Oh, goddess of the hunt-- hear my words.

In this famine-stricken land we are still graced with "the freedom to", which is an empowering philosophy wholly from the order of "the freedom from" which ultimately reduces life to slime sucking on a rock, splashed with acid as we are manipulated into the cowardice of the overly-comfortable, which ultimately no government can achieve for its somnolent hominids who can't be happy 100% of the time. Though our levers of governance may try to stamp out "the bad", it cannot coerce "the good" unless it attempts to do so by an ever expanding, ever-rickety "Rube Goldberg" Federal & State apparatus that becomes evermore kooky as it is ineffective, only dreamed up by a Soviet collectivist madman in a "Gogol's Bordello" of pork barrel largess and snail-eyed paper-pushing.

The man-apes at the beginning of "2001: A Space Odyssey"-- when they were starving upon the withered African plain of drought-- were at an utter loss until one of them found the Initiative to beat a bone on the bleached, skeletal remains of a departed creature lower on "the tree of life" and realize that his land was abundant with food. . . . . that his tribe no longer had to be starving rummagers but active hunters. Then, on hooped legs they stumble in and drive off a competing gang of man-apes from the watering hole and it is established that "MIGHT" makes things, superiority of character and exercised will, not flopping dance routines on "Sesame Street" by faggy-assed puppets.

I always have one finger on the pulse of business, the other one on the jugular vein of sports. I think it keeps liberal arts writer-types like me from getting "too abstracted" from "the boots on the ground down on the 'ole jungle floor".

Conan knows, like Larry Summers who lost his job at Harvard, that women are at a disadvantage in the fields of math, science, business, law enforcement, and the military. Yet he strokes his chin and comes to the judgment that they can do it if they have the guts and determination. Larry Bird was "The Brother from Another Planet" when he laced up his shoes and came jogging down to that basketball court for the ill-named "Celtics". Because he played a more "down-to-earth", passing game, he proved to be a valuable asset-- more so than the wild, out-of-control slam-dunking that may have pleased crowds, but was not as timely as the slow ratcheting-up of points that won the game like the moral of the tortoise and the hare(s), even as the others bounded around the court like freakishly-pumped Negro grasshoppers. Why, if those shoes had wings they would have out-flew even the 1960's Apollo space program of less jaded, more uptight days.

But girls, women-- just because you've been forced into math, science, business, law enforcement, and the military by courts and affirmative action and "diversity awareness" don't stoop to letting standards drop altogether because poverty and bankruptcy and coming in "last" in the season is the sternest of all schools with the rapping pointer of nature that redirects when the silence is your only answer, if not the gaped mouths of your neighbors. and near-imperceptibly shaking head of your coach as the bottom-feeders "boo" and you return to a cold bed, if not the looming despair of the grave.

For all that you broads and Negroes and other "special cases" mouth off, "it is the tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing that struts and defies and caterwauls across the stage until it is heard no more", or until at least the 1960's are completely vanquished with a neo-fascist overthrow of strong body and sword-strong mind. Yet, he hopes to rule with kindness and wisdom and not "the knotted scepter of Cain" as he makes the humiliated slink off to nurse their wounds and suck cock in the reeds like former southern-talkin', draft-dodging Presidents we have known, both Republican and Democrat, who "wimped out of boot camp" like tongue-glib pussies and not "men of steel".

Oh priestess of Dianna, grant me "wings of fury" as I fly across the world and white-hot concentration to dash my opponents down with a focus that would make a Kabbalist wretch and clutch his eyes in blindness as the Nordic death ravens gibe and cackle and carry me off into the plains of Eleusis, and the misty Parthenon of immortality as a half-Jewish bullshit artist who finds this talk to be an aphrodisiac worthy of Thor's crypt. . . . . where the gods are not dead, they're just um, DISTRACTED.

Michael offers up a copy of "MAD" magazine as sacrifice, and outstretches his sinewy arms for rapture!!!!!!!!

. . . . .

P.S. Peeking around this office, what guarantee do I have that your statue is not an engraven, Photoshop image that women want to be and men worship at the feet at? Are those boobs real? Conan will tip-toe out and shall no longer stir the wrath of the ceremonial vestments. . . . .

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"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'

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(Rheeee of Crickets)

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("I heard that, Missy!")