Katrina’s Secrets: Storms After The Storm

Katrina’s Secrets: Storms After The Storm

This fuckin’ guy, here. You know it’s bad when a public figure has to self-publish a book. You can just see it on Nagin’s stupid mug though. I never trusted him. I remember when Katrina went down and his face was everywhere. He just looked dumb. He still looks dumb.

Now he gets to sit in prison, right? He’s in trouble for some typical shady-politician stuff but I won’t get into that. He looks about ready for some good old fashioned New Orleans butt-rape though. Fitting for someone who helped butt-rape such a great city.

I’ll skip the stupid and overwritten introduction and get right into chapter one: Landfall Blues. This fuckin’ guy, here.

Her Wonder Woman like strength destroyed everything in her path…

I don’t understand the reference. Wonder Woman isn’t a destructive force. Maybe he wrote this when Beyonce was in talks to play her in a movie? That might explain it.

Like a well-devised secret battle plan…

Now we’re getting to the truth. He’s anthropomorphizing this chaotic act of nature in an attempt to downplay it to fall under his ineptitude. He simply can’t wrap his brain around something this big. Here’s the worst bit of chapter one:

The winds were screaming around city hall and the Hyatt hotel louder and crazier than a wild banshee roaring down the streets. It made a hollow and constant drone like sci-fi possessed gods chanting ominous incantations. The raindrops were so large that they sounded like gunshots as they hit buildings, cars and the ground.

Okay, where do I start with this? I’ll go with the banshee. There’s a difference between screaming and roaring, first of all. So did the fucking banshee scream or roar? Then in the very next sentence, it’s not a roar or a scream (or a yodel), but it’s a drone. And not just any drone, no. This is Ray Nagin. This is a drone like sci-fi possessed gods chanting ominous incantations. What the fuck is a sci-fi possessed god?? And those weren’t incantations, those were people outside crying for help as they died. And those “gunshots” weren’t raindrops, THEY WERE ACTUAL GUNSHOTS.

Let’s forget about the rest of over-long chapter one, which contains lines such as:

…shattering glass windows like packs of Mardi Gras beads or painted Zulu coconuts tossed into a sea of people, many who get hit in the face as penalty for not anticipating where these pieces were really going.

She [Katrina, a HURRICANE] had never been to Bourbon Street but heard we served an alcoholic drink called the “Hurricane” and she wanted one for the road.

She [Katrina, a HURRICANE] was now sprinting to get some Bourbon Street libations.

Here are some more of the chapter titles:

Helicopter Tears

John Wayne Dude

Radio Cuss Out

This is a very long Amazon Preview, you’ll have to excuse me. Hey, it’s very long, much like the relief effort and government response and the time it took to get some fucking functioning trailers to these now destitute people who no doubt had to dodge Zulu coconuts and Wonder Woman’s invisible plane. This fuckin’ guy, here. It’s easy to blame Ragin’ Nagin, I guess. And that’s what I’ll do, since this blog is about him. Wait, wait… RAYgin Nagin. Because his name is Ray…NEXT.

Next he spends too much time describing himself getting ready to ride in a helicopter (once again taking too long, I should say) and proceeds to bash the New Orleans Saints a little bit (WHO DAT, asshole) while flying away from the Superdome. He notices that the elevated interstate highways were filling with people. Were. WERE. This was well after the flood, they’d been up on those fuckin’ freeways and starving long before Nagin strapped himself into that helicopter. There’s no “were”, it had already happened. Things from Nagin’s chopper looked like spilled black coffee or like frosted flakes. He could see the stress on people’s faces. From a helicopter. In the wind. Okay then. NEXT.

Next he bashes Michael Brown, head of FEMA, for a few paragraphs, calling into play his inexperience and ineffectiveness in dealing with the storm. That’s a case of the black guy calling the kettle black, Mr. Nagin. NEXT.

Next he claims to barely sleep on wet, sweaty sheets and pretends to feel bad for the people down below, still waiting on buses to get them the fuck away from him. NEXT.

Next he claims to help search a wrecked hotel for a place to sleep. I’m sure he did. NEXT.

Next, what doesn’t kill him makes him stronger and he should be Hercules after the morning he’s had. Aw, poor baby. Try spending a month locked up in a detention facility with no paperwork and no real charges and no real food and no contact with the outside world because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time or because you went out to your car to get some food you’d left and you got nabbed for “looting”, you fuck. NEXT.

Next he bitches about the president and the governor. There are valid complaints about them as well, but Mr. Nagin is one of the Three Amigos here. Don’t get it twisted.

No more NEXTs.

This is an incredibly self-absorbed and narcissistic take on the Katrina tragedy, written by a man who still can’t see outside of his barely throbbing and rarely functioning frontal lobe. It’s his version of OJ Simpson’s “I didn’t do it but if I did, this is how I’d do it” book. He fucked up just as much as the next guy but you wouldn’t guess it here. He was one of them, if one was to believe Mr. Nagin. He had to wade past purple and bloated corpses, right? He had to fall asleep listening to dogs yowling and dying of starvation all night, right? He had to watch family members die while waiting in line for the buses, didn’t he? He got infections and illnesses from stagnant water turned toxic, didn’t he? He slept on the freeway, huh? He dodged roving bands of armed looters, I’m sure. This fuckin’ guy, here.

And now another hurricane is rolling by. Only this time it’s Hurricane Karma. And the only banshee Ray Nagin can hear is his own screaming as he gets butt-raped in a federal-pound-you-in-the-ass prison.

NEXT.