Annual Fundraising Appeal
Over the course of 21 years, we’ve published many unflattering stories about Henry Kissinger. We’ve recounted his involvement in the Chilean coup and the illegal bombings of Cambodia and Laos; his hidden role in the Kent State massacre and the genocide in East Timor; his noxious influence peddling in DC and craven work for dictators and repressive regimes around the world. We’ve questioned his ethics, his morals and his intelligence. We’ve called for him to be arrested and tried for war crimes. But nothing we’ve ever published pissed off HK quite like this sequence of photos taken at a conference in Brazil, which appeared in one of the early print editions of CounterPunch.
100716HenryKissingerNosePicking
The publication of those photos, and the story that went with them, 20 years ago earned CounterPunch a global audience in the pre-web days and helped make our reputation as a fearless journal willing to take the fight to the forces of darkness without flinching. Now our future is entirely in your hands. Please donate.

Day12Fixed

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….)
cp-store

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

"Dead Slugs Leave No Trails" The Boobus in the Lie

The Boobus in the Lie

by ADAM ENGEL

If you really want to hear about it …

Boobus Americanus wouldn’t know himself if he sat beside his doppelganger on a bus. Is this a problem, this chronic Zombie-ism?

Boobus Americanus woiks and woiks HARD. Whattya doin’ Boobus? Woikin hard? "Woikin hard! Woikin, woikin." Busy, Boobus? "Busy, busy, busy. Woikin’ hard, woikin’ hard!" Well how ’bout this: You can lead a horse to water, but if you do, at least have the guts, compassion and decency to drown him when you get there.

Boobus at the gym, on the treadmill — fitting metaphor — gaze-up at the one-eyed monster. CNN, Fox News, MTV, whatever. Hole in his head receives cathode blast of get-disease, get, get; spunk, smegma. Layers of scar-hardened cerebra Raw sores open to absorb, absorb; soak-in, soak-in. Sponge tissue. Quicker picker upper.

Ego Americanus is dead. Boobus individualus is dead. Boobus persona is dead. In their place? Boobus Americorpus, Incorporated, A Very Limited Liability Company (VLLC). Tax-free.

"Dead slugs leave no trails," sez Professor B. S. Americanus, Ph.D.

Boobus would be quite fortunate, both spiritually and materially — even now, Big Pharma greedily awaits his senescense — to get killed before he dies. But to live before he dies? That is too much.

Poor Boobus Americanus! His parents are perverts, derelicts, freaks. Papa Republican and Momma Democrat. Whenever Papa "gets his drink on," he thrashes Momma — and does unspeakable things to Boobus. Momma then both comforts Boobus and turns to him for succor. She confides in him, tells him "we’re not gonna take anymore abuse," and brings him hope. But once Papa sobers up, or there’s an "external threat" to the household, Momma stands by her man. Subsequently, they both beat on Boobus and send him to sleep in the woodshed. Without any health coverage or supper.

Boobus Americanus says, "Lot’s of people actually made money during the last Great Depression. Why not this one? This new depression all the experts are talking about is gonna be my GREAT OPPORTUNITY!" That’s the spirit, Boobus! Every man for himself. Unless it’s tax-time, or war-time, or corporate-cutback time, in which case it’s every man for THE MAN.

Perhaps the Greatest Icon in the Pantheon of Boobs is the late Evil Knieval. For he sacrificed his own flesh, blood, and just about every bone in his body, for the entertainment of his fellows. A true (RedWhiteAnd) Blue Celebrity. The only man born of woman who comes close to rivaling the Deus Americanus, Knieval, is the King Himself, Elvis, who couldn’t play guitar nearly as well as the black musicians who invented him, nor compose music at all, but did sacrifice his body for the entertainment of his fellows, and unlike the Great Kneival, or Bono (who’s a Boobus, though not Americanus) could somewhat carry a tune.

Boobus Americanus is renowned for his sympathy. Not empathy, which entails the possession of some imagination, but sympathy. "Those poor little bastards!" says Boobus of the Iraqis, Afghanis, Serbians etc. etc. etc. his Nation has blown to bits. "I know. This year, we’ll get the whole neighborhood together, and all the guys and gals at work, and use all our resources to put together an EXTREME Christmas Care Package. It’ll be the bestest, most spectacular Christmas those little critters ever had!" But, Boobus, my dear fellow, most of these people don’t even celebrate Christmas, one might point out. "That’s the whole point, silly," Boobus will, of course, reply. "That’s why WE’RE over there. To bring Democracy and Christmasize them!"

"Life and Death are REAL things. THIS is neither Life, nor Death. I want OUT," said Mrs. Americanus, before her lawyer filed the papers.

ADAM ENGEL can be reached at bartlebysamsa65@gmail.com