Little Timmy Is Upset He’s a Racist Executioner

“Why are you crying, Little Timmy?”

“I had to do it. I’m upset”

“Now, now, Little Timmy. You know you didn’t have to execute those eleven defenseless prisoners. You really can’t say you were forced to do it.”

“But if I didn’t kill them, the people of Virginia would think I was weak and might not like me anymore.”

“Timmy, you spared one prisoner scheduled for execution, so everybody knows you had the power to stop them all.”

“Now you’re making me upset all over again.”

“Timmy, you know capital punishment is barbaric and a human rights violation, but you let the executions proceed anyway.”

“I’ve said that killing prisoners is a bad thing many times. Isn’t that enough?”

“Now, Timmy, just because you say one thing, doesn’t mean you’re allowed to do the exact opposite. You know capital punishment in the United States is an abomination. Yet you executed six black prisoners. Six out of a total of eleven executions means you are carrying out a racist policy. Your saying you’re sorry is like when the axeman asks the person he’s about to behead for forgiveness. It really doesn’t mean anything.”

“But I say I’m opposed to racism.”

“Little Timmy, don’t you know that your words don’t mean anything when you do the bad thing anyway? You can’t say you don’t like killing puppies while at the same time you’re killing puppies. You can’t say I hate killing defenseless people while you’re killing defenseless people.”

“You mean you don’t believe me when I say I’m opposed to capital punishment?”

“Little Timmy, don’t you know that your actions speak much louder than your words? If you say you’re against something and then kill eleven people, well, just by your actions you’re calling yourself a liar. And adding to the fact that you proportionately killed so many black Americans, well, I can’t imagine how anyone with a rational mind can believe anything you have to say on the subject.”

“The Clintons like me. Isn’t that enough?”

“Well, Little Timmy, Hillary Clinton says she supports capital punishment when the people being killed are the ones she thinks should be killed. And some of us remember how when Billy Clinton was running for President he raced back to Arkansas for the execution of a mentally damaged black man. People like that will probably forgive your two-faced bullshit when it comes to committing racist human rights violations. But with those people who don’t support racism and capital punishment, you might not find a great deal of support.”

“But I’m still better than Donald Trump.”

“I’m sorry, Little Timmy, but I can think of eleven families who probably don’t believe that. It’s one thing to present yourself as a vicious, cruel animal and actually be one. It’s another to say you’re opposed to a human rights violation and commit it eleven times. Donald Trump might eventually get blood on his hands, but you’re swimming in it.

“Besides, being better than Donald Trump is such an extremely low bar even the rest of the kids in your class will probably laugh you out of the room.”

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If You're a Misanthrope, Are You a Misogynist?

Let’s get some terms straightened out. If you’re a misanthrope, you pretty much hate humanity in general. Women, children, men, you despise them all. You can still hate everyone and have exceptions for your own family and puppy dog, but you’re probably more than willing to press the button and vaporize millions. Frankly, you don’t give a shit about anyone other than you and your own.

What’s a misogynist? Misogyny is a sub-category of misanthropy but focuses its hatred on women. In other words, if you’re a misanthrope you’re pretty much a misogynist as well. But if you’re a misogynist you are not necessarily a misanthrope. (Even if you probably are, but that’s another matter.)

War should be considered the ultimate manifestation of misanthropy. Those who facilitate the mass exterminations of human beings which constitute modern day warfare must be considered to be at the pinnacle of human hatred. War is as misanthropic as it gets.

If you assist in the slaughter of hundreds of thousands of women should you be considered a misogynist? After all, if you’re a young woman lying dead in a ditch, being pro-choice is hardly relevant. If a drone fires a rocket into your house, you don’t care if the ceiling is wood or glass as it collapses and kills you and your children. You don’t care if you have equal opportunity for a job when your village has been brought to rubble by foreign military forces.

If you aid and abet war, does this make you a misogynist? It certainly makes you a misanthrope, and since misogyny is a sub-category of misanthropy, you bet it makes you a misogynist. Hundreds of thousands of women died because of this century’s Iraq War. Those who supported that war are responsible for the denial to these women of their most basic human right, the right to life. These misanthropes snuffed out untold numbers of women. The pinnacle of misogyny is killing women.

There you have it. If killing women doesn’t make you misogynist, what the hell does? What does killing hundreds of thousands of women make you?

This is where we now are. It appears the American people will soon be able to choose between two misogynists promoted by the two major parties. One partially responsible for the death of hundreds of thousands of women and another who will do and say anything to attract votes.

Of course there are other parties fielding nominees if you don’t care to cast a vote for a misogynist.

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The Goldman Sachs Samaritan

A three year-old SUV blows a tire, skids into the break down lane, then flips over twice. Its four passengers are smothered in air bags. Then there is silence.

A driver who’d witnessed the entire incident from a hundred yards behind, pulls over, checks out the situation, shrugs, then gets back on the highway and drives away. He is late for a speech he is scheduled to deliver on “Living Well is the Be All and End All.”

A second motorist, on the opposite side of the road, pulls over as well. Observing the accident scene and the first driver’s actions, she also pulls back on the highway, certain that events will work themselves out without any assistance on her part.

Then a third driver arrives. She maneuvers her vehicle as close to the accident scene as seems prudent. She is the Goldman Sachs Samaritan,

Knowing every crisis is an opportunity, the Goldman Sachs Samaritan’s first call is to her lawyer. Following a brief conversation regarding potential liability (during which the Goldman Sachs Samaritan’s lawyer dispatches a junior associate to the accident scene), the GSS formulates a plan which in the long run should both benefit not only herself but, if lucky, the accident victims as well. The GSS’s second call is to a private ambulance company three towns away in which the GSS holds a minority interest. She is assured an ambulance will be dispatched to the scene as soon as one becomes available and the accident victims will be transported to a for-profit hospital in the next county where the GSS sits on the board-of-directors.

The GSS looks up from her phone and notes the steady puffs of smoke emanating from the unfortunate vehicle in the ditch.

Another short call to a tame local newspaper reporter will lead to proper documentation of her heroic act. Nothing like some free publicity to promote the GSS’s businesses and the political causes she espousers.

The Goldman Sachs Samaritan visualizes how, after the private ambulance and press arrive, she will be photographed pulling the accident victim from their car. The ambulance service’s logo will be prominently displayed as she delivers the unfortunates into the caring hands of the private medical system representatives. You can’t buy advertising like that. She closes her eyes to rest, awaiting her fellow team members’ arrival.


While the GSS is getting her ducks in a row, “Crisis Can Be A Profit Center Too!”, a battered Toyota pulls in behind her. The mature woman behind the wheel also assesses the situation and immediately calls 911. The emergency operator assures her an ambulance, police, and other appropriate first responders will soon arrive on the scene. This Socialist Samaritan makes her way down to the overturned vehicle and helps the bruised passengers out of their vehicle, just as puffs of smoke begin appearing above the engine.

As the county ambulance, police and tow truck drive away from the accident scene, the Goldman Sachs Samaritan is awakened by the sound of someone rapping on her window. She looks about and wonders where the crashed car and its people have gone. The private ambulance driver and the tame reporter are both screaming at the GSS about her sending them out here for no good reason. The Goldman Sachs Samaritan screams back.

This only goes to show how no good deals go unpunished.

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What You Wish For

A room that isn’t any larger than 10 feet square. Two metal folding chairs face one another. Acoustical tile ceiling. Windowless. One door. Might have been a storage closet in some previous incarnation but found its true vocation being what it is now: a minor interrogation room for those whose assumed intelligence remains of dubious import.

Jeremy’s interrogator does not lift his eyes as the prisoner is escorted to his seat. The interrogator is a pale man in his late forties or early fifties. Short gray black hair receding a good way back on his scalp. Clean shaven. In process of flicking his cigarette into a paper cup on the floor beside a chair leg. Beige chinos and a red short sleeve golf shirt. He easily could be a manager for any big box store in any mall anywhere in the United States. 

Jeremy sits and waits. His interrogator consults memos attached to his clipboard. He lights another cigarette. Disposable lighter. Black. Brown filter on white cigarette tube. Yellowish, not perfectly aligned large teeth.

“Cigarette?” Right handed. Stubby digits. Good deal of hair on fingers and back of hand as well as on wrist.

Jeremy has been trained to notice things. Little things. Big things. He wishes he’d taken courses in identifying American regional accents. His interrogator sounds like every television newsreader. Could be from anywhere. Wait for more data.

“No, thank you.” No reason to let your opponent set the agenda. Begin the interrogation yourself. “Why am I here?” Jeremy doesn’t have many tools at hand.

Flipping through a few more papers, the inquisitor points his cigarette at Jeremy and finally raises his eyes to the man opposite him. “You thought you won, didn’t you?”

Although Jeremy didn’t know the accent, he certainly recognizes the tone. It was the voice of an eventual winner who, after suffering a temporary loss, has come back even stronger than before to teach the peasants an unforgettable lesson.

What had been an overwhelming victory suddenly became a crushing defeat. This is America. Change is supposed to come through the vote. When the people speak and elect their representatives, their choices are to be accepted. None of them expected what happened once Bernie actually won. The man who’d been elected President had promised a revolution. He’d delivered a victory but the counter-revolution was something nobody anticipated. 

“In case you’re wondering, we have no interest in any of your contacts, or in anything you can tell us, for that matter. You being here is simply routine. Nothing else.”

Jeremy thought his more vocal opinions probably contributed to his ending up here. They hadn’t anticipated the coup. Nobody on his side had fully appreciated how deeply entrenched the corporations had become within the military. Only a few days after the election results were certified, before Bernie could take the oath of office, the incumbent declared martial law, nullifying the election and Bernie was soon behind bars. The corporate military was now slowly rounding up his more vocal supporters.

Another terrorist plot against free market capitalism had been thwarted. Jeremy is learning the new drill.

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Sale - AK47s - Free Lobotomy with Purchase

John was wondering why he was where he was. After all, he’d purchased the weapon weeks ago.

“And when was it, exactly, that you decided you needed an automatic rifle?” Filling out a form, Marsha, an intake worker, concentrates on her computer screen, making no eye contact with the new admission.

“I don’t know. I saw the ad online. You know. Don’t we all have the right to protect ourselves?”

“Yes. Of course. And how were you planning to use this automatic weapon?” John couldn’t see Marsha’s fingers on the keyboard but he could hear faint clicks as she typed away.

“Well, like I said, I’ve taken it to the range a couple of times. Just to get the feel for it, you know. Ammunition ain’t cheap.” John shifted his butt on the metal chair. He wondered how long this would all take.

“No, it is not. Now, John, I’m sure you didn’t purchase the AK47 just to fire it at the range. Am I right?”

“Certainly not. Not at all. A man needs to protect himself and those close to him. It’s my right. I bought this particular weapon for self-protection.”

“So, John, when you think about your AK, what do you imagine doing with it? Do you visualize real targets when you’re at the range? And did you read the advertisement for what you were buying? ‘Sale - AK47s - Free Lobotomy with Purchase’” This time Marsha looks up from the screen and meets Bob’s eye. “You know what I mean.”

“Sure do. Mostly when I’m firing off rounds I try to concentrate on the targets. But sometimes, you know, I do imagine a whole bunch of fellas running at me with guns, trying to kill me and take my stuff. But I’ve got the AK and I mow them all down. Superior fire power wins every time.” John misses the feel of the AK47 in his arms.

“So, John, you think there are armed, dangerous, people out there who are going to attack you and the best way to deal with the problem is to shoot and kill them?”

“Roger that.”

“And the people you imagine attacking you? Who are they?” Marsha looks at John with all the compassion she can muster.

“Well, sometimes they’re terrorists and sometimes they’re minorities trying to break into my house and sometimes it’s like they’re zombies or carrying some other disease. Citizens need to protect themselves.”

“I understand, John. Is that the reason you carry yourAK47 around town and to the mall and places like that?”

“Absolutely.”

“And like I asked before, did you understand exactly what you were getting with your purchase?” Marsha smiles her sweetest smile.

“Absolutely. I bought one fine combat rifle.”

“And what else, John?”

“Oh, that.” John nods. “I was wondering exactly who was going to get the free lobotomy though.”

Marsha removes her fingers from the keyboard. “John, if you’d accompany me into the next room, I’m sure the doctor will answer all your questions to your complete satisfaction.”

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Another Spiritual Journey

You know, looking back at things, I’m pretty glad I decided not to be a scumbag.


Sure, I know what’s running through your mind. You’re thinking I really wanted to be a scumbag but that I tried and failed. After all, to your way of thinking, everybody wants to be a scumbag but only the cream rises to the top. People who wanted to be scumbags and failed, litter the streets like so many homeless wheeling their shopping carts through neighborhoods where they don’t belong.

I was raised to be a scumbag. Went to scumbag prep school and attended a scumbag liberal arts college. The pressure was great to be a scumbag just like everyone else. Money, available sex partners, fine wine, acceptance, these were just a few of the perks that went along with being a card carrying scumbag.

I even tried being a scumbag for a while. Nice job, desk, air conditioning, sweet paycheck, respect of the community. All I had to do for eight hours a day, five days a week, fifty weeks a year, was see to it that everyone followed the rules and assure scumbags stayed on top of the social pyramid. Easy enough. Too easy if you don’t mind my saying.

Don’t exactly remember when I realized there was only one place the road I was on was leading. I was going to be a scumbag for the rest of my life. Easy street. Nice living and a comfortable retirement. The American dream. My job was to keep my eyes where my bosses and friends wanted me to focus, and pay no attention to what was going on to people who weren’t fortunate enough to be scumbags like me.

Must have been four election cycles back. I surveyed the dozen or so candidates vying for the nominations of their respective parties, and I suddenly realized I had no choice other than to vote for another scumbag just like myself. Rank and privilege and basic scumbaggedness was so entrenched in our society that hardly anyone in the upper echelons even realized they were scumbags anymore.

Only choice anyone had was to elect another scumbag. I was one, I knew exactly what being a scumbag meant. It meant being a morally empty, ethically compromised, upper middle class, and above piece of shit who was willing to sell most of society down the river in order to maintain their own piece of the pie and eat it too. When faced with seeing only scumbags like myself running the country, I knew it was time for me to change teams.

So I quit. I quit being a scumbag. I didn’t begrudge my friends and co-workers who remained scumbags. Most of them had families to support and those who didn’t were looking forward to starting scumbag families of their own. I kissed Scumbagville goodbye and never looked back.

It wasn’t easy going cold turkey. Those jobs where my scumbag skills would have stood me in good stead couldn’t accept someone who’d turned their back on the scumbag tribe. Those people who’d  never been scumbags couldn’t bring themselves to trust someone who they could only assume was still a scumbag.

It was a classic Catch-22 situation. Once a scumbag, always a scumbag. To most people it was beyond their imagination that such a thing as an ex-scumbag could possibly exist.

Over the years things got a little better. I learned to adapt. I accepted scumbags would probably be controlling things until the day I died. I accepted the inevitable. Scumbags ruled.

And then, along came Bernie.

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Tax Their Sinful Ways

We in the United States need a definition of greed. We need to settle on a figure. Just how much is too much? When does accumulating some become hoarding too much? When does a fat cat become an obese cat? 

Who doesn’t like taxing cigarettes and alcohol? They’re easy targets. Everybody knows too much of either is bad for you. Our government takes a serious piece of the action to discourage gluttonous consumption of both smokes and booze and to help defer the health costs their use incurs. It’s generally accepted governments should discourage destructive, sinful behavior either by taxes, fees, or the criminal justice system. We’ve been doing this for generations. But as of late we seem to have turned a blind eye to an ongoing evil. How did greed, one of the seven deadly sins, manage to avoid paying for the damage it has done to society?

Even an occasional smoker or the most moderate of drinkers is forced to pay sin taxes. Even if you limit yourself to a cigarette a month or a martini at Christmas, you pay the same rate as chain smokers and potential DUIs. But the greediest, most avaricious, “I’d rather spit in your face than give you a nickel” billionaire usually pays less proportional taxes than the most frugal citizen on the low end of the income spectrum. With the present tax rates in place, it appears this government actually encourages greed. 

Greed is not good. Greed will forever remain a deadly sin, one of the top seven. When a billionaire boasts about his accumulated wealth, it’s like a glutton rhapsodizing on how he’s eaten non-stop for the past forty years, while addressing an audience that hasn’t had a solid meal in weeks. Somehow the United States, this allegedly Christian nation, has forgotten that obscene accumulation of wealth is remains an abomination unto their Lord. Fortune and Barrons and The Wall Street Journal might as well be kiddie porn in the way they egg on their rapacious readers. The message of this culture promotes ripping off as much as you can from your fellow man. 

Greed needs to be defined. A dollar limit needs be set. If you earn more than this country’s President for an extended period of time, and you keep accumulating more and more, you might be a greedy redneck. If you never worked a day in your life, and you clip coupons purchased by your grandfather while sipping champagne in a Park Avenue penthouse, you probably are an avaricious prepster. If you work for a Fortune 500 company and earn more than 20 times the income of its lowest paid employee, you almost certainly are a greedy sinful scumbag.

Getting back to the sin tax part. How does a society discourage its citizens from engaging in avaricious behavior? When does reasonable accumulation become greed, a deadly sin? It was only a few decades ago that this country decided taxing greed wasn’t necessary. All that “trickle down Economics” rubbish gave rise to a tax rate which presently allows the obscenely rich among us to accumulate unbridled wealth. Following this trend, those citizens not in the top half of one percent of income will soon be left with next to nothing. 

Where do you draw the line? How’s this for a modest proposal, every dollar taken in over one million dollars a year (averaged) should be taxed at a 90% rate. Certainly the vast majority of citizens will agree that if a person believes they need more than a million a year to survive, they’re being a bit greedy. And as we all know, sin taxes are meant to discourage evil behavior.

Greed is hard to recognize at times. Like pornography it might forever remain a judgement call. Greed falls under the “I don’t know exactly but ‘I know it when I see it’ rule”. But pretty much everyone can see grasping for more than a million bucks a year is pretty damn greedy.

It’s long past time to seriously tax the greediest among us. It’s time to help curtail their evil habit. Greed will forever remain a sin. In so many ways. 

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Elect Maggie Thatcher President of the United States

Consider the under represented majorities in the United States, in the world for that matter, and pretty soon you’re going to come across the most ignored majority of them all. Sure, they’ve been getting a lot of broadcast media time these days, but that’s simply a way to placate their aspirations  with shiny objects while the real power remains where it always has been. Having television shows named after them and hiring many as roaming extras is one thing, but what’s been missing is real power. Political power. It’s time to rectify this egregious deliberate oversight. It’s time for a great representative for the unrepresented.

Former Prime Minister of Great Britain, Maggie Thatcher fits the bill. Even dead she remains one of the all time great Corporate Fascist leaders. Nobody ever had more friends in the financial communities. The Clintons don’t even come close. She won office on her own; not following in the footsteps of husband, father, or brother. She remains an icon for the dead, women, and Corporate Fascists all around the world. As the first dead, foreign, woman President of the United States, she will represent the three great under represented majorities, women, foreigners,  and the dead.  Corporate Fascists have occupied the Oval Office for a long time.
 
Let’s face it, everyone votes for their own kind. Men vote for men. Women vote for women. Whites for whites. Blacks for blacks. Latinos for Latinos. Like attracts like. Doesn’t matter how many people they’ve droned or how much Wall Street money was funneled into their charities, when people see a chance to vote for someone like themself, just about everyone takes it.

Obama is a classic example. He mouthed the proper words and looked right, so people voted for him. Nobody checked him out. He turns out to be the best thing the Corporate Fascists could have ever dreamed. Obama charmed and didn’t offend, bingo, he’s elected.

Now’s the chance to really dig up the vote. Listen, we’re all going to be dead one day, so why not elect someone who has our future interests as their own?

Maggie Thatcher as the first dead, woman, Corporate Fascist president covers all the essential bases. Thatcher’s a woman, a Corporate Fascist,  and she’s dead; so she peleases our future selves, international business, the feminists and the misogynists all at the same time. Hillary Clinton only pleases the feminists and the Corporate Fascists, and Jill Stein only the feminists. Who’s the obvious choice?

As far as Maggie not being a United States citizen, no worry there, after all, once we’re dead, everyone becomes a de facto citizen of the world. And that beats all the experience any Secretary of State ever had.

At the very least any dead candidate can be assured of winning the Chicago vote.

Vote for Maggie Thatcher! Who cares how she’s acted, as long as she’s one of us!

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Are You Now, or Have You Ever Been...

Can such a simple and small action as raising taxes on the extremely wealthy be revolutionary? It seems that these days it can be.

Before chucking it all and moving somewhere off the grid where the oligarchs will never find us, there is one question which should be asked of every American politician seeking office this election cycle.

“Are you in favor of increasing taxes on millionaires? Yes or no.”

For decades corporate shills have terrorized American politicians by, among other things, forcing them to sign pledges not to raise taxes.

Everyone hates paying taxes. What else is new? By framing their anti-tax position in such a way as to appear populist, “big government wants to take all the little guy’s money”,  the oligarchs have picked the country’s pockets and weakened all governmental structures. Say what you will about this representative system, it’s a hell of a lot better than rule by corporations abetted by those protecting inherited wealth.

During a period when extremism is rampant, it’s time for a little fine tuning.

“Are you in favor of increasing taxes on millionaires? Yes or No.”

A simple question. For those who reply in the affirmative, fine and dandy, (Yes, all politicians lie at times, but that’s not the point.) For those who say no, or who dance and dodge and trot out the usual bullshit, the line has been drawn. Even the most libertarian, brain dead ideologue knows by now that wealth disparity in this country has reached a critical stage. Not being in favor of taxing millionaires will put that politician on the wrong side of the argument when the votes are cast. Contrary to what corporate media wishes everyone to think, Americans truly do despise everyone who attempts to hog all the money.

Of equal, or possibly more value, this question will shift the topic of conversation from where to cut government, to how tax revenue will be raised to improve this country. Schools, roads, bridges, alternative energy, disaster relief, food; all these essentials cost money to build, maintain, and distribute. It is time for corporations and oligarchs to pay more than their fair share.

To paraphrase words attributed to Willie Sutton, “That’s where the money is.”

“Are you in favor of increasing taxes on millionaires? Yes or No.”

A simple question but it will smoke out those who are on the take in the shortest time possible. If anyone thinks this is playing on class divisions, you can tell them damn straight it is. Now is the time for Americans to take back their country and the money that goes along with it.


Remember: billionaires are millionaires a thousand times over.

Small things must be done in order to survive and fight another day.

When a room is in total darkness, it’s radical to turn on any light.

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The New Health Care Marketplace - "Nice Rash, Buddy"

Published by
Dissident Voice

“Nice rash, buddy.”

Saul believed Wednesday morning would be the best time for his visit to the New Health Care Market.

“Hey, $55 dollars and we’ll have that urticaria off your face in no time at all. Money back guarantee!”

They must think Saul is a real greenhorn. Everybody knows whoever has the first stall near the auditorium’s entrance was sure to be peddling overpriced, shoddy product.

“Don’t listen to him. $40 and we’ll have you all looking like new in half an hour.”

Another one. Saul understood they figured he wasn’t just browsing, but he was beginning to feel like chum surrounded by ravenous sharks.

“Johns Hopkins trained. Not like any of these state university assholes. Johns Hopkins. Where else you going to find a bargain like this? Number one medical establishment. No finer school represented in this entire bazaar.”

Saul kept walking as two belligerent doctors screamed and waved diplomas at one another. Fisticuffs looked likely to ensue, so Saul and his rash just kept on moving through this health care maze.

The New Medical Marketplace came into existence two years previous. The World Court ruled for-profit health care to be both a human rights violation and a possible war crime. The existing medical industry, pharmaceutical companies, medical insurers, as well as for-profit hospitals and doctors, all folded up like the cheap suits they were. Not a single bank was willing to front money to organizations subject to civil and criminal proceedings certain to bankrupt them. Without lines of credit, the for-profit health industry disappeared almost overnight.

Saul had enjoyed observing the ensuing medical/corporate shit storm. Hospitals and private practices which had utilized most of their manpower filling out insurance forms, soon brought their investors to their knees. Insurance companies, their corporate model based on percentages above cost, began focusing on real competitive business rather than seeing how high they could drive medical billing. Used Cadillac and Lexus SUVs soon flooded the market. Saul, since he drove so very little, and the price was even better than right, indulged himself a little and purchased the last ridiculously large gas guzzler he was sure he would ever buy. He only used it short trips around town. For serious driving, he now rented.

For the vast majority of citizens, the demise of the for-profit, insurance driven medical community was a great bonus. Eventually certain corrupt diehard congressman would lose their seats and Medicare for all would become the law of the land. For now, until public funds were available to hire all qualified medical professionals as public servants, these true free market medical farmers’ markets fulfilled a need.

Saul made his way through the crowd, eventually he spotted the booth where Dr. Bob, the Falafel King, peddled his wares. Saul had done his homework. He knew the Falafel King provided good service for an extremely reasonable price.

Dr. Bob remained one of the few medical professionals at the market still employing a nurse. “He does great work. There’s always enough money to share.” In and out of Dr. Bob’s establishment in under forty-five minutes, Saul agreed with the prescribed treatment and the fifty dollars out-of-pocket included a month’s worth of the prescribed drugs. On his way out, the satisfied patient purchased enough falafels for dinner that night. Dr. Bob certainly knew how to keep a business running.

Driving home in his gently used SUV, Saul did feel a moment of compassion for the doctors who these days had to scramble for every nickel. Eventually they would all come around and accept salaries topped off at what was paid to U.S. Senators. Until they learn the lesson of what a real marketplace is, rather than the rigged insurance racket they’d help perpetrate for so many years, these M.D. gurus would have to share mall space with the local farmers. Until they learned their real value to the community, they’d have to sell their services by the side of the road just like everybody else.

Saul pulled into his garage and returned to the warmth of his home, a satisfied medical consumer looking forward to a tasty dinner.

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A Rash of Terror

Reading further internet text, the terrorist becomes ever more convinced in the righteousness of her cause.

“God’s will be done.”

For months she stood firm. Agents of the oppressor surrounded her, wanting to subsume even her youngest child into their heathen world government. Only moments before she tucked blankets underneath his chin as he continued his fever sleep. It was not right only her child should have to live so.

“Even if my child is the last, he shall live free.”

By keeping her infant unregistered, she hopes to avoid the medical experimentation these occupying forces perform on innocent children, often with the compliance of ignorant parents. But this is merely a delaying tactic, the terrorist knew at some point her child would be discovered. They would demand he be delivered to one of their many “health” facilities. He would become another statistic, furthering their obscene medical procedures and research. 

She knew she must do her utmost to avoid this cruel fate from befalling her child. 

Eleven days before, she brought her child to the group.  All the mothers attending were also true believers, even if most were cowards. They would not subject their infants to the oppressor’s whim, but they hadn’t the nerve to strike out against their oppressor. One blessed child was introduced to them all, and the children spent an hour playing together.

It was not until yesterday that her child showed signs he too had been blessed. She immediately took him to his bed. This morning God’s mark, in all its glory, appeared on his skin. This will be the day. 

The terrorist wraps the child in its blanket. Donning a long, dark, hooded coat, she covers herself, hoping to make her appearance as unmemorable as possible. With a scarf she obscures her face. Cameras positioned by the oppressors will certainly be recording their actions when mother and son arrive at the final destination.

She knows her actions will appear cruel to some. But God has selected these children. Some will survive. Some not. God’s eternal and glorious will.

She cradles her son in her arms as they leave the house. She feels his fever heat as they get into the minivan. She buckles him into the car seat. 

Finding a place to sit near the center of the indoor shopping center, the terrorist slowly uncovers her child’s face, allowing the boy to more freely breathe in and out the recirculating air. Soon hundreds of children within the mall’s confines will also be blessed. 

The measles virus is truly God’s will. The Lord be praised.

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AUTHOR TAGS:

Guns, Police, and Gift Bags

At the Hill Street precinct house, another shift begins.

“Settle, people, settle.” Behind his podium, a balding sergeant conducting this morning’s roll call brings the twenty-five police officers to order. “Just a couple of things to run through before you get out into today’s bright sunshine and fresh air. First off: we’re all working this weekend. Demonstrations downtown are expected. Everybody works. No exceptions.”

The sergeant waits for the grumbling to subside before continuing. “Think of it this way, you may be on the street all weekend but it’s another couple of boat payments you won’t have to worry about. Second: Officer Buntz is recovering from a bowel resection so when the cap goes around, donate generously. We’re going to get the family something nice. They’ll be suffering enough with Buntz moping around the house all the time for the next couple of weeks.

“Finally, we have a visitor. A visitor bearing gifts no less. People, listen up, allow me to introduce Ms. Jane Parker, who is here representing this precinct’s corporate partners, the National Firearms League. Ms. Parker.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. Good morning, officers. My name is Julia Parker and I’m the National Firearms district liaison for your Hill Street precinct. It’s my pleasure to be here this morning. 

“As most of you are undoubtedly aware, today marks the third anniversary of the Affordable Cop Act and our employers at the NFL would like to mark this occasion with a special gift to all of you. On your way out, my assistant, Robert, will give you each a gift bag. It’s a small token of the NFL’s appreciation of all your hard work. Included in the bag, among other items, you will  find a brand new, never been fired, Glock 19.” 

Ms. Parker takes a moment’s pause as the ripple of surprise subsided.

“I’ve been tasked with reporting to you all that percentage sales for the Hill precinct this past year have more than doubled corporate projections. A bonus check for each one of you will be transferred to your individual accounts next pay period. Congratulations one and all!”

Ms. Parker begins the applause but soon all the officers join in.

“Yes, congratulations! But today we’re starting a new sales year and I just want to remind each of you that you are the face of the National Firearms League out there on the streets. You should all remember that each time you discharge one of your brand new Glocks. We at the NFL, based on historical data, anticipate a ten percent increase in local sales for the following week each time an officer discharges their weapon in the line of duty. So, remember, if given the slightest reason, protect, serve, and fire.

“One other thing before I let you get back onto the streets. You’ve all been doing a great job as NFL public relations reps, but I want to emphasize one point. Whenever any of you are dealing with the media; television, radio, blogs, whatever, always remind the media that police officers never feel safe on the street unless they are carrying a handgun. If you can’t display the weapon to the cameras, at least put your hand near the weapon so it’s included in the frame. We want every civilian in the Hill Street precinct to know that if the cops; well trained in martial arts, self-defense, and all that; can’t feel safe unless they carry a gun, what chance does a middle aged non-combatant have unless he or she is packing too? That’s the sales pitch and it’s a winner! Guns are fun! What protects the police can protect you too!

“Thank you all!”

To polite applause Ms. Parker leaves the room and the Sergeant once again addresses his troops. “You heard it all. Pick up your new pistols on the way out. And Pearson Avenue near 5th is closed until this afternoon. Plan your patrols around it. OK, that’s it. Hit the streets.”

The officers assemble their equipment, pick up their gift bags, but before anyone can leave the room, the Sergeant speaks once again.

“Hey, let's be careful out there.” 

The Donkey in Rehab

(TRANSCRIPT OF THERAPY SESSION NUMBER 3)

First one's always free. As universal a rule as you’re going to find.

That’s what they say.

When did you start? Was the first taste so attractive? So irresistible? 

You don’t get it. It was always this way. Somebody makes a donation. You do them a favor. And if somebody owned you, well, that’s the way it is.

So, you think being bought is a good thing?

Listen, it’s like anything else. It’s like drinking. A couple of cocktails now and then. Nobody cares. Some people can drink like fish and not stumble. Others, a few belts and they’re butt naked in the middle of the street trying to hail a cab.

So which one are you?

That’s why we’re here. We all thought we could take donations from corporations and not be overly beholden to them. Things got out of control.

What do you mean by that?

Money is the obvious problem. But it’s the operatives too. Eventually the money came with consultants who said they were for the people, but they were for the corporations. It’s the revolving door. Soon enough their culture permeated the party. And their ideas started to take over. Instead of talking about guaranteed minimum income, we were talking about minimum wage. Crap like that. Instead of Medicare for all, we’re selling more private insurance policies. Biggest money maker since the printing press. And all these Democrats who say they’re for the people are doing the donor’s bidding.

How’s that?

They sold the big lie. What with media advisors and all the other idiots who come with the big bucks, they sold us on the idea we needed to fight money with money. Had to keep the conglomerate donations coming in so we could buy the ads broadcast on outlets owned by the major corporations themselves. It was a daily fix. An hourly fix. We were like hamsters on the wheel. Shooting up the cash all the time. Thought we could buy a win over the Republicans.  Instead of beating them, we became them.

“We have met the enemy, and he is us.”

Exactly. What type of idiots were we? Thinking we could defeat big corporate money using their weapons? They tossed us scraps and idiots wearing two thousand dollar suits and suddenly, we’re all dressed up looking like children at take your kid to work day. Laughable. Supposedly a party of the people, but looking, sounding, and acting like an extremely pale reflection of corrupt Republicans. Such a shame.

What do you intend to do about it?

Coming here was the first step. We have to cut all ties with the corporations. Donations, consultants, private planes, everything. The way it is now, even if we win we lose. They have their hooks in us so deep. We say we represent the citizens but we take money and orders from corporations. Nobody in this party is supposed to think corporations are citizens.

Then what.

Then we take the Republicans’ biggest strength, their money, and use it against them. We say we’re the party of human beings and they’re the party of lethal conglomerates. We’re the party of American citizens and they’re the party of Swiss bankers and international cartels.

You think that will work?

What we’re doing now sure as hell isn’t. We’ll never has as much money as them. They want us to fight with them using their favorite weapon. Money. Screw that. Let all their cash burn a hole in their pockets. Set their whole house on fire. Make money an albatross we can hang around their neck. Give the people a choice for a change. Instead of liberal corporate party versus conservative corporate party, make it a choice of life over death. People versus killer corporate machines. It might work.

Good. You’re showing some progress. Tomorrow then?

Yeah, tomorrow. All these ideas sound good in rehab. It’s when we get out into the real world the fight begins.

 

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A Wonderful Christmas Gift 

WHEN MONSANTO OWNS YOUR SPERM

(Published by CounterPunch)

Should have learned by now but how were you supposed to know you should always read the fine print on your cereal box. 

You sit down at the kitchen table. Pour breakfast kibble into a bowl, add milk, and eat. That’s how it’s done. Maybe you take a glance at some cartoon character on the front of the box, but that’s about it. Nobody expected you’d need a law degree before a post-dawn get down with good ole Cap’n Crunch.

You don’t expect to hear someone knocking on your front door at six o’clock in the morning. At least you shouldn’t. Cops, bill collectors, and religious zealots sometimes pick that time in the morning since they know you’re probably home. They don’t particularly care if you think they’re entirely obnoxious for waking you up from a sound sleep. Oh, and process servers like early morning visits as well.

CEASE and DESIST

Well, that’s certainly plain enough. You open the front door and a funny looking little guy, resembling the Cap’n himself a bit, hands you official looking papers, smiles, and strolls back to his car. CEASE and DESIST. Well, you can’t please all the people all of the time.

You pour yourself a second cup of coffee and read the damn thing. Blah, blah, blah, your name, blah, blah, Monsanto, CEASE and DESIST, all activity involving, fluids, your body, blah, blah, implied consent, CAP’N CRUNCH, your supermarket reports. You live alone...read the cereal box. CEASE and DESIST.

You need more coffee and your reading glasses. On the back of the Cap’n Crunch box, in infinitely small letters, you read, “By consuming this Monsanto GMO product, you agree that Monsanto shall retain all rights to all material produced in conjunction with this Monsanto product.” You wonder if that isn’t just the slightest bit odd.

Back to the CEASE and DESIST order. “Blah, blah, blah, all products produced by ingesting this Monsanto product including, blood, muscle, flesh, bone, hair, nails, internal organs, ejaculate, sweat, tears, and manure. Use of any and all of these Monsanto products by you without suitable recompense....”

Reading further you are delighted to discover that you need not immediately stop using the Monsanto products which now constitute your body.  Upon monthly payment of one hundred dollars, for a single gentleman such as yourself, every 30 days Monsanto will allow you to maintain control of up to one inch of fingernail clippings (per digit), the equivalent amount of fluids and solids commensurate with up to four flushes a day, one inch of overall hair,  the product of 15 ejaculations, and the donation of a pint of blood to charitable organizations. Any use above these limits must be shipped immediately to the Monsanto processing facility nearest your home.

This seems relatively fair to you. After all, you did eat the cereal and failed to read the small print on the package. “Ignorance of the law is no excuse,” as they say. And since Sergeant Scalia maintains that corporations like Monsanto are human, and you’ve got the product of Monsanto seeds in you, in a way you’ve been royally screwed and Monsanto wants its child support, or something like that. Threats regarding dragging you through every court in the land and hounding you until the end of time are most definitely implied. 

On the final page of the CEASE and DESIST order are instructions for proper payment as well as an offer for additional use of your Monsanto body products. For an extra fifty dollars a month, you are allowed unlimited use of the Monsanto products which now constitute your body. You don’t think you’ll be donating more than a pint of blood, or growing more than an inch of hair, but you decide to kick in the extra fifty anyway.

Not the best way to start off the morning, but you feel better once you’ve authorized your bank to pay Monsanto on a monthly basis. You figure it’s cheaper than court costs. Being jerked off by a lawyer would probably cost at least twice as much.

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BLOOD MONEY

(Also published on Dissident Voice)




BLOOD MONEY means different things to different people. In some cultures it’s the price paid to the victim’s family by the perpetrator, after a family member is murdered. Elsewhere it can be a fine paid for committing libel, theft, physical harm, or rape. If you employ a contract killer, their payment is also BLOOD MONEY

In cultures influenced by Christian traditions, BLOOD MONEY refers to an historic market transaction. When you talk BLOOD MONEY there, you’re talking about those infamous thirty pieces of silver paid to Judas Iscariot for squealing on his boss. After the fact, when Judas tried to return the money, even the bankers wouldn’t have anything to do with those particular shiny silvers. Business leaders back then thought those coins would pollute their existing supply. Money earned by a heinous criminal act. BLOOD MONEY. What a concept! 

Today people are divesting from those international criminal corporations whose business models depend upon the massive combustion of carbon based fuels. It’s been over forty years since everyone with a conscious mind realized the world was overdosing on oil and coal. For decades those involved in profiting from combustible carbon have worked their damndest to disguise the inevitable conclusion that their currency is BLOOD MONEY, and their industries, if not reigned in, might well destroy human life on Earth.

But these are not the only organizations where BLOOD MONEY flows. No pharisee would ever touch the BLOOD MONEY of a nuclear weapons manufacturers like General Electric. Insurance corporations, pharmaceutical companies, and like minded criminal operations who ration healthcare, with profits as their major consideration, should be committed to their own circle of hell as well. Cartels pushing oil, gas, and coal aren’t the only merchants of death.

As in the case of Conflict Diamonds, civilized society should turn their backs on the BLOOD MONEY generated by businesses that are acting against humanity’s best interest. When today’s investment bankers say the money is all green, and everything fungible is of equal worth, they are participating in a convenient lie. Just as trade in diamonds from countries involved in brutal wars has been outlawed; financial dealings with, or stock ownership in, corporations that engage in activities detrimental to the lives and human rights of all homo sapiens should immediately cease. If you do business with a criminal organization, knowing full well their crimes, you become as guilty as they.

Simply coming into contact with BLOOD MONEY corrupts us all. Like Ebola, letting BLOOD MONEY even touch you, can be fatal to all of humanity.

At the present time in the United States, there is little hope of a legal remedy to eliminate the activities of these corporate merchants of death, so a cultural solution must be found. Those dealing in BLOOD MONEY: oil company executives, and those trading in their stocks and bonds; nuclear weapon manufacturers, and for-profit healthcare rationers should be shunned as the criminals they are. If you know someone who owns shares in a petroleum company, turn your back on them, and tell them why. If your doctor is a part owner of a for-profit hospital, take your business elsewhere, and explain that healthcare is a human right, and a the person’s freedom, should not be traded in the marketplace. If a business is dripping with BLOOD MONEY, their employees shouldn’t be given awards by the PTA. 

Extremists will say that some corporations will always do some harm. On occasion some people will kill other human beings, but that doesn’t mean murderers should be accepted in a civilized society.

If you’re doing business with merchants of death and their BLOOD MONEY, there is really no way to wash the blood off your hands.

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