Tuesday, September 04, 2012

Our Rahm-Shackles - Chicago's Covenant of Debt

Huzzah!  Two coal fired ComEd Plants are shut!

Neighborhood and environmental activists are celebrating as Chicago’s last two coal-fired electricity plants enter a three-month decommissioning phase. But the closings are leaving dozens of Midwest Generation workers without a job.

The company, a subsidiary of California-based Edison International, says its Crawford station in the city’s Little Village neighborhood burned its last lump of coal more than a week ago after operating since 1924. The Fisk station, constructed in 1903 in nearby Pilsen, shut down Thursday night.
Real Estate opportunities abound! (Well, at least until January 2013 when President Flat-line begins work on his museum) Allison Davis get to dealing; call Valerie Jarrett, while these opportunities for Federal Green grants can be converted like a lazy Catholic into a Unitarian!   

Yes, Sirree Bob!!!!   Glad them coal burners went south; kept me sleepless some days.

Obvious is irony is sarcasm, the gateway drug to cynicism.  Passed through them portals sometime ago, but scratch a cynic and reveal a tender hearted sweetie-pie.  I recall another such cynical Catholic Hillaire Belloc, who refereed the bouts between GK Chesterton and George Bernard Shaw in their wholesome debates over socialism v. capitalism.  Belloc poetically predicted,  in 1928,the joy of our Community Activists who brought down Old King Coal and cleared the properties for Allison Davis and Val Jarrett 2012-

    "Our civilization
    Is built upon coal.
    Let us chant in rotation
    Our civilization
    That lump of damnation
    Without any soul,
    Our civilization
    Is built upon coal.

    "In a very few years,
    It will float upon oil.
    Then give three hearty cheers,
    In a very few years
    We shall mop up our tears
    And have done with our toil.
    In a very few years
    It will float upon oil."

Belloc understood the nonsense of polemics and the progressive Fabian need to caricature not only people but inanimate objects.  Wittily skewered the faux outrage and pious claptrapping with this -

We Chicagoans are Rham-shackled, rickety, near collapse. Ramshackle is a distortion of the word ransacked.  You know, Looted.  A condition of unbalance due to a sacking of what is within.

Much of the Rahm-shackle condition was created by the Daley Regime -post-Pat Huels Daley; the University of Chicago vintage Daley.  Rahm is merely the full fruition of this organically grown Man-eating plant.

The murders reflect the Thug Comfort Zone created by this alliance of real estate bandits, academics, media pawns, and lawsuit Lotto lawyers.  Chicago is what the catoonist-satirist Jules Feiffer created in his play Little Murders*(1967) - an urban dystopia of random killings, rampant feminism, emasculated males, overwhelmed and undermined police, garbage strikes and power outages.  People, Feiffer predicted would be isolated, afraid and desperate because the society through government wanted it that way.

The public schools will open under threat of strike, but open they will, in order to get the school head-count tax buckeens. CTU loudmouth,Karen "Foghorn Leghorn" Lewis makes the late Tony " Big Tuna" Accardo seem like a Hubbard Street dancer and has the Obama White House ( Valerie Jarrett, LLc) tying Rahm's leash-like for Foghorn Leghorn Lewis' Rahm Rump Challenge:

Make no mistake, as President Flat-line likes to say, Rahm wil shuttle twixt Charlotte and Chi-town with a bundle of boodle for Foghorn Lewis. Strike? I think not.  Valerie Jarrett and Allison Davis are no where near finished developing slum properties for future government subsidized gambits.  Praise Jesus!

Here in my own back yard, Rahm and the real estate rangers are getting their oily fingers on the keys to the soon to be abandoned Beverly Art Center: a Personal PAC approved and abortion friendly real estate transaction in the making with Fifth Third Bank!

We are Rahm-shackled. Wobbly, looted and hooked to this condition as long as we vote badly.  Show me a Democrat with the heart of lion or Kevin Joyce and I will vote for him.  Show me a Republican who is not shod in tassled loafers and I may vote for GOP.  Show me more Pat Quinns, Sheila Simons, Dick Durbins, Toni Preckwinkles, Rahm Emanuels, Mark Kirks, Forrest(s) Claypools, Deb Shores and Jans Schalowsky and I will show you the door with great force, as well as the big blue recycling bin in my alley for your paper products.

Val Jarrett and Allison Davis have more real estate to parlay into slum housing with the two coal burners knocked out and another on the way in Morgan Park.  Rahm Shackled - it's a Chicago Value. So is random killings, abortion and isolated people.

*Little Murders (1967) Jules Feiffer
Patsy Newquist is a 27-year-old interior designer who lives in a New York rife with street crime, noise, obscene phone calls, power blackouts and unsolved homicides. When she sees a defenseless man being attacked by street thugs, she intervenes, but is surprised when the passive victim doesn't even bother to thank her. She ends up attracted to the man, Alfred Chamberlain, a photographer, but finds that he is emotionally vacant, barely able to feel pain or pleasure. He permits muggers to beat him up until they get tired and go away.
Patsy is accustomed to molding men into doing her bidding. Alfred is different. When she brings him home to meet her parents and brother, he is almost non-verbal, except to tell her that he doesn't care for families. He learns that Patsy had another brother who was murdered for no known reason. Patsy's eccentric family is surprised when she announces their intention to wed, then amazed when their marriage ceremony conducted by the atheistic Rev. Dupas turns into a free-for-all.
Determined to discover why her new husband is the way he is, Patsy coaxes Alfred into traveling to Chicago to visit his parents. He hasn't seen them since he was 17, but asks them to help with a questionnaire about his childhood at Patsy's request.
Alfred ultimately agrees to try to become Patsy's kind of man, the kind willing to "fight back." The instant that happens, a sniper's bullet kills Patsy, again for no apparent reason. A blood-splattered Alfred goes to her parents' apartment, New Yorkers barely noticing his state. He descends into a silent stupor, Patsy's father even having to feed him.
A ranting, disturbed police detective, Lt. Practice, drops by, almost unable to function due to the number of unsolved murders in the city. After he leaves, Alfred goes for a walk in the park. He returns with a rifle, which he doesn't know how to load. Patsy's father shows him how. Then the two of them, along with Patsy's brother, take turns shooting people down on the street.

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