Mrs Morrison's Hotel

The 100% personal official blog for Patricia Kennealy Morrison, author, Celtic priestess, retired rock critic, wife of Jim

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Location: New York, New York, United States

I was, wait, sorry, that's "David Copperfield". Anyway, I was born in Brooklyn, grew up on Long Island, went to school in upstate NY and came straight back to Manhattan to live. Never lived anywhere else. Never wanted to. Got a job as a rock journalist, in the course of which I met and married a rock star (yeah, yeah, conflict of interest, who cares). Became a priestess in a Celtic Pagan tradition, and (based on sheer longevity) one of the most senior Witches around. Began writing my Keltiad series. Wrote a memoir of my time with my beloved consort (Strange Days: My Life With and Without Jim Morrison). See Favorite Books below for a big announcement...The Rennie Stride Mysteries. "There is no trick or cunning, no art or recipe, by which you can have in your writing that which you do not possess in yourself." ---Walt Whitman (Also @ and

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

That Dirty Little Ten-Letter Word

You know the one. The one my generation rose up against once before, stopping a war and toppling a president. The one that the current Unelected President, a four-letter word if ever there was one, is trying to pass off as a five-letter word.

E-S-C-A-L-A-T-I-O-N. There. We have it out in the open. Oh, that other word, S-U-R-G-E, is how the little F-U-C-K is hoping we’ll all spell it. But we’re better spellers than that. Or so at least I hope.

What is wrong with this guy? Something major and pathological, obviously. He and his not-so-Grand Old Party lose the Senate and the House and tons of local elections back in November, and he takes that as permission to proceed as usual.
Going back a bit, he stole one election and almost certainly two, and used a micro-thin margin of alleged victory in the second to claim a “mandate” for himself and his wretched policies and the dark Satanic majesties who command his service. (Those would be Cheney and Rove, if you’re keeping score.)

Sure, Chimpy, send 20,000 more bodies into harm’s way. As long as it’s not yours or your Stepford wife’s or your trashy daughters’, why the heck not?

There is nothing in Iraq that 20,000 more pieces of cannon fodder are going to accomplish in the next months, or the next two years (until term limits blessedly put Chimpy out of our misery), that the thousands already killed, wounded and living under a death sentence over there could not accomplish in the past four years.

The man lives in fantasyland. The Iraq Study Group says time to go. Generals on the ground say time to go. All right-thinking individuals the world over say time to go. And also they all say this country never should have been there in the first place.

And yet Chimpy says time to send in more troops. (When he’s not saying more tax cuts for the rich.) And tomorrow night he is going to get on TV in front of God and everybody and only his personal God knows how he’s going to justify it.
Escalation! Worked so nice, let's try it twice! You're already neck-deep in the Big Sandy, sure, why not? You're not the one running for re-election in two years, but you're gonna try to dump all your feculent mess right in the lap of the next guy (or girl) to sit in the Oval Office, aren't you, you little coprophage.

I want God to strike him down with a thunderbolt for every sin in the Decalogue. Well, maybe I’ll give the Chimp the benefit of the doubt on coveting his neighbor’s wife. Maybe. It’s quite possible we just haven’t found out about it yet, and when we do I want him treated fairly, of course. Every bit as fairly as President Clinton was treated.

But it just never ends. He is like the Energizer Bunny from Hell. Just keeps going and going and going…

Time to drain the battery!

I call upon all parents of young men and women stationed over there, and to those who have none—yet—to rise up as one and call down thundering anathema upon the empty head of this cynical, self-interested, smirking son of Satan and put a stop to this.

I call upon my fellow citizens to see that the emperor has not just no clothes but no brains, spine, heart, guts or soul either.

I call upon Democrats, exemplars of my lifelong party of choice, to FUCKING DO SOMETHING for a change. You were all a bunch of spineless, gutless wonders when you voted for this war in the first place. Looking at YOU, Hillary. Looking at YOU, Kerry. Looking at every single one of you who bent over and took it and then whined about how you didn’t know the facts so it wasn’t your fault you got shafted. Won’t wash. Maybe you are not the giants who once rose up like redwoods out of your party—Jack, Bobby, so many more in days of old, yes, even Lyndon!—but for God’s sake can’t you manage a growth spurt of honor and put out a few leaves to show us you’re not entirely sawed-off stumps?

I remember, though you have obviously forgotten, how Bushboy tossed off a line few years back as to how a benevolent despot was the best form of ruler. Smirking as he said it, of course, just so’s we wouldn’t miss the point that he was talking about himself (the only topic he can speak on without a script). You know, where’s Peter the Great when you really need him? (Though I doubt Bushweasel knew where the quote came from, but was merely fed it to parrot, the way he parrots everything else. He’s a gooooood parrot! Awwwwkkk!)

Well, maybe I didn’t know Peter the Great—at least I don’t think I did (paging Shirley MacLaine!)—but you, Chimp, are no great Peter. You’re just a little dick.


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