetna making $24-million-dollars a year are not going to moderate quietly. Mr. Williams is the Rescind-And-Purge=Evil champion of the Universe.

There's RAPE -- Rescind-And-Purge=Evil. If you get sick, that Mr. Williams of Aetna got the Gigantic Bucks because he fomented a computer program to comb any claims for the slightest pretext for the insurance corporations to rescind the coverage you thought you had. It's enough to gag a maggot.

Re Purge, if you're a small business and have a modest group plan, if one of your employees actually gets sick and needs to interfere with pure unfettered bloodsucking of premiums, your small business will get a huge increase in premiums to purge or force you from their rolls.

The unspeakable medical-loss-ratio means that a health-scam corporation's stock is flayed by Wall Street for any health care they actually pay out to sick people. Any claims paid are a "medical-loss" -- they want them premiums for stockholders, not for patients. Incredibly, payment for patients is considered a "medical-loss" by the Vampire Capitalism of our current Wall Street.

My mind reels at the deep ugliness of the system. This is Bernie-Madoff-League scamming, done by the best confusion & legerdelying that fathomless Big Bucks can buy.

If you want to keep paying an average of $14 million dollar annual medical-industrial-complex CEO salaries, be my guest. I'd prefer the choice of a public option where the money goes to help me or you. Gee, what a novel idea. (Self-employed, I haven't had health coverage since 1979 -- 262,800 hours waiting in line . . .)

LBJ said, "I will fight for Medicare as long as I have breath in my body." Our current leaders need an injection of LBJ-Fight. Speak boldly. [BXA]
==
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/08/opinion/08collins.html?_r=1
Joe Califano recalled this afternoon (08.07.09) that LBJ said,"I will fight for Medicare as long as I have breath in my body." We need this explicit passion from President Obama re the public option.

I'm amazed that people are so vehemently eager to have Wall Street between them and their doctor. The medical-industrial-complex insurance corporations are only rewarded for collecting your premiums and then *not* paying your claims. It's called medical-loss-ratio. If a health-scam corporation starts paying too great a ratio of medical losses (aka patient claims), its stock gets punished. (I learned this from the wonderful Wendell Potter, whistleblower, ex-Cigna PR chief.)
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email to David Sirota 080709
Dear Mr. Sirota,

Thanks for your town-brawl primer.

I hope you'll spread the word about medical-loss-ratios, the odious detail that finally pushed me off the Sickened Cliff into a free fall of dumbfounded disgust.

I'm amazed that people in these town brawls are so violently eager to use their premiums to pay CEO Ron Williams of Aetna's $24-million-dollar annual compensation. I'm happy for them to do that, but I'd like the choice, the public option, not to buy the gold-rimmed luncheon plates on the Aetna jet.

I'm amazed that people are so vehemently eager to have Wall Street between them and their doctor. The medical-industrial-complex insurance corporations are only rewarded for collecting your premiums and then *not* paying your claims. It's called medical-loss-ratio. If a health-scam corporation starts paying too great a ratio of medical losses (aka patient claims), its stock gets punished. (I learned this from the wonderful Wendell Potter, whistleblower, ex-Cigna PR chief.)

I think if people knew more and weren't responding to fortune-cookie propaganda, there'd be no question that they'd demand a public option to at least slow the juggernaut of the built-in rapacious greed-for-profit of the current gold-rimmed-plates Let's Dupe the Sheeple arrangement.

According to Joe Califano, President Lyndon Johnson said, "I will fight for Medicare as long as I have breath in my body." We need this passion in the current Democrats.

Thanks again,
Wendy
==
http://www.russfeingold.org/blog/a-thank-you-message-from-russ.html
In a sea of Profiles in Jellyfishism, you have always been a Profile in Courage. Progressives are grateful. I'm amazed that people in these town brawls are so violently eager to use their premiums to pay CEO Ron Williams of Aetna's $24 million dollar annual compensation. I'm happy for them to do that, but I'd like the choice, the public option, not to buy the gold-rimmed luncheon plates on the Aetna jet. I'm amazed that people are so vehemently eager to have Wall Street between them and their doctor. The medical-industrial-complex insurance corporations are only rewarded for collecting your premiums and then *not* paying your claims. It's called medical-loss-ratio. If a health-scam corporation starts paying too great a ratio of medical losses (aka patient claims), its stock gets punished. I think if people knew more and weren't responding to fortune-cookie propaganda, there'd be no question that they'd demand a public option to at least slow the juggernaut of the built-in rapacious greed-for-profit of the current gold-rimmed-plates Let's Dupe the Sheeple arrangement. President Lyndon Johnson said, "I will fight to my last breath for Medicare." We need this passion in the current Democrats.
==
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/07/opinion/07krugman.html
I'm amazed that people are so violently eager to use their premiums to pay CEO Ron Williams of Aetna's $24 million dollar annual compensation. I'm happy for them to do that, but I'd like the choice, the public option, not to buy the gold-rimmed plates on the Aetna jet.

I'm amazed that people are so violently eager to have Wall Street between them and their doctor. The medical-industrial-complex insurance corporations are only rewarded for collecting your premiums and then *not* paying your claims. It's called medical-loss-ratio. If a health-scam corporation starts paying too great a ratio of medical losses (patient claims), its stock gets punished.

I think if people knew more and weren't responding to fortune-cookie propaganda, there'd be no question that they'd demand a public option to at least slow the juggernaut of the built-in rapacious greed-for-profit of the current gold-rimmed-plates Let's Dupe the Sheeple arrangement.
==
labman57 & periscope are near the bullseye. We all need to know that the Wall Street Orcs in Suits control your health non-care. Google Wendell Potter the ex Cigna big shot PR guy who's now a whistleblower (http://prwatch.org/user/35267/track) & you'll see that people like Ron Williams of Aetna making $24 million dollars a year are not going to moderate quietly.

Note the odious medical-loss-ratio which means that a health corporation's stock is punished by Wall Street for any health care they pay out (aka medical-loss --they want them premiums for stockholders, not for patients. Payment to patients is considered a "medical-loss").

Then there's RAPE -- Rescind-And-Purge Evil. If you get sick, that Mr. Williams of Aetna got the Gigantic Bucks because he invented a computer program to comb any claims for the slightest pretext for the insurance corporations to rescind the coverage you thought you had.

Re Purge, if you're a small business and have a modest group plan, if one of your employees actually gets sick and needs to interfere with pure unfettered bloodsucking of premiums, your small business will get a huge increase in premiums to purge you from their rolls.

If you want to keep paying an average of $14 million dollar annual medical-industrial-complex CEO salaries, be my guest. I'd prefer the choice of a public option where the money goes to help me or you. Gee, what a novel idea. (Self-employed, I haven't had health coverage since 1979 -- 262,800 hours waiting in line . . .)
==

▲

M.E.O.W. .. the Moral Equivalent Of War

This piece will read best for you

if you read it with your mouth as if out loud

I daresay we've illuminated enough more of our enchanting consciousness now to assay a foray druidesquely into a wider context, beyond the strictly personal. This may be a shock. After the unassailable trust we've been revealing & forging between you and the whole wide AllElse worlds, to, with that opened mind, leap d'artagnan-like into understanding our druid duty toward W.A.R. is a shock. Pero c'est la vie verdad. But that is actual life and its juggling. Why you're learning to be an expert clown. Why we take so much Vitamin I.

What we have to figure out each of us is Meow MEOW, meow – meow is the mnemonic device for the Moral Equivalent Of War. An antidote to what A.Einstein in 1932 calls "the war menace"; "the dark places of human will and feeling"; to taking the "latent" hatred and destructive passion and raising it to "the power of a collective psychosis." S.Freud replies to A.Einstein that we cannot suppress "man's aggressive tendencies . . . -- what we may try is to divert ['the war impulse'] into a channel other than that of warfare." (My emphases.)

In 1906 William James called this kind of transmogrification "the moral equivalent of war." "War is the strong life," how men can exercise their "hardihood."

I can understand this dyspepsia against what James calls the "mawkish and dishwatery," a desire for life's more "bitter" and salty flavors.

What can we druids bring to the war on war? A quotidian discipline so exacting and eclectic and exciting that its very delicacy, its deftness becomes robust.

As a droll but instructive example of the interface between the empath's private necessity (Mutilated children are never collateral damage) and the batterings and buffetings of a frequently psychotic society, I had made up for me a teeshirt that says militant pacifist. Why? Because so many dear folk in the peace movement are so annoyingly 'mawkish & dishwatery.' I'd, say, swear like a sailor when describing our lunatic leaders. (If you make $50,000 a year, it's gone in four seconds in the Iraq debacle. That's nuts.) One of the treacly souls with whom I was sharing a lucid and pungent rant would give me the kicked-spaniel look and say, "Why can't you be nicer?" "Because I care zero about nice. What I care about is not-mutilated. Not-mutilated. In mind, heart, or body." …

More ► More ▼

This piece will read best for you

if you read it with your mouth as if out loud

I daresay we've illuminated enough more of our enchanting consciousness now to assay a foray druidesquely into a wider context, beyond the strictly personal. This may be a shock. After the unassailable trust we've been revealing & forging between you and the whole wide AllElse worlds, to, with that opened mind, leap d'artagnan-like into understanding our druid duty toward W.A.R. is a shock. Pero c'est la vie verdad. But that is actual life and its juggling. Why you're learning to be an expert clown. Why we take so much Vitamin I.

What we have to figure out each of us is Meow MEOW, meow – meow is the mnemonic device for the Moral Equivalent Of War. An antidote to what A.Einstein in 1932 calls "the war menace"; "the dark places of human will and feeling"; to taking the "latent" hatred and destructive passion and raising it to "the power of a collective psychosis." S.Freud replies to A.Einstein that we cannot suppress "man's aggressive tendencies . . . -- what we may try is to divert ['the war impulse'] into a channel other than that of warfare." (My emphases.)

In 1906 William James called this kind of transmogrification "the moral equivalent of war." "War is the strong life," how men can exercise their "hardihood."

I can understand this dyspepsia against what James calls the "mawkish and dishwatery," a desire for life's more "bitter" and salty flavors.

What can we druids bring to the war on war? A quotidian discipline so exacting and eclectic and exciting that its very delicacy, its deftness becomes robust.

As a droll but instructive example of the interface between the empath's private necessity (Mutilated children are never collateral damage) and the batterings and buffetings of a frequently psychotic society, I had made up for me a teeshirt that says militant pacifist. Why? Because so many dear folk in the peace movement are so annoyingly 'mawkish & dishwatery.' I'd, say, swear like a sailor when describing our lunatic leaders. (If you make $50,000 a year, it's gone in four seconds in the Iraq debacle. That's nuts.) One of the treacly souls with whom I was sharing a lucid and pungent rant would give me the kicked-spaniel look and say, "Why can't you be nicer?" "Because I care zero about nice. What I care about is not-mutilated. Not-mutilated. In mind, heart, or body." [BXA]

Meow/moral equivalent of war is a mnemonic device, a memory trick, a memory meme. Because juxtaposing meow & moral equivalent of war is absurd, it reminds our mentality to hone the tools and weapons of fierce mind rather than the weapons of mutilation.

Don't mistake me. Ungrounded 'intelligence' and cleverness are no per se protection against the war psychosis whatever. "War hath no fury like a noncombatant."

Marianne Moore speaks of poetry as being "imaginary gardens with real toads in them." Every fierce poetry-act of electric perception you construct, inhabit, perform, engage in is the meow, the moral equivalent of war. The equivalent of war which is, instead, moral. When you seize seeing, you tyger your life. You do the alchemy, you replace the reigning madly contagious psychosis with electric sanity.

You have to be able to be alone with your fullness with AllElse or they(family, churches, nations, pals) will be able to bribe or bludgeon you with temptations, demands, commands whereby you submit or succumb to the psychosis(warism, racism, sexism, theism etc.)to keep approval, to keep belonging. (No, no, I'm not suggesting some strange isolation. Just a startled awareness of what we will sacrifice in order to belong. We will allow mutilated children to be called collateral damage and gaze, if regretfully, the Other Way.)

Understanding that your hero's journey is the daily meow, the exact and devoted and constant curiosity consistent with the marvel & magic of being alive. The war on war, the m.e.o.w, the moral equivalent of war, can not be won with their mutilating weapons, but in another quantum. Neither the right brain nor the left brain, but the rhapsodic center, the zone where Vulcan & Venus join fierce & tender forces of shocking, startled appreciation. Honor paid not in some fantastically sentimentally recalled war-struck past where you trapped juice, mystery, and mischief, but remembrance of things present, honed, honeyed, by all the earlier insights and outsights, angles. Jabbing skillfully at your day with a brush full of shocking color, wheat, sky, crows, like Van Gogh painting the ordinary scene as if it were illuminated suddenly and unbearably with lightning. Seize seeing.

When daily life is shocking, terrifying, absurd, delicious, our poetry-eyes ablaze, war will seem as wasteful, coarse, revolting as it, in gruesome fact, is.

Violent perception for peace. The joak's on the boring warring. Sooner than you think too.

Some scoffing is allowed. War? Piffle. Dreary. Dull. Loud. Leaden. Mainly vastly stupid. Impaling his entrails on your bayonet. Again? Really? Ho hum. War loses because it isn't as savage as a violet.

You are a Prometheus of perception. When you burn your hand on your cat's fur, you know you're beginning to wake up. Meow.

…!...

Notes:

. shock .. The war on war will be a shock if you've pried open your consciousness to put the pearls inside. If you do the exercises and keep a log, your openness will make you more vulnerable. Empathy actually increases the neural pathways. You get used to it.

.d'artagnan .. (dar tan yaw[n]) d'Artagnan was the captain of the Three Musketeers, a swashbuckling hero;

. pero is 'but' and verdad is 'truly' in Spanish;

. mnemonic device .. roygbiv for the colors of the spectrum & rainbow is a classic mnemonic device. Roy. G. Biv – red orange yellow green blue indigo violet;

. dyspepsia .. deranged, impaired digestion, grumpy guts, heartburn, nausea;

. mawkish means sickly sentimental; from 1702; mawk = maggot;

. I got the Einstein, Freud, James & Montague quoted tidbits from Laptham's Quarterly Vo1 1.

. quotidian (quoh-tidian)is the amusingly $20 word for 'everyday' or 'daily';

. militant pacifist .. a pacifist is not a passive-ist, but like the mighty western ocean on an halcyon day, a pacific-ist. To me, it's about using resources for ingenious & determined construction.

. treacly .. (tree-clee) treacle (tree-cull) implies excessive sweetness; think of too much molasses;

. "War hath no fury like a non-combatant." .. C.E.Montague 1922;

. Van Gogh ripped his ear off because it was so clear to him, the complete glory of wheat. Now, self-mutilation ain't wise but it speaks to the passion inherent.

. savage violet .. a dandelion puff is rough stuff;

. Vulcan & Venus .. Vulcan is the Roman god of fire, a lame blacksmith, therefore forger, crafter; husband of the goddess of Love, Venus;

. Prometheus . Prometheus stole fire from the gods and gave it to humankind.

▲

Single Payer Urgent Action

In 1997 one million Italians sent a blizzard of postcards to their parliament demanding an anti-landmine bill. It worked.

We could send A MILLION POSTCARDS to Max Baucus, the quasi-Democrat who's in charge of the Finance Committee and who has a stranglehold against single payer or even a strong "public option." He claims that the "American people don't support single-payer" tho polls show that 64% do. (If it's easier for you to send a scribbled note in an envelope, do that. Do put PLEASE SUPPORT SINGLE PAYER on the outside of the envelope too.) I use "This American does want single payer!" om my postcard. Please forward this info to your friends.

Senator Max Baucus
511 Hart Senate Office Building,
District of Columbia 20510-2602
Phone: 202.224.2651
Fax: 202.224.9412
(As the Finance chair, he has not just the future of Montanans, but of all Americans in his hands.)

White House comment line
202.456.1111 (6AM-2PM Pacific Time)
(I use speaker & redial til I get a ring. Hold has never been longer than 5 minutes.)

Postcard:
• Maximum size is 6” long X 4 1/4” high
• Minimum size is 5” long X 3 1/2” high
.28 cents postage tho you can use a 42 cent or 44 cent.

Some background thoughts:

The Medical-Industrial Complex Insurance Corporations add what value to your healthiness exactly? The idea of profiting on someone's health care is sickening. Health rights are not a privilege of the rich or lucky in other modern countries. Currently we have insurance corporations' profit coming between you and your doctor.

I'm focusing on sending postcards to Senate & House committee chairs exhorting them to bring at least a representative of single-payer for health care to the table. (Single payer not public option is how you save the annual big $300 billions on insurance corporations' paper-shuffling costs.)

I thought of postcards (which don't have to be opened to be read) because I just read about the wonderful surgeon-without-borders Dr. Gino Strada stirring up !a million postcards! from Italian citizens in 1997 (each with a picture of a mutilated child) to exhort the Italian President to signatory a landmine ban. That year the Italian parliament passed "a law banning the production, use, import, and export of land mines."

The equivalent of EVERY man, woman, and child in the whole states of Georgia, Indiana, North Carolina, New Jersey, Virginia, have NO health care in our United States of America. (Mnemonic: GINNV.)

Or you could say that the equivalent of EVERY man, woman, and child in the whole states of New York State, Illinois, Pennsylvania, and Iowa have NO health care. (Mnemonic: NIPI.) Even more shocking & shameful put this way, isn't it? …

More ► More ▼

In 1997 one million Italians sent a blizzard of postcards to their parliament demanding an anti-landmine bill. It worked.

We could send A MILLION POSTCARDS to Max Baucus, the quasi-Democrat who's in charge of the Finance Committee and who has a stranglehold against single payer or even a strong "public option." He claims that the "American people don't support single-payer" tho polls show that 64% do. (If it's easier for you to send a scribbled note in an envelope, do that. Do put PLEASE SUPPORT SINGLE PAYER on the outside of the envelope too.) I use "This American does want single payer!" om my postcard. Please forward this info to your friends.

Senator Max Baucus
511 Hart Senate Office Building,
District of Columbia 20510-2602
Phone: 202.224.2651
Fax: 202.224.9412
(As the Finance chair, he has not just the future of Montanans, but of all Americans in his hands.)

White House comment line
202.456.1111 (6AM-2PM Pacific Time)
(I use speaker & redial til I get a ring. Hold has never been longer than 5 minutes.)

Postcard:
• Maximum size is 6” long X 4 1/4” high
• Minimum size is 5” long X 3 1/2” high
.28 cents postage tho you can use a 42 cent or 44 cent.

Some background thoughts:

The Medical-Industrial Complex Insurance Corporations add what value to your healthiness exactly? The idea of profiting on someone's health care is sickening. Health rights are not a privilege of the rich or lucky in other modern countries. Currently we have insurance corporations' profit coming between you and your doctor.

I'm focusing on sending postcards to Senate & House committee chairs exhorting them to bring at least a representative of single-payer for health care to the table. (Single payer not public option is how you save the annual big $300 billions on insurance corporations' paper-shuffling costs.)

I thought of postcards (which don't have to be opened to be read) because I just read about the wonderful surgeon-without-borders Dr. Gino Strada stirring up !a million postcards! from Italian citizens in 1997 (each with a picture of a mutilated child) to exhort the Italian President to signatory a landmine ban. That year the Italian parliament passed "a law banning the production, use, import, and export of land mines."

The equivalent of EVERY man, woman, and child in the whole states of Georgia, Indiana, North Carolina, New Jersey, Virginia, have NO health care in our United States of America. (Mnemonic: GINNV.)

Or you could say that the equivalent of EVERY man, woman, and child in the whole states of New York State, Illinois, Pennsylvania, and Iowa have NO health care. (Mnemonic: NIPI.) Even more shocking & shameful put this way, isn't it? [BXA]

(You can find addresses for postcarding; phone numbers; fax numbers re health rights movement on congressdotorg.) http://www.congress.org/congressorg/directory/congdir.tt

cheers & Thanks,

ps .Keep an eye on Sheldon Whitehouse, Democratic Senator Rhode Island -- stunningly smart and humane.
pps.
Insurance corporation ceo annual compensation:
* Ron Williams - Aetna - Total Compensation: $24,300,112.
* H. Edward Hanway - CIGNA - Total Compensation: $12,236,740.
* Angela Braly - WellPoint - Total Compensation: $9,844,212.
* Dale Wolf - Coventry Health Care - Total Compensation: $9,047,469.
* Michael Neidorff - Centene - Total Compensation: $8,774,483.
* James Carlson - AMERIGROUP - Total Compensation: $5,292,546.
* Michael McCallister - Humana - Total Compensation: $4,764,309.
* Jay Gellert - Health Net - Total Compensation: $4,425,355.
* Richard Barasch - Universal American - Total Compensation: $3,503,702.
There are 1300 insurance corporations across the nation making for a snarled (& snarling) tangle of paperwork that is, well, insane.
.....
cartoon: Mark Badger

▲

The Real Pornography .. stynking synnes vile

Obscene Accumulation is the Real Pornography.

Back in the also-obscene nuclear-weapons accumulation days, I used to wail and rail, "Let them steal our tiny piggybanks to build enough nuclear weapons to obliterate all living things and reduce all human structures to vapor and/or pebble-sized rubble 5x over. I won't even squawk about that. I am willing to go that barkingly-mad far in assuaging their paranoid fantasies.

But the 6^th world-rubbling? The 7^th? The 10^th?

No.

They have powerful inner demons that have to be fed. But they don't have to be fed our children's education and universal healthcare (certainly a jesusian idea) and a minimum wage which does not bring us shame. $14000 per minute for the fantasy Missile Crackpot Scheme aka StarWars? $50,000 every four seconds for the Iraq war?

Nope.

So, there is a sin of scale. SUVs seriously suck, but Hummers are an Express Ticket to Hell. (Arnold had 8 Hummers – you do the Math on how fast he gets to the 10th Circle of Frozen Tears.) SUVs are the vehicular equivalent of microencephaly – the smaller the brain (& no doubt the dawg), the more bizarrely enormous the vehicle.

I'm hoping to get us to think about not an Utopia, but rather an Buenopia – not perfect but good enough. In that world which will be wrought by the progressive work we begin and continue now, we will have solved the pathology of the Real Pornography: Obscene, Filthy Accumulation. How?

Well, a main task of artists is to show the Frantically Rich that those riches, like ole Midas did find out, don't ultimately satisfy. There is enough money that makes you and your family comfortable and safe. Massive Accumulations of Money that sit in your bank account fester spiritually. You don't earn or need $33 million dollars in some year. It's sick. You don't need $90,000 bucks a day. You don't need a tax break. You need prayer. That the poor sonsabitches whose lives and labor you hoovered all that lolly from don't wake up and think, "It's a lovely day for a Guillotine."

It absolutely earthquakes my mind that people are offended by a glimpse of Janet Jackson's bosom or the burning of a flag, and we are talking Mt. Everests of Bosom & Flag Dudgeon here and Congressional Hearings with pompous and pious speeches, -- and somebody gets 33 million bucks and the minimum wage is 7 bucks an hour and nobody twitches? My mind-heart struggles with the human Math – how much does what matter what? …

More ► More ▼

Obscene Accumulation is the Real Pornography.

Back in the also-obscene nuclear-weapons accumulation days, I used to wail and rail, "Let them steal our tiny piggybanks to build enough nuclear weapons to obliterate all living things and reduce all human structures to vapor and/or pebble-sized rubble 5x over. I won't even squawk about that. I am willing to go that barkingly-mad far in assuaging their paranoid fantasies.

But the 6^th world-rubbling? The 7^th? The 10^th?

No.

They have powerful inner demons that have to be fed. But they don't have to be fed our children's education and universal healthcare (certainly a jesusian idea) and a minimum wage which does not bring us shame. $14000 per minute for the fantasy Missile Crackpot Scheme aka StarWars? $50,000 every four seconds for the Iraq war?

Nope.

So, there is a sin of scale. SUVs seriously suck, but Hummers are an Express Ticket to Hell. (Arnold had 8 Hummers – you do the Math on how fast he gets to the 10th Circle of Frozen Tears.) SUVs are the vehicular equivalent of microencephaly – the smaller the brain (& no doubt the dawg), the more bizarrely enormous the vehicle.

I'm hoping to get us to think about not an Utopia, but rather an Buenopia – not perfect but good enough. In that world which will be wrought by the progressive work we begin and continue now, we will have solved the pathology of the Real Pornography: Obscene, Filthy Accumulation. How?

Well, a main task of artists is to show the Frantically Rich that those riches, like ole Midas did find out, don't ultimately satisfy. There is enough money that makes you and your family comfortable and safe. Massive Accumulations of Money that sit in your bank account fester spiritually. You don't earn or need $33 million dollars in some year. It's sick. You don't need $90,000 bucks a day. You don't need a tax break. You need prayer. That the poor sonsabitches whose lives and labor you hoovered all that lolly from don't wake up and think, "It's a lovely day for a Guillotine."

It absolutely earthquakes my mind that people are offended by a glimpse of Janet Jackson's bosom or the burning of a flag, and we are talking Mt. Everests of Bosom & Flag Dudgeon here and Congressional Hearings with pompous and pious speeches, -- and somebody gets 33 million bucks and the minimum wage is 7 bucks an hour and nobody twitches? My mind-heart struggles with the human Math – how much does what matter what? [BXA]

I have to recommend to you an always free consultation with my friend Dan Gero, a journalist and philosopher from Mars. Of course he's in disguise. He doesn't want to get incinerated, smithereened, or dissected. I can get you in touch with him though if you're earnest. A long chat and a cup of cocoa with someone from another planet is very sobering. Excruciatingly illuminating. You try to explain that a free market (hahaha) always brings the best result. It doesn't. It brings random and insane and clearly stupid results, but it's an article of economic theology that it always works better than, say, that Satan of Capitalists, the Government. I got a Rapture Ticket I can sell you if you believe that.

Explain slowly and clearly to a patient philosopher from another planet why we get so twisted in a nutknot about Janet Jackson's bosom or some such and the polite sympathetic look in his kind alien eyes is unbearable. When you see your species from the vantage of someone from another planet whose insight isn't clouded by tribal prejudices (the human tribe), there's a fair amount of nonsense that's too ludicrous to defend.

"Well," I said, "in the dominant Religion in my nation . . ."

"Excuse me," he will say softly, "What's a nation?"

"Uhh. Well, it has a square rectangle of colored cloth that you wave on a stick or run up a pole. Your rectangle of striped colored cloth tells you which nation is yours, sort of. You have a special rousing war song. You hardly ever kill people who wave the same colored rectangle of cloth even if you hate them. If they have a different colored rectangle of cloth and your government says to, you kill them even if you like them. Or you kill them even if you don't have a clue whether you would like them or not if you sat down together to have a burger and a beer. You kill people who step over your border if your government is really mad at them."

"What's a border?"

"Uhh. Well, it's a line that separates my nation from Juan's nation."

"We have very powerful holo-telescopes on Mars. I've never seen such lines. We can count the trees in your forests, but I have never seen these lines?"

"Uhhh. Well, they're there. Uhhh. Well, they're on pieces of paper we call maps. They matter. We kill for them. We die for them. I've never seen one either. But. But they're there. They're very real to us. I don't know why."

"So you were telling me about the dominant 'Religion' in your nation, now that I understand what a nation is."

"Yeah, in the dominant Religion in our nation, they have one special day a week where they go drink the blood and eat the flesh of their God's Son."

When you tell these kinds of things to a philosopher from another planet, and you see the politely veiled recoiling look on his face, it's hard to want to have 'Human' stamped on your Galactic Passport.

As a friend of mine says, "We have our work cut out for us to get 'equality of human value' around our whole spaceship. Capitalism has significant strengths. One of the great flaws of untended capitalism, however, is its collateral-damageizing of workers. Stupid becomes bad becomes evil when you aren't watching. It'd be better to go back to beads and barter if paper money and then just chicken scratches symbolizing paper money become more important than the people."

The idea that unless people are motivated by Continually Basted and Stuffed (like the Thanksgiving Turkey) Greed, we will devolve into uninventive sloth is balderdash, but it is an Article of Faith justifying the Grotesque Accumulations Of Cold Gold. Let's take three counter-indications. Most artists make zilch until after they die and then all the Richies buy up these symbols of something more meaningful than that Bottom Line. Us artists work like dogs for zilch.

Legions of women before the modern era did godszillions of useful volunteer work for centuries without money remuneration. Similarly almost all of the people who labor like dogs in non-profits are lousily underpaid, but they do the work passionately anyway.

Europeans who are hugely more taxed manage to have verve enough to continue to be entrepreneurial at a rate comparable to America's verve -- with much more public accountability.

So we can take 'greed as necessary motivation' off the table. It's a hoary crock that gets hauled out in these arguments and somehow stops all further thought. Forget it. It's stupid. It's not true.

We'll explore more of the solutions to the Real Pornography of Obscene Accumulation under the kind but relentless gaze of our Martian friends, unblinded by economic creeds, but for the moment, begin to study and dream and mull over a future in which you cannot feel or be lionized as powerful and successful if the planet, our Buenopia, is not pleasant and prosperous for also the least among us. Where you don't get to have Two Mansions until everyone has one Swell Hut with indoor plumbing. A kind of inner gyroscope of justice, or a justice-cap to Obscene Accumulation. I am not, by the way at all against your having a lot more than Mark or Mary, but there is a sin of scale -- what they called in 1450 AD, stynking synnes vile.

Along with them 3 Rs, we might want to start also teaching one J – the simple human math of justice.

▲

Cheney's Mistress,

Pamela Pitzer Willesford's Diary pt 2 ..

Pamela's Pomeranian

Pamela Pitzer Willesford was the Third Huntress on 2/11 When Dick Shot Harry on the vast Armstrong Ranches in South Texas. Indeed, Pamela P. Willesford, Ambassadress to Switzerland, was the closest witness to The Deed. Ms. Armstrong was so far away, she thought Mr. Cheney had been felled with a heart attack instead of his having blasted Mr. Harry Whittington in the face and chest with a shotgun.

Note: This material is extremely scurrilous and scatological, remarkably tasteless, and rife with raunch and contumely. If that ain't your cuppo tea, I implore you to skip it.

If it weren't of such excruciating historical significance I would never print such nouveau faux upperclass smut. And this is the redacted version. For the unexpurgated filth and mindblowing world domination schemes, enter your ycn, yocto-code-number in the usual place.

A copy of this was sent to me by Mr. Azul, a whistleblower in deepest cover as a servant for the Darth family. ('Darth' is the zetta-secret Knights of Jest cryptonym for Mr. Cheney.) Mr. Azul has been Darth's valet for decades. The mole of moles, it is the most dangerous job in the world. Like copying the Pentagon Papers, copying Pamela P. Willesford's Diary entails an ultra-risk that neither you nor I can shudderingly imagine.

Don't birdshot the messenger aka Don't be shooting the messenger – at least not in the face and chest. (read first Pamela's Diary, part 1 )

Pamela Pitzer Willesford's Diary pt 2 ..

Pamela's Pomeranian

How will anyone ever forgive me!!?!! This struggle between moi and GiganDick may incinerate the whole world, but I have my pride & GiganDick's horrid little henchmen have Marshmallow, my prize Pomeranian.

GiganDick wants disgusting favors to which I said No! and then they stole my fluffy sweetums Marshie. When GiganDick gets denied, his 'condition' gets exacerbated – he starts raving about dune snakes and Conplan 8022 and B61-11s (nuclear-tipped tac nukes). We were having one of our romps in the RBA Zentral Bank private vault knee-deep in Halliburton billions when he, buck-naked, a tripod, so visibly manly, looks at me with that sweet little sneer and says, "I'm gonna bust their bunkers and their balls over there in Tehran, Pammie, and ain't nobody gonna stop me. I will rain tac nukes down upon their sinning, heathen bunkers until they scream Uncle, Uncle, Uncle Sam!" When GiganDick gets moody, I know some country's got to pay.

I looked up the tactical nukes and my God, I'm very afraid. A tactical nuke is about 1/3 the yield of Hiroshima. Nobody, even Karl, as nasty a bit of business as I've known since I was born, dares speak up to GiganDick. Not even the Gorgon Babs Bush, who looks like she has fifty writhing snakes for hair and is the coldest, most self-impressed woman I ever met, dares naysay GiganDick.…

More ► More ▼

Cheney's Mistress,

Pamela Pitzer Willesford's Diary pt 2 ..

Pamela's Pomeranian

Pamela Pitzer Willesford was the Third Huntress on 2/11 When Dick Shot Harry on the vast Armstrong Ranches in South Texas. Indeed, Pamela P. Willesford, Ambassadress to Switzerland, was the closest witness to The Deed. Ms. Armstrong was so far away, she thought Mr. Cheney had been felled with a heart attack instead of his having blasted Mr. Harry Whittington in the face and chest with a shotgun.

Note: This material is extremely scurrilous and scatological, remarkably tasteless, and rife with raunch and contumely. If that ain't your cuppo tea, I implore you to skip it.

If it weren't of such excruciating historical significance I would never print such nouveau faux upperclass smut. And this is the redacted version. For the unexpurgated filth and mindblowing world domination schemes, enter your ycn, yocto-code-number in the usual place.

A copy of this was sent to me by Mr. Azul, a whistleblower in deepest cover as a servant for the Darth family. ('Darth' is the zetta-secret Knights of Jest cryptonym for Mr. Cheney.) Mr. Azul has been Darth's valet for decades. The mole of moles, it is the most dangerous job in the world. Like copying the Pentagon Papers, copying Pamela P. Willesford's Diary entails an ultra-risk that neither you nor I can shudderingly imagine.

Don't birdshot the messenger aka Don't be shooting the messenger – at least not in the face and chest. (read first Pamela's Diary, part 1 )

Pamela Pitzer Willesford's Diary pt 2 ..

Pamela's Pomeranian

How will anyone ever forgive me!!?!! This struggle between moi and GiganDick may incinerate the whole world, but I have my pride & GiganDick's horrid little henchmen have Marshmallow, my prize Pomeranian.

GiganDick wants disgusting favors to which I said No! and then they stole my fluffy sweetums Marshie. When GiganDick gets denied, his 'condition' gets exacerbated – he starts raving about dune snakes and Conplan 8022 and B61-11s (nuclear-tipped tac nukes). We were having one of our romps in the RBA Zentral Bank private vault knee-deep in Halliburton billions when he, buck-naked, a tripod, so visibly manly, looks at me with that sweet little sneer and says, "I'm gonna bust their bunkers and their balls over there in Tehran, Pammie, and ain't nobody gonna stop me. I will rain tac nukes down upon their sinning, heathen bunkers until they scream Uncle, Uncle, Uncle Sam!" When GiganDick gets moody, I know some country's got to pay.

I looked up the tactical nukes and my God, I'm very afraid. A tactical nuke is about 1/3 the yield of Hiroshima. Nobody, even Karl, as nasty a bit of business as I've known since I was born, dares speak up to GiganDick. Not even the Gorgon Babs Bush, who looks like she has fifty writhing snakes for hair and is the coldest, most self-impressed woman I ever met, dares naysay GiganDick.[BXA]

Karl is walking botulism, utterly sadistically toxic. Once at one of GiganDick's orgies, Karl got flattened on Utopias beers at 100 bucks a bottle and Duoro River Fladgate Port at 100 dollars a glass – it's fortified with peasants' blood or some such. He told me that when he was five years old, he realized that he'd been born on December 25 and that he was the Anti-Christ. It was his duty to hurt and ruin people to soften them up for God's lidless-eyes interrogation in the Last Days. "Besides," he said with the reptilian little thin-lipped grin in his cherub face, "It's fun causing pain." He likes people to know that it was him who ruined them and that they cannot lay a finger on him. He's a genuine creep. But he can't call out the bombs like GiganDick.

I'm actually pretty deviant myself and I and GiganDick get up to all manner of no good, but this new disgusting stuff he wants to perpetrate with me is just too sinful for even someone as steeped in sin as moi. I mean I actually love it when we gallop along with GiganDick in the saddle while he brandishes his precious Brescia Perazzi 28 gauge hollering, "Bombs away!" I like it when he growls, "I'm your Robust Nuclear Earth Penetrator, Pammie!" Of course he was never actually in the military, but he sure like to play General Dick and Army Nurse Pamela. Now these little games (Lynne is terminally dull dull dull) used to keep him a little defused out on the world-conquering front, but since he blasted Harry with birdshot for flirting with me and I won't participate in these new perversions, he's gotten dangerously restless and even more peevish than usual. Last week he sent me one of my darling Pomeranian Marshmallow's paws in one of those velvet jewelry boxes in which you expect a big diamond ring, which I did.

Marshie's paw!! Both Iran and I are in deepest doodoo. There is nothing whatever Iran can do, no submission, no capitulation servile enough. If you aren't a eunuch, forget it. They are doomed. The world can cry out. The American people (those sheep -- unlikely to do more than whatever the baaa equivalent of whimper is) might be aghast. Only I could stop him or slow him or divert him, but he cut my Pomeranian's paw off and wants to make me watch and join activities I refuse to. WMD = Wickedly Mutilated Dogs.

////Yes, dogs. Now I've learned that GiganDick has a kennel of important dogs. Oh my Lord Jesus Christ, I went thru GiganDick's briefcase while he was getting his post-coital massage at The Sanctum at our pet Borgo La Bognaia, the 6-star resort so exclusive that only billionaires and their hotsie tarts get to stay here. No wives allowed. So, I'm not so young and bimboesque, but I can hunt quail and he likes his gals to be good, ahem, with big guns.

He has got this whole kennel of 3-pawed important dogs. JCS chief General Peter Pace's poodle pup is there. Rove's Rottweiler. Condo's Borzoi. Colin's Chihuahua. Scooter's Schnauzer (who lost a second paw after the Plame Leak court filing last week!) GiganDick's got Polaroids of the dogs in various states of mutilation. It's like Abu Canine. He sends audio tapes of a CIA interrogator saying "Here, Marshmallow, here Marshmallow," and then the horrific doggie screams as they hack off the first paw. Then you hear the officer say, "Cauterize that wound, soldier. We don't want it to die. The VPOTUS may need more paws from this animal."

GiganDick has clearly gone from bonkers to berserk. Only a gigagenius of evil would conceive of kidnapping people's dogs. People might sacrifice a child to the nobility of saving their country and/or the world and tell the truth anyway, but sacrifice their dog? Never. The covert kennel is in Easton, Maryland in the basement of the Tidewater Inn where Robert Mitchum drank himself blotto for a time and where on white starched-linen tablecloths, you can be served bowls of thick, greenish sea turtle soup for your hangover.

GiganDick plans to do both Iran and NoKo (North Korea) on the same night with "a blizzard of tacs." He shouts, "I'll cut the nuts off Mahmoud and Dear Leader Kim with one sword," as he struts himself nekkid in front of the mirrored wall of our secret Site R suite in Sabillasville, Maryland, the under-the-mountain city where our Leaders go "to copulate and contemplate," as it's said by the servants behind our backs. The really Enormous Cheeses like GiganDick, Karl, Condo, Donnie walk around the underground city naked. GiganDick carries a riding crop to instill discipline among the minions. Under Raven Rock Mountain is the ultra-luxurious Safe Haven for when the Bad Guys Drop The Big One. There are gold-fringed American flags jutting out above the headboard of our big round bed. All the hand-painted wallpaper is huge American flags with huge portraits of GiganDick being gigantic on every wall that's not mirrored. There are slave-artists kept in the Site R dungeons to perform enforced decorating tasks. Some people you think are dead are down there. They cloned Norman Rockwell and they make him paint their portraits for their rooms. (Norm2 told me, "I should have been a lot edgier when I had the chance. I got hooked on that Saturday Evening Post covers money.")

(Oh my Lord Jesus Christ, I hear GD coming down the hall. It's a clumping shuffle with a kind of snorting and slurping that he's learned to disguise in public.) Iran has got him crazy. He salutes himself in the mirror, naked and, ahem, manly, and shouts, "I'll show those un-American bastards who not to jerk off."

a Note from Mr. Azul came in this package.

Friend Fleet, in haste – Here's the next shipment of Pamela Pitzer Willesford's Diary. She hadn't known about the dogjacking operation -- K9 Insurance, Leverage and Liquidation, KILL. I didn't have the heart to tell her. Then VPOTUS had her adorable little fluffy Pomeranian, Marshmallow, snatched to keep her from blowing the lid on the Iran Plan . (VPOTUS requires the servants in private to leave off the 'V' and just call him POTUS.) I heard VPOTUS snickering and sneering it up with KarlBoy about "curtising that upstart Iran with tacs and spaying Dear Leader at the same time." (Re 'curtising,' remember General Curtis LeMay was the genius who called for 'bombing Vietnam back into the Stone Age,' becoming a hero with ostrich huevos for Cheney et Ilk back when.

Vice and KarlBoy do an unseemly amount of hammer & tonging, by the way, often yelling, "In Jesus' Name" at what one assumes are the apogeetic moments. I find religious perversion especially unsettling tho I am certainly not religious myself -- having seen up close the hideous hypocritical harm it can lay waste with. No way one remains religious after you've seen what religionism has done to this crowd. Give me a crackhead over a christhead any day. Poor, sweet Jesus is utterly absent around here, to be sure.

I don't know how you get the word out on how avalanchingly dangerous it's getting now that they're feeling cornered. For awhile I thought that Mrs. Pamela could mitigate some of Vice's pyre of ire and insane moods, but now it's all drumbeat of bombing, tacs this & tacs that. They're all obsessed with 'tactical nukes' which is perhaps the ultimate euphemism and delusion – like 'smart bomb.' "We're gonna show those sandeaters who's boss," Veep utters or mutters a dozen times a day.

Sometimes I wish I weren't a certified shrink with a sheaf of putatively prestigious degrees. Recall the definition of 'paranoid schizophrenia': "In this type of schizophrenia, the individual has feelings of being persecuted or plotted against. Affected individuals may have grandiose (over-the-top) delusions associated with protecting themselves from the perceived plot.

"The key symptoms are delusions and/or auditory hallucinations. Paranoid schizophrenia usually does not involve the disorganized speech and behavior that is seen in other types of schizophrenia. Patients with paranoid schizophrenia typically are tense, suspicious, guarded, and reserved."

Well, Veep and KarlBoy are both meganoids – meganoid schizophrenics. The reason this kind of megalomadness is so very hard to detect is that their own delusions are so self-consistent, so self-coherent that they seem more convincing, more truthful than a normaler person whose version of anything is tinct with a few hesitations and doubts. These Ilk are 100% doubt-free. Does God speak to you? Their versions of things are made radiant, illuminated by the pure testostermoronic patriotism and religiousism drugs they inhale, ingest, and swill 52/365.

Their conviction gave the country a contact-paranoid-high. Rather than hypocritical, they are insane. They drink their own koolaid and do chasers of their own snake-oil.

For the time I stay safe by portraying a perfect stupid, devoted shuffling obedience. To them, all servants are invisible and being black doubles my invisibility. As long as I say "Yes, Massah" and keep my eyes sufficiently submissively downcast, I should stay stealth.

They'll get me of course, as they will you. We're doomed. But maybe we can give some courage to some undeluded militant pacifist rebels on the way out. The Old-Lace Option crosses my mind with increasing frequency. But they've made The Menace so hydra-headed, where does one begin, or end?

It dismays me, Fleet, that people get so disgusted up about the hideous things these SansSouls do to dogs, but barely ruffle a feather at the incendiary rending wrought upon children. 'Collateral damage' thinking. It stinks.

Do not doubt, by the way, that Cheney Reigns with his Prince of Vicious, KarlBoy, as his henchboy-in-chief. But Barbara Bush is the Queen of Nasty. I can see where the vacuous Prezzie gets his essential meanness – in all facets of that word. The clueless hubris of the nouveau riche.

Stay alive, Fleet.

Mr. Azul

……^+^……….

…..…^+^……….

Notes:

VPOTUS is a Secret Service acronym for Vice President of the United States;

Old Lace Option – cf Arsenic & Old Lace;

Militant Pacifist – my favorite teeshirt. Pacifism in its strong, in-your-face mode;

The formal definition of 'paranoid schizophrenia' is from Merck Source.

▲

Cheney's Mistress' Diary, part 1

Pamela Pitzer Willesford was the Third Huntress on 2/11 When Dick Shot Harry on the vast Armstrong Ranches in South Texas. Indeed, Pamela P. Willesford, Ambassadress to Switzerland, was the closest witness to The Deed. Ms. Armstrong was so far away, she thought Mr. Cheney had been felled with a heart attack instead of his having blasted Mr. Harry Whittington in the face and chest with a shotgun.

Note: This material is scurrilous, scatological, tasteless, and rife with raunch and contumely. If that ain't your cuppo tea, I implore you to skip it.

If it weren't of such excruciating & excoriating historical significance, I would never print such nouveau faux upperclass smut. And this is the redacted version. For the unexpurgated filth and mindblowing world domination schemes, enter your ycn, yocto-code-number in the usual place.

A copy of this was sent to me by Mr. Azul, a whistleblower in deepest cover as a servant for the Darth family. ('Darth' is the zetta-secret Knights of Light cryptonym for Mr. Cheney.) Mr. Azul has been Darth's valet for decades. The mole of moles, it is the most dangerous job in the world. Like copying the Pentagon Papers, copying Pamela P. Willesford's Diary entails an ultra-risk that neither you nor I can shudderingly imagine.

Don't birdshot the messenger aka Don't be shooting the messenger –- at least not in the face and chest.

Pamela Pitzer Willesford's Diary, Part 1

When I got the note from one of my secret love spies (Lottie Libby, Scooter's wife, who, by the way, steps out too) about GD's trip to Rolling Rock Game Club in Pennsylvania where he shot 70 semi-tame pheasants before lunch, I, ahem, dampened my Parisian couture panties. (Paris is so close to Bern, that capital of Swiss chocolates and more to the point my favorite Swiss bank.) I'm the one who nicknamed Dick, 'GD' as our love-code for Gigantic Dick (Truth isn't everything; staying alive is, as Eva would tell you.) The Secret Service even uses 'GD' now, as he includes quite a few of them in his harem.

GD has young George completely on a string. (Prezzie we call young Georgie when we giggle, GD & me, after you know what, our heads on the pillows and GD with his dentures out and his gums pinkly glistening.) Anyhow Prezzie begs to be one GD's mares, but GD tortures him by refusing this honor. Gigantic is so clever at torture. He was born to torture. In a past life he was Torquemada's shadowy more vicious advisor. So sexy. So sexy to hear him talk about the rack and the Iron Maiden, especially the ghastly impaling dirty version.

He calls me his Swiss Miss. It was my very veiled threat to go to the International Enquirer with 'Sex Secrets of Gigantic Dick' that won me The Plum – Ambassadress to Switzerland -- as they say in Ambassador Scam circles where the hardest decision any of us makes from day to day is between Krug Clos du Mesnil 95 and Cristal 1990 for that night's gala.…

More ► More ▼

Pamela Pitzer Willesford was the Third Huntress on 2/11 When Dick Shot Harry on the vast Armstrong Ranches in South Texas. Indeed, Pamela P. Willesford, Ambassadress to Switzerland, was the closest witness to The Deed. Ms. Armstrong was so far away, she thought Mr. Cheney had been felled with a heart attack instead of his having blasted Mr. Harry Whittington in the face and chest with a shotgun.

Note: This material is scurrilous, scatological, tasteless, and rife with raunch and contumely. If that ain't your cuppo tea, I implore you to skip it.

If it weren't of such excruciating & excoriating historical significance, I would never print such nouveau faux upperclass smut. And this is the redacted version. For the unexpurgated filth and mindblowing world domination schemes, enter your ycn, yocto-code-number in the usual place.

A copy of this was sent to me by Mr. Azul, a whistleblower in deepest cover as a servant for the Darth family. ('Darth' is the zetta-secret Knights of Light cryptonym for Mr. Cheney.) Mr. Azul has been Darth's valet for decades. The mole of moles, it is the most dangerous job in the world. Like copying the Pentagon Papers, copying Pamela P. Willesford's Diary entails an ultra-risk that neither you nor I can shudderingly imagine.

Don't birdshot the messenger aka Don't be shooting the messenger –- at least not in the face and chest.

Pamela Pitzer Willesford's Diary, Part 1

When I got the note from one of my secret love spies (Lottie Libby, Scooter's wife, who, by the way, steps out too) about GD's trip to Rolling Rock Game Club in Pennsylvania where he shot 70 semi-tame pheasants before lunch, I, ahem, dampened my Parisian couture panties. (Paris is so close to Bern, that capital of Swiss chocolates and more to the point my favorite Swiss bank.) I'm the one who nicknamed Dick, 'GD' as our love-code for Gigantic Dick (Truth isn't everything; staying alive is, as Eva would tell you.) The Secret Service even uses 'GD' now, as he includes quite a few of them in his harem.

GD has young George completely on a string. (Prezzie we call young Georgie when we giggle, GD & me, after you know what, our heads on the pillows and GD with his dentures out and his gums pinkly glistening.) Anyhow Prezzie begs to be one GD's mares, but GD tortures him by refusing this honor. Gigantic is so clever at torture. He was born to torture. In a past life he was Torquemada's shadowy more vicious advisor. So sexy. So sexy to hear him talk about the rack and the Iron Maiden, especially the ghastly impaling dirty version.

He calls me his Swiss Miss. It was my very veiled threat to go to the International Enquirer with 'Sex Secrets of Gigantic Dick' that won me The Plum – Ambassadress to Switzerland -- as they say in Ambassador Scam circles where the hardest decision any of us makes from day to day is between Krug Clos du Mesnil 95 and Cristal 1990 for that night's gala.[BXA]

Gigantic and I go at it hammer and tongs (He's into tools) while that drip Lynne and that triple drip Laura go some middle-class stud strip club, stuff twenties into jock straps, and giggle. Zippety do dah. Now Condi always has had Prezzie (&/or Laura) as a toy boy, but I do not know what she sees in him. He is so callow and prefers cuddling while sucking his thumb to any manly action. Ick. (Dick is nothing if not all manly action.)

I have a platinum key card to #1 Observatory Circle, the Veep Rez, and oh the raunchy times in the pantry off GiganDick's EOB office. Before I got the Switzerland Ambassador plum, my fondest memories are of our many rendezvous in the Executive Office Building, our EOB.

Now we mostly meet in St. Moritz for what I fondly call "our unspeakable acts." Yes, that where He is all those times they say he's in a bunker. A very posh bunker indeed, I can tell you with great, apparently inspiring, views of the Matterhorn. However, my favorite Swiss rendezvous is at RBA Zentral Bank at Lagerhausweg 10, one of the many banks where Dick has his own huge private vault of Halliburton cash, ever readied for the tryst. We meet there and frolic, not so clothed, in millions of thousand dollar bills, all new. $17,000 Champagne and bathing in billions – you have no idea the aphrodisiac that is.

Lynne hates me, but she likes her own perks too much to squeal. She shoots daggers at me when swan-like I am across the room at a White House bash and Dick takes little glances at me because he knows I have no knickers under the Dior couture and that Lynnie is a terminal frump. Do you wonder that he goes hunting with moi? At these White House soirees, we always skip over to the EOB for a quick prod before the soup is served. I have dozens of 'blue dresses.'

Unfortunately she found Dick scrawling a Valentine's card to "Pammie Pussums, my Bouncing Buxom Cowgal" and freaked out. Dick has her restrained and retrained in the Veep Rez Dungeon when she gets "miffy." My hubby 'Boots' Willesford III is just a convenient cover, el beardo. Like the good Texas ole boy he is, 'Boots' has always preferred she-hogs and sheep to women. "Jee-suss Kee-rist, Pammie, you ain't even as much fun as a pure-bred Cheviot," he said to me on our wedding night. I burst into tears as you might guess. Cheviots are sheep. 'Boots' is a gut doc, (a gastroenterologist) and makes lots and lots of dough, good for a cowgal from Breckenridge TX, a half-a-horse town if there ever was one. I hope 'Boots' makes the sheep happy. I couldn't wait to get to a different continent from 'Boots' and play dungeons and dungeons, Inquisitors and nuns, with the most powerful man whoever slouched on the Earth. So, who are you & who do you screw?

Yes, yes, so it's all ultra-kinky and deeply disturbed. But what might happen if I weren't willing to relieve certain pressures and tensions from GD? Then what? A floozy a day keeps the mushroom cloud away. All I'll get in history is tsk tsk and condemnation from the closet adulterers, but I may be single-handedly saving the world from final meltdown. You should hear Dick's schemes.

I remember the night I went to Medline Plus and looked up 'paranoid schizophrenia': "In this type of schizophrenia, the individual has feelings of being persecuted or plotted against. Affected individuals may have grandiose (over-the-top) delusions associated with protecting themselves from the perceived plot.

"The key symptoms are delusions and/or auditory hallucinations. Paranoid schizophrenia usually does not involve the disorganized speech and behavior that is seen in other types of schizophrenia. Patients with paranoid schizophrenia typically are tense, suspicious, guarded, and reserved."

Well, I realized that I was dealing with a lot of danger to me and the world. Dick is deranged. I know that. But where do you think I could escape to? Once upon a time I thought I might go to wherever Bin Laden is hanging out as he seemed to be safe. Then Dick told me that they were saving Bin Laden for early September 2006 just in time for a boost to the midterm elections. What –- you thought they'd just sit there and take it in the shorts??

Of course by now you've guessed that Dick Shot Harry because Harry made lewd suggestions about his shotgun and me when we all got liquored up at lunch on 2/11. I laughed and flirted a little. Dick meant to shoot Harry even lower, if you know what I mean. Dick's the kind of guy who's a mean drunk even when he's sober.

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