Annual Fundraising Appeal

The US Geological Survey recorded a minor earthquake this morning with its epicenter near Wasilla, Alaska, the probable result of Sarah Palin opening her mail box to find the latest issue of CounterPunch magazine we sent her. A few moments later she Instagrammed this startling comment…

Palin2

The lunatic Right certainly has plenty of problems. We’ve made it our business to not only expose these absurdities, but to challenge them directly. With another election cycle gaining steam, more rhetoric and vitriol will be directed at progressive issues. More hatred will be spewed at minorities, women, gays and the poor. There will be calls for more fracking and war. We won’t back down like the Democrats. We’ll continue to publish fact-based critiques and investigative reports on the shenanigans and evil of the Radical Right. Our future is in your hands. Please donate.

Day10

Yes, these are dire political times. Many who optimistically hoped for real change have spent nearly five years under the cold downpour of political reality. Here at CounterPunch we’ve always aimed to tell it like it is, without illusions or despair. That’s why so many of you have found a refuge at CounterPunch and made us your homepage. You tell us that you love CounterPunch because the quality of the writing you find here in the original articles we offer every day and because we never flinch under fire. We appreciate the support and are prepared for the fierce battles to come.

Unlike other outfits, we don’t hit you up for money every month … or even every quarter. We ask only once a year. But when we ask, we mean it.

CounterPunch’s website is supported almost entirely by subscribers to the print edition of our magazine. We aren’t on the receiving end of six-figure grants from big foundations. George Soros doesn’t have us on retainer. We don’t sell tickets on cruise liners. We don’t clog our site with deceptive corporate ads.

The continued existence of CounterPunch depends solely on the support and dedication of our readers. We know there are a lot of you. We get thousands of emails from you every day. Our website receives millions of hits and nearly 100,000 readers each day. And we don’t charge you a dime.

Please, use our brand new secure shopping cart to make a tax-deductible donation to CounterPunch today or purchase a subscription our monthly magazine and a gift sub for someone or one of our explosive  books, including the ground-breaking Killing Trayvons. Show a little affection for subversion: consider an automated monthly donation. (We accept checks, credit cards, PayPal and cold-hard cash….)
button-store2_19

or use
pp1

To contribute by phone you can call Becky or Deva toll free at: 1-800-840-3683

Thank you for your support,

Jeffrey, Joshua, Becky, Deva, and Nathaniel

CounterPunch
 PO Box 228, Petrolia, CA 95558

"But the Oil Still Flows, the Plan is on Track ... "

Dreaming of a White House Christmas

by RICHARD NEVILLE

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the White House
Not a creature was stirring, not even my spouse,
The stockings were hung up by the chimney with care,
And the shredders were humming in the chilly night air

Our spinners and fixers all snug in their beds
While visions of water boarding danced in their heads.
Now Laura in ‘kerchief, and me in a nightcap,
Had settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
Agents sprang from their bunks to see what was the matter.
Away to the windows they flew with guns pointed,
Tore open the shutters and were not disappointed.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to a bloodbath below.
When, what to our wondering eyes did unfold,
A nativity play of events rarely told.

First the old torturer, so lively and quick,
Vice President Cheney dressed up as St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his helpers they came,
Carrying gags, hot pokers, sundry handtools of pain.

A replica dungeon sprang up on the grass,
Writhing with suspects, sticks up their ass.
Twas a moving rendition of the CIA’s Mission
A sacred tableau: The American Inquisition!

Habeas corpus we burned at the stake,
Air strikes on Arabs are ducks on a plate.
Five million orphans adrift in Iraq
But the oil still flows, the plan is on track.

And then, in a twinkling, it was heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof,
As three men on camels leapt into the garden;
One was none other than Osama bin Laden.

"Welcome my brother" came Dick’s merry greeting,
"I know we are soul mates and your visit is fleeting".
The pair danced a jig and bowed to the crowd
Sweet Laura asked, "Should this be allowed"?

Now Cheney is sweating from his head to his foot,
And his fat face is tarnished with ashes and soot.
Electrodes and thumb screws he’s flung on his back,
And he looks like a psychopath, poised to attack.

But a wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Assured all those present they had nothing to dread.
We’ve erased all evidence, he said with delight,
While our tortures continue, late into the night.

The stump of an infant he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
And I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

RICHARD NEVILLE has been around a while. He lives in Australia, the land
that formed him. In the Sixties he raised hell in London and published Oz.
He can be reached through his very bracing websites,
http://www.homepagedaily.com/ AND
http://www.richardneville.com.au/