Save The Mother Ship: Fuck Rick Perry!


So. Today is to be a work day for me. That is to say that I need to go to my office out to Mooners Compost Plant and push some paper around. It’s been too hot for people to do any gardening or landscaping so our compost sales are really slow.

Mulch sales are brisk since one way to prevent the dehydration of your soil is to cover it with mulch. With water rationing an every-summer reality, I find it interesting that people keep watering un-mulched beds with bare soil.

Of course I also find it aggravating to see people watering the street with their automatic sprinkler systems. And people who run their fucking automatic systems more than the allotted number of days piss me off.

OK, now I’m mad. Will everybody please wake the fuck up and think. Rick Perry is wrong. God did not create Earth so that big business can rape and pillage it for profits. Wasteful, casual environmental practices are killing our planet. And our abuses of the limited potable water resources are likely what will be the end of us.

Of the many things that I find incredulous about the Christian right politicos, their attitude about the environment is the one I can least understand. All of this talk about love and nurturing and family and peace and all of those platitudinal rhetorics that those silly shitballs espouse are, in my fevered brain, negated by their positions on the environment.

Ever since I had a peyote button experience when I was seventeen, I have held the strong conviction that our Earth is a giant Mother Ship—the spacecraft that carries all of the lifeforms on our planet on a long-term trip. I’m unsure if the trip is a perpetual travel plan with no final destination or if we’re headed someplace in particular.

But I have absolute certainty that we are quickly fouling our spaceship’s operating and life support systems. I don’t think we will ever get to whereverthefuck it is we are headed.

OK, stop a second. The aforementioned “peyote button experience” wasn’t a one-button weekend. It was a month of July spent in the New Mexico dessert with Streaker Jones and His daddy. Streaker Jones’ father was a Peyote Indian medicine man, a spiritual guide of his people who was plucked from his reservation by the army to serve during WWII. Somehow he ended his army journey dropped—broke and friendless—from the troop train in Austin, Texas at war’s end.

He took Streaker Jones and me on a trip to collect the peyote buttons he needed for his medicine. We spent the days of that month walking the dusty earth of western New Mexico plucking the fruit of the peyote cactus, and the nights were spent drinking Carta Blanca beer and listening to the old man tell us the Peyote Indian version of history.

We didn’t ingest the drug every day, but after the first week I remember that I managed to maintain the desired state of enlightenment that a “seeker of truth” needed with just a few buttons a week. For me, one desired effect of the peyote was that my ADHD calmed to where all the thoughts in my head organized themselves. I still had the same numbers of thoughts, but I could organize them to where only one or two were primaries and the others blended into the fabric of my mind.

Anyway, this one night we were leaning against our sleeping bags, listening to a story of how Earth first became inhabited with near-human inhabitants. Talking Feathers, that was his abbreviated name, was telling the story and I was enraptured with it. With a full bladder of Carta Blanca, I got up to pee and walked away from our little camp, the desert’s night sky bright with stars.

I closed my eyes to pee, enjoying the feeling you can only get from a good pee event. At some point I opened my eyes, stared at the stars and was hit smack-dab in the face with a truth. I was hit with a true epiphany.

“We humans are marooned on a space ship just like those two guys in the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey. And pollution is our HAL 9000!”

Holy shit. Judging from the rate of my digressions in less than two pages of story, I could use a peyote button now.

OK, look. What I’m trying to say is this. If a man truly believes that God created the earth and all of its creatures—creatures both great and small—then don’t we have the fucking OBLIGATION to protect that earth and its creatures? If I truly think that God made me the earth’s shepherd, don’t I need to be sure that I don’t ruin the farm?

Shouldn’t I be concerned that my wasteful uses of water will run the stock tanks dry? Shouldn’t I be concerned that my ruining the ozone layer will create climate changes that lay my soil fallow?

Shouldn’t I have just a teeny-weenie-itsie-bitsy bit of concern that my reckless, wasteful environmental habits are killing my spaceship? Shouldn’t I worry that me being an asshole will cause my spaceship to suffer a shift in its planetary relationship with the sun and that we’ll start spinning out of control and squish everything back into primordial stew under the crush of gravity?


Folks, Texas governor Rick Perry is an asshole. An asshole in many ways. While most of his co-runners on the Republican side of the presidential race are lackadaisical towards the environment, the little prick Rick Perry is the environment’s serial killer. He has systematically killed the Texas environment since he first took office, and he’s looking to start killing an environment near you.

FUCK RICK PERRY before Rick Perry Fucks you.

Now, save a few gallons of water and go pee in the sink. Spaceship Mother Earth will be grateful. Manana, y’all.

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2 Responses to “Save The Mother Ship: Fuck Rick Perry!”

  1. Squatlo says:

    (cue sound of mechanical voice of Hal 9000 singing his song to let “Dave” know his memory was being erased…”Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do… I’m half crazy, all for the love of you… It won’t be a stylish marriage, I can’t afford a carriage… But you’ll look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle built for two…” fade to reflections in Dave’s airsuit mask…)

    You’ve poked a Kubrick fan in the frontal lobes, and now this kind of shit will be oozing out of me all damn day. Way to go.

    Now I’m seeing those creepy twin girls standing in the hallway of the Overlook Hotel as Jack’s son (“Redrum! Redrum!”) watches the hallway filling up with blood. See what you’ve done?

    There’s Slim Pickens riding the A-bomb out of the bomb-bay of the B-52, triggering the Russian Fail-Safe doomsday device in Dr. Strangelove, too.

    And a monkey just tossed a femur bone into the air in front of the monolith. Dammit, Mooner… make this shit stop!

    Now Nicole Kidman is glaring at Tom Cruise as she stands in her bra and panties in the bedroom doorway (okay, that one’s okay) in that creepy last film of Kubrick’s.

    Gotta go, I think I have most of these on DVD somewhere around here.

    Fuck Rick Perry.

  2. admin says:

    Squat. Welly, welly, welly, welly well. To what do I owe the extreme pleasure of this surprising visit?

    Did I get enough welly’s in there? Indeed–FUCK RICK PERRY!

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