Though we may not agree with all Randy's opinions, Spool Pidgin firmly respects his right to free speech. And his collection of guns)
I have never met artist Jon McNaughton (though no doubt we shall meet in that holy Other Place one day and raise a glass to Christ's pimped out rumpus room), but when my novels hit Amazon's #1 in the self-published christian steampunk genre, I shall commission him to paint the ceiling of my compound.
McNaughton is the Tea Party Titian, the GOP Giovanni, the libertarian equivalent of whoever it is paints those pictures of puppies in baskets and orphans with banjos. In a nutshell: a genius.
Come, let us take a trip into his visionary world. Look upon his works, ye Maddow, and despair...
I love that the name of this painting is called Stand Your Ground. It represents everything that the Left is against: Freedom, America, Men, Guns, Whites, Men, Masculine Strength and American maleness in all its tight-trousered pride. 'Hmm...' our subject seems to be thinking, 'is that France on the horizon? Lock and load...'
McNaughton, like myself, is a master of near-future sci-fi. Here he imagines a utopia where liberals are forced into quarantine camps before they get a chance to make the US resemble Nazi Germany. The title? Liberalism Is A Disease.
The realism is astounding: from my time spent at protests I can assure you Michael Moore's head is the size of Matt Damon's chest and Whoopi Goldberg's feet are where her hips should be.
The horror mounts as we discover the 'zone' is that most dangerous of hellholes: gun free (in a world without ballistic weapons constant vigilance = survival). In the distance the hurricane of Obamacare looms, the Satan-owl of atheism holds court in a tree and a wind turbine inclined toward high taxation smirks at the far left. The turbine, of course, is powered by the hurricane: such is McNaughton's complex genius.
This is the first of a powerful triptych addressing our times. In 'the Forgotten Man' a man has been forgotten. Forgotten, that is, save for the founding fathers and Lincoln (tragically, a smiling Reagan looks like he's forgotten just about everything, let alone the man).
'Look,' founding father Bentford Wankfield implores President Obama, 'you're stood on the Declaration of Independence, you freak! Have you forgotten what that means?'
'Indy-who?' Obama sneers, whilst his cronies--Clinton and the Roosevelts--applaud two homosexuals on the horizon.
In the background the White House stands in full illumination. Someone must have forgotten to turn the lights off.
Yet all is not lost. Reveling in his second elected tyranny, Darth Obama has clearly forgotten the Forgotten Man. The Forgotten Man is not without his resources. Or manly tools...
He becomes... The Empowered Man!!! Lincoln and the founding fathers rejoice, founding father Bentford Wankfield invents twerking (pious twerking) and Clinton mourns his vanished homosexuals (who have sauntered off to find a handbag to put Whoopi Goldberg in).
Obama looks on. His expression may look like he's merely found a gone-off salad at the back of the refridgerator, but his hands are clearly aghast.
'You think this shit is over, Forgotten and/or Empowered Man?' Obama asks in One Nation Under Socialism. Standing on the Declaration of Independence having failed him as a strategy, like all villains he ups his game in the sequel. He sets FIRE to the Declaration, pointing at the flames for emphasis.
Not so fast, Obamanation (as in 'abomination'. Or, if you prefer, 'Barracksphemy')! Nothing tops Jesus-power!!!
Obama now vaporized, The Forgotten and/or Empowered Man is transformed into a child of joy, Lincoln and the founding fathers break into interpretive dance and Reagan still has no idea what's going on. But he's happy.
''Come, Child of Joy who was once The Forgotten and/or Empowered Man,' quoth Christ (now wearing the hijab of a feminist Muslim he bested in combat), 'Let us reside in this obscure, shady forest clearing alone.'
Amen!
So were all the olden daysers like, mimes and shit? They're all doing that two hand gesture thing. I like the pictures, they remind of the ones in history books at school we'd draw nobs on and that (you could have loads of fun with that one of the black bloke standing on a brown paper bag and the olden dayser croutched behind him, is he weighing his balls? Catching a big turd? It practically vandalises itself. Genius.).
ReplyDeleteWhen's your next book coming out Randy? I like the ones where there's some aliens trying to invade earth, and some pussy is all like "No, we should talk them", but then when he does he gets killed in some nasty drawn out way with his guts all hanging out and shit, and then the proper characters shoot the aliens.
Randy Replies:
Delete"It's always a pleasure for me to talk to my readers (or as I like to call them, 'Randisiples'), Mr Dollartooth. Despite your art appreciation handicap (I put you, my friend, in that class of homo sapien I like to call 'the noble retard'), your understanding of how true SF works in beyond reproach.
Yes, if a novel lacks a milquetoast peacenik good-for-nothing whining about communication who then goes on to puke up his own lungs in front of his own melting eyeballs (by way of example) then, I'm sorry, but that's not just poor SF, it's poor WRITING!!! It's a novelist's duty to show both sides of the argument. And then brutally eviscerate the wrong one."