By Bob Boldt
I hope your Thanksgiving was better than mine.
I spent the awful occasion on licensed premises,
alone with a “Tyson Frozen Turkey Parts Dinner,”
“with added tryptophan”
and “no more than 20% additional sponsored contents.”
I had been watching South Park reruns
and listening to James Woolsey sound bites
on CNN from last Thursday
where he accused Edward Snowden
of being the one person most responsible for the Paris attacks.
By three o’clock p.m., the tryptophan had successfully kicked in
and my regular afternoon nap turned south into a full-blown,
CIA-sponsored nightmare.
I was walking across Dealey Plaza
admiring the bullet-resistant curbing installed in 1964.
As I headed up the Grassy Knoll,
I noticed the once-lovely dead Aspen trees
Lady Bird Johnson had planted
to obscure the view of the road.
Who should I meet but my two old friends
and my favorite Chicago expats,
sculptor Tom Scarff and political activist Bill Monroe?
Never mind that Tom still works in Chicago
and Bill has never lived there.
Bill had on one of those old-style Democrat straw campaign hats
featuring a Florida chad
hanging in Minnie Pearlessence from the brim.
Tom said our good friend, painter Jim Crow,
had recently passed away under suspicious circumstances.
Jim was the one who, while vacationing with his wife in New York City
on September 11th, 2001,
had discovered the phone number of Harvey Matusow
scrawled on a miraculously surviving piece
of betting parlor flash paper in a shopping cart at Ground Zero.
It turns out that Matusow and Wilhelm Reich
 |  |
had hatched out the initial plans
for the 9/11 False Flag operations
while both were inmates in the Lewisburg Penitentiary
by tapping out their scheme in code on the adjoining cell wall.
Donald Trump decided to stick with his story
that he saw “thousands and thousands” of Arabs in Jersey City
cheering on the collapse of the Twin Towers.
But that wasn’t in my dream. That really happened –
the Trump contention –
not the cheering part.
The Donald’s confusion was later revealed
that he mistook an old kinescope
of Texas public school children cheering the JFK assassination.
I’m glad he was just confused and not making it up.
I can’t remember where the dream went from there.
Certainly not up. I awoke in a cold sweat.
Happy rest of Thanksgiving leftovers to one and all!
I account for the political nature of my dream
as a sneaky attempt of my unconscious mind
to sabotage my resolve not to disparage
the historical origins of this year’s sacred holiday.
Nothing more should be inferred from the contents of the dream.
Any resemblance to the guilty parties is purely, dreamily coincidental.
| Copyright © 2015 by Bob Boldt |
No comments:
Post a Comment