Dear George,
I do have occasional moments of sobriety when I put side the pipe and function as a quasi-normal human being. During those times I find myself pulled to the left end of the political spectrum, mainly because the chicks are better looking. Alas, the trouble with being a right wing stoner is that in these clean and sober moments I try to climb aboard a social movement well after the train has left the station.
The last time this happened, I found myself enamored with the Beat Generation—Ginsburg, Kerouac and all those others. So, I plunged into Zen thinking I was on the cutting edge of the avant-garde only to discover it was nineteen fucking eighty, Ronnie was in the Whitehouse, and the Beats were all working on Wall Street.
This is why your new poodle, Nicky Sarkozy, resonates with me. The guy has the same problem. He sprang into office amid clouds of confetti and flying banners, to the thrombulation of brass bands playing as he proclaimed his mission to turn France into a neoliberal paradise. You were his hero, his mentor, Jesus to his Peter.
Over he comes to America and jumps on the neoliberal train. But, there would be no coach or Pullman for Nicky. He climbs right into the engineers cab so he can enjoy the thrill of watching you race the train through a denuded landscape.
Except, the fucking train will not move. The only thing racing is Nicky’s mind.
Slowly it dawns on him that the neoliberal train is coupled to a wheezing steam locomotive that has run over too many bodies tied to the tracks and that its safety valve is so clogged with the gore of the departed that is ready to explode and send scalding steam, shards of metal and Nicky parts all across the land.
But, Nicky is cut from the same cloth as you and clings to his fantasy of motion and power. His faith in you is absolute; he knows you have the strength of character to run the train even though its boiler has exploded.
Like you and your minions he still doesn't get it, he doesn't understand that the bell curve of capital developement has arced over its apogee and that what was once creative is now an exercise in destruction. Nothing cripples the mind like a nostalgic yearning for a golden past.
Pamper him George. He is a real rarity, an ally who is so besotted with you he is blind to your multiple shortcomings.
Your admirer,
Belacqua Jones
6:26:45 AM 
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