Friday, 10 January 2020

Moby Beetle and Qassem Soleimani

There are a lot of things that have been going on in the recent imbroglio created by the Orange Orangutan in Iran.
First, let’s get this out of the way: the obvious interpretation of the Amerikastani murder of General Qassem Soleimani and Abu Muhandis of the Iraqi Popular Mobilisation Units (PMU) is that Amerikastan wants ISIS to return to Iraq. It was the team of Soleimani and Abu Muhandis who defeated ISIS in Iraq, and the only people in Iraq the murder will benefit is ISIS. As to why Ameikastan would want ISIS back in Iraq, the answer is equally simple: without ISIS the Imperialist States of Amerikastan has no excuse to maintain its occupation of Iraq. That is why ISIS was, after all, encouraged to capture Mosul and Fallujah and Tikrit in the first place.
Then, I have no problem whatsoever believing that many Amerikastani war criminals were eliminated or injured in the retaliatory Iranian missile strike on Amerikastani occupation force bases in Iraq.
Zionistani reporter Jacques Khoury of Ha’aretz tweeted that 224 injured Amerikastani war criminals were airlifted to Tel Aviv for treatment and then his account was mysteriously suspended with Khoury claiming, implausibly, that it was hacked. It’s extremely likely that Amerikastani casualties *would* be evacuated to zionistan for treatment because of they were taken home or to one of the NATO slaves, word would leak out at once. I predict that in the next weeks a remarkable number of Amerikastani troops will mysteriously “die in accidents” – a number corresponding exactly to the number killed in the Iranian missile barrage. Just a coincidence, of course!
However, whether or not any Amerikastani war criminal was eliminated, this is what we in the rest of the world have noticed: even though Amerikastan was warned in advance of the attack via the Swiss Embassy in Tehran, not one of the Iranian Qiam missiles was intercepted. This is, believe me, extremely significant. Why?
There are two models of Iranian Qiam missiles, the more than a decade old Qiam 1 and the (only relatively) more advanced Qiam 2. If they were Qiam 2 missiles they had terminal guidance, if they were Qiam 1 they didn’t. Qiam 1 are basically upgraded North Korean SCUD C missiles designed in the 1970s and have a circular error probability of 500 metres, very much not good for precise strikes, so it’s likely that they were Qiam 2. Why? Because the after strike images of the Amerikastani occupation base shows extremely precise hits on hangars and other facilities, that’s why. Either the Iranians were incredibly lucky, over and over, with a missile capable of only hitting within half a kilometre of the intended target....or they used missiles with terminal guidance.

But whatever model they are, they are still just upgraded SCUD C missiles from the 1970s…..and Amerikastani Patriot missiles and other defences proved totally unable to intercept them. This is not a message that went unnoticed. It did not go unnoticed by Turkey, which suddenly announced that the Russian S400 which it bought rather than the Amerikastani Patriot performed “far better than expected” in tests. It certainly did not go unnoticed by the zionist entity, which immediately began backing away from war talk, realising that if Amerikastan can’t even protect itself, it can’t protect the zionazi regime either. Fighting Iran is harder than bombing unarmed civilians in Gaza or shooting children in the West Bank. And it did not go unnoticed by the Orange Orangutan’s regime, which began dialling back tensions as fast as it could.
Yes, I believe that zionazi “prime minister” Nazinyahu was involved in Soleimani’s murder, probably the motive force in it. It, Nazinyahu I mean (no zionazi is human or even better than a virus as far as I am concerned) had expected an Amerikastani war against Iran, which it would have used to stay in power and thus out of –prison. Having found, however, that it has only made Iran stronger, it is now distancing itself from Trump’s Titanic disaster as fast as it can.
Why, before I go on further, do I consider all Amerikastanis who join their armed forces to be war criminals? Because, like gang members who volunteer for Mexican cocaine cartels or the Mafia, and immediately become criminals from the moment they join, whether or not they have yet committed a crime, any Amerikastani joining its armed forces is immediately a war criminal. No exceptions whatsoever. No sympathy either if and when they get blown to pieces.
As things stand today, though, I have absolutely no reliance on Amerikastanis being able to rein in their regime’s warmongering instincts, even if they really want to. And I have absolutely no reliance on their desire to want to. Back in the period 2003-2008, I was still naive enough to imagine that, like Indians or Pakistanis, most Amerikastanis were basically peace lovers who had nothing to do with their nation’s foreign policy. But then, as soon as the mass murdering mulatto monster Barack Hussein Obama took power, I saw those same Amerikastanis overnight turn from being anti war to enthusiastically cheering for more war. By 2016 the same Amerikastanis (the very same ones) who had literally been calling for George W Bush to be skinned alive ten years ago were cheering him as a hero because he had said some nice sounding words against Trump.
I decided, and have seen no reason to alter that decision since, that
1.     The only way Amerikastanis can be compelled to genuinely oppose their regime’s war crimes is if they are personally threatened. This is why Amerikastani regimes will do literally anything to avoid reintroducing conscription, including hiring mercenaries to do its fighting for it. The basic lesson of the Vietnam War was that the protestors were mostly motivated by the fact that they, or their spawn or boyfriends or brothers, were at risk of being exterminated by the Viet Cong. Amerikastani wars since then have been careful not to repeat that mistake.
2.     All Amerikastanis are legitimate targets, no matter whether male, female, “transgender”, or whatever, no matter whether aged 100 seconds or 100 years. There is no such thing as an innocent Amerikastani in a world where Amerikstani drone jockeys refer to the Afghan and Arab children they murder as “bugsplat” and “fun sized terrorists”. Only if and when each individual Amerikastani “civilian”, and its relatives, are at real and lethal risk can there be expected to be a change in their behaviour.
So, today’s cartoons. It’s fairly obvious what the first one is. I assume that anyone reading this has read Moby Dick, one of the greatest novels ever written, or at least is familiar with its story. It’s more than obvious that Trump is suddenly confronted with the fact that Iran is a far tougher nut to crack than expected. If that realisation means Trump can’t start a war to secure re-election in 2020, too bloody bad. Remember what happened to Ahab? Moby Dick didn’t ask to be harried and hunted. It wasn’t his fault he was forced to defend himself and eliminate the two-legged enemies who wouldn’t just leave him alone. Iran, a nation which has not invaded anyone since 1770, is in the same place, and will respond in exactly the same way.
Click to enlarge, if you want.

The second cartoon depicts Sarge and Beetle from the comic strip Beetle Bailey.

I dislike the strip intensely, and have long wanted to mock it. Also, it gives me an excuse to post the cartoon on the Comics Curmudgeon website – look at the bar on the left – where the strip is mocked by almost everyone.
As before, click to biggerofy

Unless Trump does something stupid, we will return to Jihadi Colin and his attempt to resist promotion to Caliph next episode.
Stay tuned.

Sunday, 5 January 2020

Oh Sod Off Amerikastani


Oh sod off Amerika-stani
In the hole you're so hammy
In your mind you're a hero
In the world you're a fanny.

Oh sod off Amerika-stani
In the hole you're so hammy
In your mind you're a hero
In the world you're a fanny
Uncool and staring at doom
Though you think you're so canny.
Uncool and staring at doom
Though you think you're so canny.

Flatfoot fool and only garish
Biggest bully in the entire parish
War drum tuba and scuba and your myths are all you cherish.
Anyhow you steal the plunder
Claiming your victims are terrorist jihadis
You can't hide blood shed in the bedroom
Like you couldn't in the Vietnam paddies.

You know you're a shady briber
And the source of all the baddies
In the hole you'll crouch shaking
From the rage of lasses laddies.

Oh sod off Amerika-stani
In the hole you're so hammy
In your mind you're a hero
In the world you're a fanny.
Oh sod off Amerika-stani
In the hole you're so hammy
In your mind you're a hero
In the world you're a fanny.

You thought you'd beat the Iraqi
The Afghan who crushed the British khaki
You thought you'd beat the Iraqi
The Afghan who crushed the British khaki
But things didn't go, didn't go your way
And left you broken, lost and whiny
And left you broken, lost and whiny.
The way was supposed to be easy clear
You'd make the world tremble in shock and fear
And the countries would go down tumbling
While you sat, sat drinking beer.

Oh sod off Amerika-stani
In the hole you're so hammy
Oh sod off Amerika-stani
In the hole you're so hammy
Hey nanny, hey nanny nanny
Hey nanny, hey nanny nanny.
Hey nanny, hey nanny nanny
Hey nanny, hey nanny nanny.

Ultra-dumb and bloody bungler
Hero? Hah! Just a robbing killer
In your hole you'll stumble cowering
When the world rises up in anger.

Yes, you're a cowardly cuckoo
Soon in the mincer you'll be too
Whipped and humbled by the people
You thought would be boiling in a bloody stew.
Once far but creeping ever near
Doomsday whispers in your trembling ear
Scream and fight or hide and stay mum
In just a heartbeat it'll be here.
Oh sod off you zionist too
With your white flag and your star blue
For too long you've had it your way
Now it's time to get lost and go screw.

Oh sod off Amerika-stani
In the hole you're so hammy
In your mind you're a hero
In the world you're a fanny.
Oh sod off Amerika-stani
In the hole you're so hammy
In your mind you're a hero
In the world you're a fanny.

(Lyrics and "singing" by yours truly)

Friday, 3 January 2020

From The Baboon Chronicles

Once upon a time, long ago, there was a baboon troop that lived in a tree by an oasis.

It was a splendid tree, full of succulent fruit; and below the tree’s bark scurried juicy beetles, which could be scraped out with a diligent claw and crunched down with relish. And the tree’s branches were studded with thorns, so sharp and long that not even a leopard would dare venture to climb into it.

So the baboons prospered exceedingly. All day they ran around on the ground, rooting for worms and seeds, and drank deeply from the water hole. And at night they climbed on the tree, chewed at fruit and insects, and slept safely until the new day.

On the far side of the oasis there lived an old crocodile. The crocodile was very old and very large, and he did not bother the baboons at all, for they were far too swift for him to catch, and too small to be worth the effort. All day he lay on the shore, his jaws open to let the cleaner birds peck rotting food from his teeth. In the evening, as the baboons retreated into their tree, he would slip noiselessly into the water, and wait for the antelopes and zebras to come down to drink. And then he would hunt, and if he was successful, he would not hunt again for several days, for he never killed more than he could eat. This was the crocodile.

Now it so happened that one day a young baboon found a glittering stone by the water. It was red and blue and white and glittered in the sun, and the baboon liked it exceedingly. Holding it up in his paws, he rushed back to the tree to show the other baboons what he had found.

“It is pretty,” the baboons all said, “but it isn’t any use, is it?” And they glanced at it out of the corners of their eyes, for they were all taken by it.

“If you give it to me,” one of the other baboons said, a big baboon, with a mane like a lion.  “If you give it to me, I will give you three extra fruit and a beetle tonight.”

“But I can find three fruit and a beetle to eat by myself,” the young baboon said. “Why should I give it to you?”

“I live on the branch with the best fruit and beetles in the tree,” the big baboon responded. “I can give you bigger, tastier fruit and juicier beetles than you would find elsewhere.”

So the young baboon gave the big baboon the glittering stone, and in return got three fruit and a beetle, which were perhaps bigger and juicier than elsewhere on the tree, or perhaps not; but they certainly looked bigger and juicier to the other young baboons.

And the other big baboons looked at the glittering stone and each said to himself, “He has a stone that we don’t. He will claim to be better than us because he has the stone. Therefore I must get my own stone too. But where can I find one?”

The next morning the big baboons each discreetly called some young baboons to him. “Find one of the glittering stones for me,” they said, “and I will give you four fruit and two beetles to eat.” And all the young baboons went out on to the shores of the oasis, and dug assiduously among the rocks and sand and grass, looking for a stone. And by the end of the day each had found one stone, except one, who had found two.

That night all the big baboons had a stone each, except one, who had now two. And all night the other big baboons twisted uneasily on their branches, looking at their stones and reminding themselves that one of them now had two.

So the next morning they summoned the younger baboons again. “Get more stones,” they said, “and you’ll get five fruit and three beetles to eat.”

All day the young baboons toiled, searching for stones instead of looking for food for themselves; and when they finally arrived, tired and hungry, they had found enough stones so that each of the big baboons had got more. Some now had two, some three, some even four or five, and one or two even had as many as seven.

“This will never do,” the baboons who only had three or four each said to himself. “Tomorrow I must have more stones than anyone else.”

“But,” the young baboons whined the next morning, “we spend all our time looking for these stones, and we have no time left over to get food or water for ourselves; the few fruit and beetles you give us at night are hardly enough to assuage our hunger and thirst.”

“How dare you,” the big baboons roared. “We give you these excellent fruit and beetles from our branches, which you have no right to taste otherwise, and you will not even look for stones for us. Very well, we will not allow you to eat even a single fruit, or a single beetle, from the tree. Let us see how you manage to live on seeds and roots alone.”

Soon, then, the young baboons were starving, for all of them were forced to compete for the few seeds and roots and insects in the grass by the oasis, and not touch even a single dried-up rind of a fruit from the tree; and when, at night, they crept up into the branches for shelter, the big baboons chased them away with fearsome roars and gnashing of teeth.

“You won’t eat from our branches, you won’t sleep in our branches,” they said. “Away with you!”

“But we’ll starve to death,” whined the young baboons, “or the leopard will get us.”

“That is none of our affair,” the big baboons said. “You are responsible for your own plight.” And they went up into their tree to eat fruit and scratch up bark to find beetles to gnaw on, while the young baboons went off hungry into the night to find what shelter they could.

Soon enough, as the big baboons had known, the young baboons one by one crept back begging to be allowed to look for stones in return for fruit and beetles and shelter. “Very well,” the big baboons told them, “but you’ll get only one fruit and one beetle for each stone you find. You’re lazy and greedy and we don’t have enough to feed your greed.”

So the young baboons spent all their days searching for stones, and gratefully eating whatever fruit and beetles they could earn from their labours. But, as time went on, little by little they had searched almost the entire shores of the oasis, and collected all the stones they could find, and there were no more to be found.

“Get us more stones,” the big baboons thundered. “We need more stones.”

“There are plenty of stones on the other side of the watering hole,” the young baboons reported, “but we cannot reach them. They are where the old crocodile spends his day basking in the sun. If we come close to him, he will bite us in half.”

“We must have the stones,” the big baboons declared. “The evil old crocodile is stealing our stones, the stones that belong to us. We will make war on him! He is old and stupid, and we are many and have sharp claws and teeth. And, besides, the Great Baboon is on our side, so we cannot possibly lose.”

And so the baboons formed into an army and stormed the other end of the oasis, where the old crocodile was dozing peacefully in the sun. They came hooting and howling, throwing stones and sharp sticks as they came, their fangs and claws bared.

The old crocodile watched them come, and tolerated their stones and sticks and their sharp bites as long as he could.

Then he stirred, and with one sweep of his tail he smashed half the baboons into the middle of next week. And he opened his gigantic jaws, and bit the other half in two with one snap and a half.

Then he went back to sleep on the shore, because the day was only half done.

And the stones around him glittered, green and white and red in the sun.

 Copyright B Purkayastha 2020


Note to Reader:

The above is not meant to be satire on the Amerikastani warmongering against Iran, culminating in the murder of General Qassem Soleimani.

And if you believe that the above is not meant to be satire on the Amerikastani warmongering against Iran, you must be an idiot...or else an Amerikastani.

Wednesday, 1 January 2020

New Year Post 2020

2019 was not a good year.

Let me elucidate: 2019 was an extremely bad year. It started bad, kept getting worse, and ended with me in a hospital bed with a temperature of 41.7 degrees Celsius, being pumped full of antibiotics intravenously four times a day. In between I got hardly anything done: writing became something I did not even want to think about.

I lost one good friend: Jerry Larson, known to friends as Harry Hamid, and a daughter: Juno, my Neapolitan Mastiff. I did gain a couple of babies, Vesta and Shaka. So.

I drew some cartoons, not as many as I might have wanted. Motivation became more and more elusive. Why should I do anything when almost nobody cared?

I left all social media in 2019, probably permanently and forever. The one I was still using, VKontakte, suspended my account on plainly fictitious grounds, making it perfectly clear that their only reason to suspend me was to silence me. I have had it with social media.

Meanwhile, personally, my life was crumbling. I endured extreme stress, waking up in the middle of the night and lying awake for hours. I had to literally force myself to get out of bed in the morning to face the day.

In Hindunazistan the Modi regime created situation after situation that wrecked the country beyond repair. In this very town violence caused curfew to be imposed for weeks, and it may and probably will break out again anytime soon.

Being put in this kind of situation made me decide some things:

First, I have to get out of dentistry. I have never pretended to like this profession, but now it is literally killing me. I can’t get the last thirty years of my life back and start over, but I can try and at least see to it that my next thirty years are at least tolerable.

Secondly, since I don’t know how to earn a living at anything else, and I can’t take years off to retrain (and then compete for employment against people less than half my age) I can only try and earn money writing.

Third, in India it is impossible to earn money writing.

Therefore I need to find agents and publishers elsewhere.

And I need to write more, and hope to find success somewhere, sometime.

Meanwhile, I will have to earn a living however I can, because I can’t go on with dentistry.

Because of my hospitalisation I couldn’t even draw my usual New Year’s cartoon. Last year on 1 January I had predicted that the final implosion of the Amerikastani Empire would begin in 2019. The end of the year saw Amerikastani war criminals crouching fearfully on the roof of the Amerikastani “embassy” in Baghdad as Iraqi security forces prevented Iraqi protestors from ripping them limb from limb: the same Iraqi security forces whose members those Amerikastani war criminals had murdered the day before. I submit that my prediction was correct.

So, a happy 2020 to you all, with more writing from me, and damnation to all things Amerikastani.

Shadow On A Wall

I wrote this song for David Rovics. He liked it. If he ever gets around to recording it, I may paint illustrations to go with the words and music. Or I might even do it if nobody sings it, ever. Not being capable of singing better than a cicada, I can't, anyway.


Keiko on a summer day, skipping down the street
Met her friend Kenji, they talked about sweets
How much they missed them, and how much they'd eat
When the war was over.

Silver fish in the silver sky
Finger on a button, death from on high
Atoms blasted to pieces, their agonised scream
Making energies that were someone's dream
And Keiko is a shadow on a wall
Shadow on a wall.
Nothing left at all
But a shadow on a wall.

Far across the sea, men in suits and uniforms
Talk over tea and cake about creating firestorms

Of might and right, of power and race
How Stalin had to be put in his place,
And Keiko is a shadow on a wall
A shadow on a wall
Nothing left of her at all
But a shadow on a wall.

Hiroshima, Nagasaki, the names you say
Did not save Thanh in Vietnam from burning the  same way
Nuclear fire or napalm, it was the same
And it seems nobody is to blame
And Keiko and Thanh are shadows on a wall
Nothing left of them, left of them at all

Arifa in Fallujah, Bushra in Mosul
Irina in Beograd, Hanifa in Kabul
Silver bombs from silver planes, and they went in a flash
Not more than shadows on a wall
Just shadows on a wall
Nothing left of them, left of them at all.

Tomorrow whose daughter will skip down the street
The world laid out at her young feet
And there will be a flash, from somewhere far away
Born of decisions made some other day.
And she will be a shadow on a wall
Like Keiko and her sisters, nothing left at all
Just a shadow on a wall
A shadow on a wall
A shadow on a wall.

Copyright B Purkayastha 2020