WEINERGATE


'America's Children'
(a story of Robert Oppenheimer and the atomic bomb)
by James Thackara
Chatto and Windus
London, 1984
Chapter 18, Page 145
 
 

Manmade Element 94...heavier than lead, more precious than gold, more virulent than arsenic, whose first property is its malice towards all living things... Unseparated, this double Plutonium molecule had a neutron background so feverish and independent it made rashes on the Mesa's spectrographs...No projectile known to man was fast enough to make the stuff's contagion critical before it vaporized itself. It was as if the Plutonium bullseye and Plutonium projectile were lovers who ejaculated on sight, who would have to be rushed together at impossible speeds so that penetration and fertilization occurred at the same micro-instant.
History reprises itself
anno nuclei, 55

 1978, WATERGATE

 1998, WEINERGATE 

1978, "There's a cancer on the White House, Mr. President." John Dean

 1998, "There's a stain on the White House, Mr. President." David Kendall

 1978, What did the President know, and when did he know it?

 1998, What did the President show, and to whom did he show it?

 1978, SECTS, BOOZE AND BURT BACHARACH

 1998, SEX, DRUGS AND ROCK AND ROLL

 Crazy Cock
by Henry Miller
Grove Press
New York, 1991
page 69

Over the rim of the void there rose a fiery ball raining rivers of scarlet. He knew now that the end had come, that from this livid, smoldering circle of doom there was no retreat. He was on his knees, his head buried in the black scum. Suddenly a hand seized him by the nape of the neck and flung him backward into the mire. His arms were pinioned. Above him digging her boney limbs into his chest, was a naked oak. She kissed him with her soiled lips and her breath was as hot as a bride's. He felt her wooden limbs tightening about him, pressing him to her loins. Her loins grew big and soft, her bark softening and white: she lay against him like a soft blossom, the petals of her mouth parted laciviously. Suddenly in her claw-like grip, there glittered a bright blade; the blade descended and the blood spurted ovr his neck and into his eyes. He felt his drums bursting and a flood pouring out of his mouth. She lowered her head and rubbed her scaly lips across his cheeks. Gory, she raised her face, and again the blade descended, slid along the side of his face, plunging into his throat and laid the gullet open. Swiftly and neatly she cut away the lobes of his ears. The sky was one great river of scarlet churning with swans and silver whales; a hollow mocking twang filled the void and the swans flew down, their long necks vibrating like taut strings...

Copyright Jan. 17, 1998

Jan Galligan
All Rights Reserved
Last modified Aug. 8, 1998