So there I was, trapped in Dallas, Texas. A "business trip", they called it, but it was more like a psychedelic trip. Even the local NPR station was promoting the Republican faith-based free-base version of politics, with uncontested, fawning long interviews with the Chair of the Republican Committee of Texas.
It was dusk, and the hazy brown smog of Dallas was fading away, to cover the moon instead of the sun. The stars at night are not big and bright deep in the heart of Texas anymore. They're covered up by air pollution.
I ambled past the Pizza Hut and CompUSA headquarters, not knowing how I could ever find my way outside of the appalling Dallas sprawl, when I heard a jangle come out from behind an over-groomed stand of Yuccas. A young guy with slicked back hair and thick-rimmed glasses was playing a song on an acoustic guitar. The words went something like this:There goes my money
It's a pretty strong omen when the ghost of Buddy Holly returns, wandering the backwards corners of America, foretelling the end of the ribald reign of George W. Bush. As Christopher Guest would say, there's a mighty wind that's blowing. George W. Bush's corruption and violence are sending too many people packing off to the Land of the Dead, and damn it, the dead won't take it any more!
Dead pop singers unite to Dump Bush!
|Irregular Times require talking back.|
Give us your Irregular Retorts!
We are also eagerly awaiting original submissions of quality irregularity.