What's It Like To Be "Thowed Off"?

This evening, after a quick trip to a faraway grocery store accessible to me only by transit bus, and there in the midst of plenitude that tends to mock that neighborhood's very poor, I had to coerce myself--to keep from telling an oddly-placed man at the bus stop, who, it seems to me, may have had some problems with paranoia.  

Placement.  It's always about one's placement.  Location, location, location. 

"Wanna sit here so you can see the bus coming?" he asked.  He was friendly at first. "You can never tell what those Black drivers are gonna do.  They always see a white guy at the bus stop and keep going." 

"Really?"  

You haven't noticed that?  They'll just drive by as if you're not there!  

"I've never seen that," I said.  

Stop here.  Let's note it all down: I think I'm  supposed to be dishonest here.  Dishonest all the livelong day.  No, really, even if I cannot fully document my honesty in telling stories from my very own life, I believe it is possible to testify I almost never have that problem.  No, wait.  Let's call that problem "an issue".  

Who was there to witness?  Judge, jury, executioner?  How does that work in 2025 United States jurisprudence?  Maybe "superintendence" is a better word for juris imprudence.  Why, sometimes, this crazed plate of porcelain gets an impression that some judges and Justices are basically vigilantes.   

No, this isn't an update of Dostoyevsky's "Notes From Underground", the famous (heretofore unknown in the annals of punditry novella that begins with a protagonist who believes there is something wrong with his liver.  

Ha!  The updated protagonist may think: Liver! Ain't that a punishing metaphor!

Oddly, as I sat there as the obviously troubled man or mannequin began his almost-friendly litany about "the Blacks", I remained in a good mood.  

You know how it goes: Keep calm and carry on.  The Queen of England.  Alive everywhere in Washington DC.  

Here in Texas, some call the US capitol "Warshin'ton".  

Seriously, sir. I beg you to believe me.  I'm down on my knees.  In this world of subjective valuation, especially now that "the subjects" are usually the ones who reap the objective consequences of short-sighted subjectivity, some of us need pardons for crimes we never committed. 

Clemency, sirs and ladies.  To be perfectly without lying (which would mean never speaking ever again in a purely philosophical sense), I would have used the word "myopic" to describe the crass queenery readily available at "the company store". 

But that's one of those "hard words" here in Texas, a place where David Brooks believes is loaded down with so many smart people immune to Reason or education, hard words are unnecessary--when one can say stuff like "prolly"  or "y'all's crazee!" or "OK, Maynard..."

In official Dallas, all poets are "beatniks".  Like on Dobie Gillis, a 1950s era jibe at...whatever scared Official America at the time.  

Was the kindly appearance of the odd man out by the bus stop a sign of "beatnik"?  I didn't know.  My mind always wants to be elsewhere from stereotypical nonsense,  

No, I wouldn't label the stranger in thick black-and-red plaid flannel anything, not on a nice, cool evening under huge shade trees lining "the better part of town".  Nah. He seemed a little over-worried.  He went on, pursuing his dream.   

"DART [Dallas Area Rapid Transit] is now run by the Blacks!  Did you know that half the DART board is Black?"

Was I the dartboard?  Darts.  All over the place.  

"No, I didn't know that.  Thank you for giving me the facts, sir."  

"Plus, all the neighborhoods are full of Black and Brown people!  Can you believe it?"  

"Where are you from?" 

I asked because, nope, he had no Texas accent. Add to that, no wind burns, no sunburn, no lousy weather all over his face. Weather?  Wonder what the poor man is like on the inside? Veritable hurricane? Does he spin to the left so much that he's been going around in circles like some kind of underwater merry-go-round beneath the surface of DC's Potomac River?  Maybe the merry-go-round perpetually and also chases its tail.  As in "Let's go right all the time until the entire worldcis dizzy enough to just give it all to us!"  

How does the political center spin?  Maybe Axel Rose of Guns N Roses knows the answer and is eager to verify.  Expertise.  Not just for the children....  

"From?  Oh.  I'm from all over."  

"Here in Dallas?  What's your neighborhood?"  

"All over. I've lived all over."  He seemed afraid to tell me where.  Paranoia: Deep in the heart of Texas.  

Right, right, right, I thought.  And I'm the US Ambassador to the United Nations.  

"It's bad out there!" the man seemed furious to inform me. "There is not one neighborhood where the Blacks and the Browns haven't taken over. I was on the light rail the other night, and the Blacks...they were having a crack party, right there on the train!  It was dangerous!"

"Why didn't you call the DART Police?"  

"Oh, I can't do that," he blubbered. "If I called the cops, those Blacks might have killed me!" 

"How would they know?"  

"Man!  You must come from a privileged background!  Don't you know that if I called the cops, the Blacks would a-kill me?  Maybe on the next day!" 

I'd hold my cell phone way way down where the crack party couldn't see me dialing the number!"  

"Oh, no, no!  They'd KNOW!"  

Who knew, I blubbered to myself: I've now met an underground member of The Mass Mediums.

Mass Mediums?  Those are the pundits who are know-all, see-all, are-all all the time.  Dime a dozen these days.  Total snore-bots too.  

No, don't get me started about the lies and the people who live on lies.  Everyone knows pundits who redefine simple concepts for partisan or ideological gain are as full of lies as those who tell various unprovable truths.  Truth?  

Get a witness in there.  Oh.  So some Smurf from the planet Neo chats with buddies over at the bar--a think tank--and then plans arrive from outer space...right into the Opinions sections of all the newspapers in America.  Whoa.  The stakes must be really high.  An ideological crack party, right there on the train.

For real?  That behavior's squishy.  Only the squishes, as Ted Cruz might have archly commented, believe the truth is rock solid, absolute, and a matter of good versus evil versus good versus evil--until the contest between good and evil knocks down everything in the vicinity of this tiny corner of the universe.  

After a meditative pause over my so-called life of privilege: "Actually, my family was called, uh, let me see.  Lower middle class."  

"You're too privileged if you don't see the plain facts about the Brown and Black takeover of Dallas, Texas!"  

"Actually," I added for some weird reason, "my ancestors came to the US in the 1600s. Ancestors fought on both sides of the Revolutionary War and the Civil War!"  

"That's nothing.  Mine fought too!"  

"I don't tell many people about that," I added as if consolation.  "My mom told me, 'Gordon, don't worry, we're from the horse thief side of the family."  

Good to know.  See?  I'm as dishonest about my supposed American royalty as some crassly misinformed grandson of a flippin' bootlegger with "family ties" knee-deep in the mob.  One whose family is constantly turned way way up on the TV set past 13 to the "level of laud".  Or lard.  Choose one.  

"But you don't see it," the obviously certain man across from me at a flippin' bust stop continued. "Do you.  The only one who can save us is Donald Trump!"  

Welp, that was almost it for me.  Only one man can save America.  Even though he's been caught diddlin' little girls.  

Luckily DART bus 23 arrived at that moment.  

"Good talking to you," I murmured. I didn't mean it, but that's where politeness helps cover up dishonesty.  Right?  

Ah, yes, another Mass Medium.  A streetside pundit.  A psychic.  Sees through all the dishonesty in the whole wide world.  

I know if I'd stuck around to listen, I could get him to parrot the nonsense that modern Liberalism is socialism.  That happens a lot among fruitcakes.  I see that all the time.  Fruitcakes don't like modern Liberalism, and thus the convenient way to propagandize against their supposed "ideological opponents"; the convenient was is basically this: Become a two-legged label maker on stilts.  

If Liberalism is socialism, why did Liberalism defend capitalism at all?  Don't socialists want to replace capitalism?  

Boneheads.  Snore-bots.  Ideological navel-gazers.  

Poor old odd-man-out I left behind.  What one earth was he doing, evangelizing at the bus stop after five p.m.? Isn't there a curfew for people like that? 

No. I don't mean  to be mean.  I'm not living in Greenwich Mean Time. Sadly, he seemed terrified. 

That's almost par for something I've found more and more disgusting about local TV news in Dallas.  Just the day before yesterday, the weatherman (remember the Weathermen?) told us in breathless breathiness that a horrific cold front was flooding in from the north and that the hard freeze could be, he seemed to say, the very beginning of the End of Days.  Need some exclamation points?  Here:  Have a few: 

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

No wonder politically-naive citizens around here are in freak-out mode most of the time.  Fear tactics mean "radical intimidation tactics", radical in this sense meaning "from outside conventional political means."  

Next up?  The weirdness of a variety of the old "if it bleeds it leads" stereotype that, and I summarize, "a horrific development" is occurring (I looked on a search engine, found nothing at all about this) in that--gasp!--a stadium where children will be playing is being built...and that it plans to sell beer and wine!!!

Whoa, Nellie.  I almost laughed outloud. But what good does that do?  After all, here in Texas, most local TV news anchors are "secret Clydesdales".  Horses.  Yoked to pull a boner on the people who watch. 

This reminds me of another novella: William Golding's "The Paper Men."   

Oh well. Some like beer--like, Brett Kavanaugh, for example?--and some find beer to be "a demon from the very pit of Hell!"  See it? Good or evil good or evil neener neener neener.  

In some aspects of doctrinaire Dallas, "wine" may as well be spelled "whine".  Ain't that there debonair, longhair?  

Back in the Eighties,where I was "a vital member" of the Dallas counterculture of punks and wild partiers, I did like beer. I still find no problem with beer, but I don't drink it any longer: 18 years and counting--with no need for some triangular Rotary Club membership at all.  

In the counterculture, back then and all the time, we laughed about people who are "thrown off".  That means, they've outed themselves as profoundly out of their minds.  

Once, I started in on the old Texas twang: "You mean 'thowed off!'" 

You know: like paying some guy $37,759,333,488 because, as he has testified on TV, he can "thow a ball".  

Yay, big money!  Big big money! It's there for the taking.  But not for "the taken".  

Or another good old Texan saw: "That chucklehead there is a throwback."  It's a Texasism, at least traditionally.  You find a malformed fish, you throw it back. Counter-culturally, though, my friends and I used it like this: 

"See that Ronald Reagan?  He's a throwback.  To the 13th Century!" 

Silence! Silence!  We be in the "presents" of a saint!  

Ah, yes, we were such Mass Mediums during the days of Jesus and Mary Chain, a band the superficial may believe is horribly sacrilegious. Absolutely psychic.  A post-punk band with a biker grind.  

The actual story surrounding the name of JAMC, I've read, is that the British band saw an ad at the back of a comic book that advertised a pretty chain with a pendant of the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus on a nice silver chain. 

I can imagine it: "Let's call ourselves that!"    

Misunderstanding is exemplary of the conventional class of high status.  Funny how the superficial judge the counterculture.  By looks alone.  After all, some crazy rightists still believe that when some dude throws up his right fist, that "giving power to the people" is communism, revolution, violent takeover, subversion.  

The Mass Mediums strike again.  What's wrong with the common American having power?  Apparently everything.  Status flatus.  

Too bad I didn't bring a nifty two-finger-thick digital recorder I sometimes use when on the bus if an image for my crazy poetry ploops out of nowhere.  Thus, I could have surreptitiously recorded the poor man in the red-and-black flannel plaid in order to convict him for "crazy", and for all time.  A robo-witness.  In the land of surveillance-clad "cleanliness".  

Say what?  Poetry?  What's that?  Frilly little words?  Ah yes, one a them-thar beatniks!  I knew it! Look at you!  

Years ago, when I was barely even thinking of a future amounting to anything at all (please don't keep reminding me of this), an official someone somewhere, perhaps one of those tall boys in a coffee shop who, while standing next to his girlfriend while waiting for coffee (Waiting For Coffee, title of a new romance novel!), stands right in front of your face so you can look at his backside: status, Dallas-style.  

"What you wanna do with your life, Gordon?"  

How could I answer?  It's not as if I was somehow stranded in the present, of Nowsville, or Nowheresville, or the land of boat shows and overfed tourists.  What could I say?  What can I ever say?  So I went out and quoted from Charles Bukowski's novel, "Ham On Rye":   

"Chase butterflies." 

*

What horrors will the release of the Epstein files affect The Great American Arrogant?  

As the country's great stereotype-manufacturing and distribution services broadcast sometimes hopeful, too often painful to see, evidence of child sexual abuse and coercion, I cannot help but wonder in a happy way: 

Who's next?  

When I heard the good news of a partial opening of the now-infamously famous information locked-down by a supposed Justice Department, I searched my mind to see if I could look at what we are now learning from a perspective different from those offered up by news and opinion.  

After all, most nationwide and even local news is designed to appeal to the largest number of viewers, readers, and even those who know how to listen.  

While that's possibly a good deed (I mean, who knows how good?), knightly deeds that are overly general and often loaded with the old "if it bleeds it leads" mentality usually cannot capture important factors.  

And what we are led to believe are opinions?  "My opinion here is we the arrogant desperately need to bore you to tears," many write.  Day after day.  My favorite laughing stock is the idea that people who often know little about "issues" such as poor people can be covered with vain abstractions that ring hollow when one learns the writer received hereditary benefits, often financial, in a supposed republic with democratic features.  

Yes, if we lumped all those who are fed by news information, and especially those whose job is to spread it around like mayonnaise or I Can't Believe It's Not Butter; if we took an overly generalized picture of what most of us can only imagine what has happened to a so far countless number of young women and girls who were mauled, manhandled, mashed and psychically murdered by selfish men operating under a God-knows-what set of motivations, what would turn up?  

Much of what would eventually pan out when all the silt and sand is sifted away amounts to an exceptionally large number of human beings who can only begin to comprehend such multiple tragedies in the abstract.  

How to fill that lacuna, that gap, that almost unanswerable abyss that now separates a closeted aristocracy and those who are put upon every single day by circumstances few can control?  

I know.  It's unfair and possibly unjust of me to suggest that most if not all of the country's most important interpreters and reporters faced with how to even speak of child sexual abuse have had no experience.  

Yes, I've got to say this: If I have any wisdom at all in me, that wisdom tells me that none of us knows who or how others in their extended families, their social circles, their networks of fellow employees or professionals, their neighborhoods, their towns and cities, their states, regions, even within the federal government itself have been either sexually abused and thus traumatized, or have experienced any number of abuses, injustices, and lives seemingly steered toward despair.  

Why do we allow those whose lives are so far distant from such brutal realities to explain it all to us--usually after looking up a few facts that, usually, support their contentions in a sort of fraudulence that disallows even one smidgeon of the possibility that other views also hold validity?  

On that count, like millions of Americans, I'm left to wonder.  After all, according to the blunted "razor boys" of the far-out rightist cabal, if I don't understand those whys and wherefores, it's all my fault.  

Yeah buddy!  Welcome to Project 2025!  Ain't it great?  

OK.  Today's gripe?  Over.  

No, none of us is so sagacious to know all beyond a few vague abstractions a few auspicious and important figures may offer anyone willing to pay attention--what all things Epstein could mean.  Do such manifestations of an all-American sickness ever apologize?

Perhaps this is why personal experience, the sharing of one's collisions with dysfunctional attachments, with obsessive greed and arrogance, one's loathsome pains, diseases, life situations, financial crashes, romantic collapses, all of it, is important.  Many hide those hurts away: embarrassing, humiliating, especially signs of weakness.  

In a factual world, so much is missed by each and every one of us.  Facts do allow us to piece together stories and interpretations of events often far too large for even the greatest of great minds in a newsroom or broadcasting booth, or a corner booth in a diner, or over at the big five-star where we can all be certain a variety of "all-seeing theorists" have solved what they believe is the singular case regarding the damage a literal collective of people who did so much to hurt young girls.  

A collective.  A cabal.  A wealthy one.  One quite afraid of what political observers throughout world history might call "the autonomy of those formally dependent on the cabals and collectives among "the higher stations".  

Go ahead.  Chuckle.  I know I'm perfectly capable of grinning my way through exceptionally boring details surrounded by an array of the tools and outcomes of calculation: facts. Which can only go so far.  And so far, in many cases across the country, facts can't go far at all.  

That is not to say the fact-dependent are material or objects to disparage.  Not at all.  Facts actually have a role in how we understand the world.  

According to one of the country's often unacknowledged founders, a man named John Locke, all humans have the ability to perceive stimuli in the object world, and then reflect upon those perceptions.  Facts then emerge.  And to test those facts, one experiments.  

That is called empiricism.  

That natural, self-evident method of survival is related to common sense.  It's also a foundation of the scientific method, a much more formal use of a tool available to us all.  No, not merely the specialists and pros; all of us.  

But what hides beyond contextual facts that surround a horrific, high-society cult in an all-too-surreal underground that all by itself managed to cause so much human damage?  We could take a "deep dive" into stereotype and ask, "How did that feel?"  That's only scratching the surface. Scratching the surface is simply not enough.  

Feel me?  I know that Walter Lippmann, author of "Public Opinion", knew this.  As did Czelaw Miloscz, author of "The Captive Mind".  

Why the creepy persistence with surfaces and superficiality in American mass media?  Not enough time?  Not enough for what? Or whom?  

Lots of Americans have been cornered in untenable situations.  Doubtless a fewer number have an inkling of how it feels to be every single day ravaged and rattled and ruined by events far beyond management.  Why speculate?  Why single out one group?  Ask around.  

In a sly turnabout, I'll suggest that Sword of Damocles cuts both ways: sexual assault and abuse victims everywhere; perpetrators hiding from the light of transparency also a dime a dozen.  

But each untenable situation that results in trauma and near-ruination deserves a plane of its own.  I know I can't begin to wrap my mind around what so many young women were put through by vicious men whose sole goal was to "get off" and thus maybe find some kind of near-oracular "answer" lurking way out there beyond even telescopic sight. 

We could call such "powerful personages" a name some in 2025's counterculture would label "gimps". 

See?  Those boys needed a crutch to go where some of the best people go naturally, and without help.

See?  That one over there needs a good shot of heroin to get to Nirvana.  The other guy?  He's a speed freak: If he cranks his mind up, he can see much farther than he otherwise could see.  Oh look. That one.  He's totally into danger.  The "uplift" of murder, or robbery, assault, and of suppression, repression and ultimately oppression. 

It's all about getting off. 

Who in any newsroom knows what it's like to be traumatized?  Who knows? People simply don't talk about their encounters with horror, anxiety, abuse and a generalized sense of persecution that will not let go.  

From what I find in casual culture, every single one of us is traumatized or has been traumatized.  Trauma is now "pop".  I'm quite taken by a female indie group from Great Britain called "Goat Girl" that dared in a song ("PTS Tea") to take its snark and go public with this lyric: "PTSD...from a hot cup of tea."  

Seriously. Know one of those?  

People I've spoken with about this problem in popularizing various aspects of trauma and the terminology used by psychotherapists to aid those truly traumatized; they too get sick of "trauma victims" who didn't get enough chocolate chips in their cookies last week. 

It's sick.  Add "trauma" to an event, and suddenly--and this is crucial to the point I'm trying to make--one has high status.  One with high status stands out over and above all others who haven't been so lucky as to have been traumatized. 

Wait.  Laid low?  And now one is a social butterfly of glittery admiration?  Is that how that's supposed to work in mass media's "relationship" with those who have been crushed by unsolicited experiences?  

Someone got hit with some bad news?  Is it trauma yet?  So.  How do we gauge honest trauma, actual abuse and pain and despair and humiliation and even psychic destruction if we do not know those ourselves?  

I have no idea.  

But I do know the trauma of Bipolar episodes.  I know about nearly dying from leukemia.  I know how the first six months of an over four-year stint homeless rolled me until I was dizzy.  Or a father's suicide. Or unintentional neglect.  Or domestic abuse of the verbal variety.  I could, I could, I know I could...

Why bother going on?  That's how trauma feels in part.  People might think I really think I'm something.  Hint: I'm not.  

Maybe I'll get by in dumping my garbage on the hollow walls of wherever it is I live.  Hint: I do have a few pictures on my walls. So indulgent....

The women abused: mangled, put through psychological meat grinders by people who may have deluded themselves into believing they were doing their victims a favor ; those unfortunates who have survived the psychological "blowback" of uncaring monstrosities do indeed have a right to be seen, and to be heard; to be sounded out, and better, to be offered the choice inform those of us lost in the abstract nature of facts and figures.  

When traumas (and the requisite "traumatists" ever behind the scenes) really hurt, what's left but to refuse to follow orders?  Me?  I rebel.  Do you feel excessively vulnerable?  Do you live with an understanding no one is going to bother with any of what hit you so hard you could barely even think ever again?  Are you going to know you have to wend your way through a world where judgment calls on your actions and interactions, and reactions, involve "uninvolved expertise"? 

Look at this: Trauma has no cure.  Trauma can only be managed--or mismanaged.  Dozens of websites, therapists and psychologists will back me up on that deduction.  Worse, however, the traumas I have experienced tell me stories.  I can use those stories to help myself.  I can find a place within my heart, mind, guts and soul where I can go if some event--a chirp by some fool on the TV set, a television drama, some carper all up everyone's backside over "the homeless"--triggers me.  

Trigger warning: Not some foolish thing people who know nothing like to joke about: A trauma survivor trains him- or herself to note certain "numinous" feelings which rise up when events similar to the traumatic event stimulate them. 

Wait.  Let's rebel a sec.  Groups that keep track tell us that in 2025 there are an estimated 400,000,000 firearms in the US.  Why doesn't anyone say it: Trigger warning.  Facts?  Look them up.  One fact: the Internet still exists. High-power assault weapons?  Let's talk about "getting off" just for those who need "an equalizer" at the local beer store.  

More important than anything is that none of the real meaning of what Epstein's victims endured and conquered can ever really make it in the fact-based whirl.  

Shhh!  Keep it short!  

During this ongoing scandal, I can't help but remember the times I've wondered about all those outside the government, those in social circles, and in the corporate world, and elsewhere--who knew what was happening and never spoke up.  How culpable are they?  Why doesn't anyone ask them about culpability.  What are the opinions of the culpable?  The accessories to criminal nastiness.  

It takes courage--and a real man--to come out of the woodwork and stand tall enough to face the eyes of the world.  

But what does mass media's enabling silence tell us?  That some men, some highly-placed men, wealthy, connected, insiders all the way, are not only cowards but arrogant beyond belief.  Who knows what those men are thinking and doing?  

And how many more Epstein cults are out there in the Great Unwashed portions of the country?  

Those "consumers of sexual abuse" may not be legally culpable, but from an ethical or moral position, they are no better than the current stand-outs of the scandal. Watch how President Trump tries to wiggle his way out of this with more of his typical abuse-of-power games.  Nobody's stopping him.  Nope.  He is not forgiven, but he certainly is being enabled. 

Why is that passable?  What else is behind the curtain? 

Shhh!  Let's blame all of it on one guy! 

Last evening, during a Chris Hayes All In episode on MSNBC, a question arose: The Epstein emails continually refer to the women as "girls".  Some on the panel traded a brief back-and-forth over why those emails referred to the victims as girls?  

I'm not a news commentator. I do know what "girls and boys" means in sexual vernacular.  Hint: It's different than "men and women".  

Or the coded language I suspect is being used in emails and messages to Ghislaine Maxwell.  I'm no genius, but clearly, or so it seems to me, those sweet messages from Trump to Maxwell seemed to say, "Lay low, keep quiet. We've got each other's backs!".  And the puppy.  What's that all about?  I have a few ideas about what individual letters sometimes mean.  

Definition: PUP--a potentially unwanted program.  Apparently, in victimology, there is a puppet and a puppy.  

Whatever.  Suppositions or suspicions are not facts and thus must be apprehended and sent to somewhere where they can't tell on the fact-dependent.  "Girl" points to "sexual organ".  Play it again, Sam....

Finally, as more telling facts roll into town--your town, my town, especially their town--I think about how arrogance and corruption conceive one another like deliberately illegitimate children.  It's arrogant to even think one second one has any right this or that side of the moon to abuse a young girl in the way multiple monstrosities thought was OFF.  

What?  In some especially swing set vernaculars, OFF means "Only For Fun".  

Remember how Biden, known as "a hugger", was accused by the bunch I call "the blamestream media" for being some kind of masher?  

A hug?  OK, a hug.  Why do some men depend upon full-body hugs from 14-year-old girls?  I doubt the arrogant will be letting on with that factual question any time soon.  

Finally, yes: This opinion is about women who have been exhausted and trampled by trauma.  But more importantly it is about the men who arrogantly and corruptly believed in their deluded and elaborately crazy ways that such dabbling at and against innocence is "a sign of the mighty and the knowing".  

Let's not blame one perpetrator.  Let's find them all.  Let's open them right up, put them on a pedestal, and do more than preach about before an audience.  Seriously, Americans, it's time to dump the garbage. 

*

Saturday morning, and I, the peasant, awakened.  Again.  All over again.  

No?  You don't believe I'm a peasant?  Look at me.  Whoever your are, and possibly whoever you seem to think you are, look at the ion images before your eyes.  

See me?  Your peasant, m'lard!  Eager to service thee!  

Granted, it's fairly clear to me, the peasant of Saturday, that your male (or female) eyes gaze down upon this white field lined with letters that look like the pickets on a special fence way out in the boonies where no one can get to the men behind the screen, and see the possibility of a blizzard in your future.  

No, really.  I'm already a little polluted.  No, not drunk or high.  Simply polluted.  Dirtied.  As in, "Some infants out there don't wanna clean up their messes."  

OK.  Follow me into the smallish kitchen in this apartment in a superficially nice-looking neighborhood that becomes the ghetto almost every night.  Take a look around.  See?  The peasant is readying his day by making his coffee.  

The peasant looks upward.  What does the peasant see?  The peasant sees a large yellow rectangle that hangs from the front edge of a cabinet to the left of the peasant's rental stove.  What's it for?  Take a look.  

The peasant sees flypaper.  The flypaper is littered with tiny gnats.  What?  The peasant pinned the sticky yellow rectangle in an auspicious position.  Since the peasant has to fight off gnats whenever the weather begins to shine like a perfectly lovely vase in the sky, he's placed it next to where the peasant prepares the peasant's food.  

Ooof!  What goes a-crankin' in the mind of the peasant?  Seriously?  The peasant sees a flotilla of yachts.  Gnat-yachts.  Thus, after he has managed to prepare his coffee while fighting off flotillas of yacht-gnats, the peasant, mainly to entertain the morning of a peasant's interior brain machinery, the peasant chose--it's now a public choice!--chose to count the gnats.  

Fifty-five gnats--stuck and dead as six-legged insects can be.  

Why such a flotilla of gnats?  Isn't life in a highly-dangerous neighborhood enough for the peasant?  Why, then, all the bugs?   

Don't get me wrong.  Like many people, I sincerely love bugs, and how the tiny gnats used to lead to a multitude of birds into the neighborhood.  After all, what do the purple martins swooping through late summer like Air Force pilot instructors eat?  

Purple martins eat flotillas of gnats.  But here in Peasantville, Texas (not to be confused with 1994's Fox Network broadcasts of "Spring Valley High" or The Monkees' 1967 hit, "Pleasant Valley Sunday"), since 2021, when the Avian Flu struck North America, many of the lovely birds which used to greet me on Saturday mornings with all sorts of songs; many of my winged and feathery neighbors have disappeared because of this: 

Bluejays, sparrows, chickadees, mockingbirds, cardinals, and grackles and cowbirds and especially crows; they died from Avian Flu. 

Thus, around 2021, I noticed flotillas of gnats invading the inner sanctum of peasantry known as my apartment.  

I bet you think I'm being either sarcastic or mean in dubbing myself a peasant.  Nah.  I'm only being honest.  Hey.  This piece is for the birds.  Estoy lo suficientemenete correcto?  

But I am not using the word "peasant" as a political descriptor at all.  Political correctness indicates there are no peasants in the United States.  But economic correctness depends on a peasantry.  This is the weird switcheroo within which the always out-for-themselves financial actors and circus performers we call private equity cabals all depend. 

Ah yes!  An empire hides behind the curtain. . . . 

In a way, the dead birds (think of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier) are also peasants for plutocrats.  According to The Conversation, a website that provides news stories from numerous non-profit media outlets and research programs [identifying clauses George Will I'm talkin' to you], since Avian Flu reached a sort of "critical mass", the chicken population  has suffered the most.  

Ever driven past a sort of chicken ranch? Horrific.  Poor creatures, all stuffed together in one nasty, often unsanitary location.  Probably under galvanized steel roofs that heat the sheltered birds to unusually high temperatures.  

Just perfect for the spread of disease. What will all the Coq Au Vin experts do if all the chickens are, well, fouled? Coq Au Vin is a classic French dish that combines chicken and white wine for sumptuous "taste experience".  

What?  A taste experience?  Remember when all the rightists were whining about California and how everything (save for evangelical church services) is about "an experience"?  

Tasty of them.  

There's more about the dead birds. According to the same site, as of 2025, the US has experienced [ha!  see it?] an estimated 180 million dead birds due to a dangerous form of influenza that is now, according to a Harvard Medical School, what is terminologically known as H5N1 has a bad reputation: Trackers note that specific influenza virus is known to jump species. While only a few actual humans have caught the bird flu, immunologists and virologists are keeping their eyes on the lookout for what could become America's next very own pandemic. 

The peasant?  He lifts his eyes.  He misses the birds. The missing quality of birdsong in Official America is already a problem. Since 2022, in fact, despite all the mooing and hoodoo out there in Opinionia, a submerged country all its own, 1000 dairy cattle farms have been affected.  

Who gets the best beef steak of the written word these days?  Who loves vanilla ice cream?  Who sneaks it out of the fridge?  

More importantly, who cherry-picks biological science for the sake of ideological denialism?  Denialism.  A new political ideology all by itself.  

Here in Peasantville, Texas, the peasant, at least for a while, practically mourned the loss of listening-in.  Every morning, even on cloudy or wintry days, a band of three Bluejays would strike a birdbrain conversation in a nearby tree.  Every morning.  Rasp!  Rasp-rasp!  Then all three Jays would chime in as if they were jay equivalents of the British House of Lords.  

What on God's fading green earth were the jays saying?  I could complain that I don't know Jay language, but I'll suggest a translation:  

Happy.  

Now a little buffer: According to the World Health Organization, worldwide,40 percent of the 900 people verified to have contracted the evil virus have died from it.  Moreover, the virus is a serious threat to livestock.  

And peasant-humans. 

This year, early one Spring morning, as I listened for the birds while slowly awakening, I heard one single Bluejay.  Calling, calling, calling.  I could almost hear the grief in the Jay's voice.  

I guess this peasant isn't callous enough to de-experience empathetic heartbreak. 

All this time, Fake President USA has been cw-caw-cawing about cleaning the swamp. Who knew he was going to evict all the birds? Or his minion in HHS. What the devil is he doing? Regaling the Serial Killer Triad Theory again via repetitive demonstrations?  That's rich, eh?  

What is the Serial Killer Triad?  Technically, the triad is called The MacDonald Triad, a theoretical set of three factors: obsessive-compulsive tendencies toward arson, persistent bedwetting, and most importantly, cruelty to animals. 

No wrong ideas here.  The MacDonald Triad is NOT an obsession with Happy Meals or Big Macs.  However, killing an innocent bear and dragging it to Central Park and then laughingly leaving it beside a jogger path--that qualifies. 

Does it play with matches?  

According to the same source, specific strains of H5N1 are a clear-and-present danger to 41 species in Canada alone.  

Ha!  "Peasant sez 'clear and present danger'!"  Will the birdbrains never cease with the ridiculousness?  

Only months ago, early spring, as I waited for the DART Blue Line (I call it Blue Trane, a classic bop record by another heroin addict, John Coltrane), I counted grackle nests in shade trees on the other side of the tracks: I found 44.  The place swarms with plagues of grackles (that's the real name of "a bunch of birds" that happen to be black ones. 

That early afternoon, the neighborhood hawk, a huge and impressive bird, caused a stir at the grackle stand.  Why so?  The hawk, hungry for eggs, was veering high in the air, thus causing a cacophony of warning and angry rasping.  

The Great Chain of Being: ideologically incorrect for the cherry-picking experts in slant and cool angles designed to get themselves some more Great Big Nest Eggs. But I believe the grackles may have won a round.  

The hawk has a wife.  They're a lovely pair.  But he seemed to be hunting outside of his typical neighborhood hunting ground.  Maybe the vermin population is also gone.  The couple's nest blew out of a massive old oak across the street from a bus stop where I often wait.  The winds?  approximately between 50 and 70 mph.  Atypical.  What does the wind have to say about its airy-fairy kingdom?  

No biggie. The hawks moved a little down the hill.  But the pigeons which conduct figure-eight maneuvers whenever the hawks are hunting, or, as I've observed, line up on nearby power lines in such a way as to strategically prevent airborne hunters looking for some fast food.  

The Avian Flu?  Scientific American's November 13, 2025 report indicates approximately two million turkeys have died from the flu since September, 2025. 

Meanwhile, this financially enslaved peasant here in Homo Economicus' very own Peasantville, Texas, will replace the yellow rectangles now full of gnats with new yellow stickies in order to protect his chicken cold cuts.  And fleets of yacht-gnats are spoiling for underwater oil off the coast of Venezuela.  Who ever heard of an obsession with burning things like that?  

Happy Thanksgiving.  

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That Dream Jesus was a real card.  Always laughing.  Tall, handsome, looked a little like Kenny Loggins.  Which of course is mawkish.  Loggins was only a pop star; Jesus was not all that pop among the ideologues we know as Pharisees.  But what is pop anyway? Some of the "highest"opera is pap. And was designed specifically to allay the poor of their desperation: a little like Walker, Texas Ranger: the purest fantasy.  But what was I claiming here? 

Dream Jesus, threw his head back and nearly guffawed.  He'd found his brother James a girlfriend: a real hottie from the north, from the land we now call Lebanon.  Dusky, deeply brown-eyed.  The type of smile that sends some men into contortions right there in the five-star.  

Dream James didn't quite know what to do.  Where were we in this supposedly sacrilegious dreamscape?

Looked like a hovel. Like, maybe some of the first scenes from "The Beverly Hillbillies".  Dirt floor. A cistern behind the scene. And a bed of ill-fitting lumber, probably hand-crafted.  By not by classic Japanese craftsmen--as advertised on QVC.  

I woke refreshed.  Happy.  All that garbage about the Shroud of Turin.  As if Jesus was smallish, perhaps a withered caricature of some lunatic's wishy-washy imaginations. My thoughts?  No one would want to be Jesus, a happy man brought to perdition by ugly, nasty, jealous onlookers who base their own self-images on status.  No wonder they had him killed.  He had too many friends, and thus was dangerous to the effete, the drunken, and the ever-pure of "poisonous sexuality". Why is it so many expect Jesus to resemble ancient Rome's plebeian prudence and deceptive discretion and shyness? 

Dream Jesus was a riot of laughter.  Now.  Get on your lazy knees and repent for framing him as someone servile and subordinate to power. 

Every once in a while, I fantasize how or why Jesus, the vaunted savior of the world the Romans just had to kill, and then gamble his body and blood away like so much beefsteak, would either be free to behave as a human being or fit into some prefabricated role.  Would he be free to experience the world where he's come back to see if there has been any improvement among we the hairless monkeys with all the big ideas about ourselves?  Or would he become an object to be kept, kept in a hole somewhere until he behaved according to a book that contains as many lies as it does facts surrounding the one who just had to be turned into a human sacrifice as the "inception" of some big plan to perpetuate a dumbo empire made of dirt.  

Why else sacrifice a human being?  In the ancient world, human sacrifice was mandatory--an unholy mandate--if anyone wanted to start some crap.  Maybe that's the way today, right here in the United States.  

So a resurrected Jesus returns.  He wants to be someone who profits, who has children, who experiences the modern world as does everyone else.  But word comes around, and the beatings begin again.  And again. And again.  

All those hairless monkeys tempting "The Lord Thy God" with trouble, pain, horror, death, trauma, shame, disappointment, a wholesale lack of any forgiveness at all, and bingo!  He's supposed to forgive all the malefactors. Hey, look, he might be forced into intoning, I just love these lacerations!  Can I get some more of them? 

Allowing a resurrected Jesus of legend and myth to even exist as one of those, apparently, is verboten because some book said so.  Maybe the resurrected Jesus of legend and yore isn't Jesus at all.  Maybe he's simply a human being come to experience the fruits of 2,000 years of heavy labor: 

All for nothin'.  

"Don't come into this house!" a clot of know-it-alls demands. "Not until you serve as our butler, our janitor, our fix it man, our servant, our cleaner!  Get your vacuum and fix all the damage we made!" 

See?  They have faith they won't have to serve the consequences of their own rabid doings. What would the entire planet have to say about hairless monkeys who are so cavalier about the one gift they actually have?  "Let's dirty it up some more!  Let's call the environment a communist plot!  Let's really get the place all doodied-up with garbage in anticipation of that butler that comes to clean it all up for us!" 

Oh yeah.  More arrogance. Same as it was before.  

I remember an editor once telling me that, with a book report I was to write about--get it?--Abbie Hoffman's "Square Dancing In The Ice Age", I needed to do this: 

"Keep it short."  

I read the book. I read how Abbie Hoffman, pursued by the god-almighty J.Edgar Hoover FBI, fed himself by writing food reviews for magazines.  Like Playboy.  He used a pseudonym: Barry Freed.  And he toured the entire country.  At the end of the essay collection, I read his act of contrition: He landed on an island on the St. Laurence Seaway, between the US and Canada, and found a group of retirees, men and women who had worked hard all their lives for just a little solace in this world, all of them alarmed, worried, hard put to understand why "big plans" were underway to widen the seaway, thus destroying their island home, all to make way for "big tankers".  He (and likely the book by Saul Alinsky, "Rules For Radicals") organized the island elders, brought lawsuits, and eventually prevailed.  At the end of that long fight, Barry Freed was found to be the actual Abbie Hoffman. He appeared before a judge, but when the judge discovered what he had done for those retirees, the judge released him, all charges "time served".  

Jesus would be so lucky on his second tour of the United States.  

Not really.  It's like some curmudgeons, selfish and greedy, had found a jewel, and then had determined to bury it "all to keep the money rolling in."  

Wow.  That's a really nice planet you've got there, it'd be a shame if something happened to it. . . 

What really grabs me about the early Church is that way back in time the culpable murderers took up an instrument of torture and execution and then paraded it around in a "look what we got!" kind of braggadocio. 

Imagine killing someone for "vandalism", and then spending 2,000 years glorifying the execution while blaming the Jews for the entire shebang.  

See them?  They're still dragging that cross around like it's a trophy.  Who won?  

"You've come back to forgive us!  What?  Forgive you?  You've gotta be kiddin'.  You're never going to be forgiven for not enriching us like some book said you would!"  

In other words: glorify the hairless monkeys, or else.  

Some passages in the New Testament puzzle me because they are 180 degrees opposite of one another.  Is Jesus going to return as a restorer? Or as the destroyer?  

Let's keep guessing guys.  

Keep it short, some desire.  "Your tribulation is only supposed to last around three-and-a-half years.  Keep it short."  

Thanks Bob and Buzz and Rosemary.

Here in Dallas, we "got the trinity".  It's a triangulation: The disrupter of "big plans" goes up one side, then goes down from the trinity's peak, and then, once he ends up at the bottom, the disrupter of "big plans" is tracked to return to his or her starting place.  Ain't it grand?  

Meanwhile, the Grand Illusion:  All is well in the Southland.  Really?  Vengeance after 160 years when a wannabe empire was caught imprisoning other human beings?  Vengeance for being stopped at that "human sacrifice" game?  

Drag a cross around.  That'll fix it.  

What would happen if, in a hypothetical situation, Lee Harvey Oswald, point man in the assassination of JFK (whose motives were a little off, even to me after I began to puzzle over why he was murdered in cold blood right here in the City of Assassins); what if he was given carte blanche to parade all around the town, and maybe the entire country, brandishing his Italian rifle as a trophy of...what?  

A human sacrifice.  Hell-bent to provide the OK for "a great big plan".  

Most people here in Dallas seem to know the score: It wasn't the mob alone, and it wasn't the twerps at the Dallas Country Club, or even all the CIA: It was a calumny.  The mob + the Dallas Country Club twerp contingent + a likely offshoot of CIA to = the beginning of a stupid, fake empire made of sand. 

And now we've all got a martyr on our hands.  Son of a bootlegger with mob ties a mile deep into the sea, a family of "young idealists", men who took the potion of a then-burgeoning civil rights movement and began to validate civil rights via political means, and then, VIOLATION!  The mob had decided the mob owned a human being.  You know: slavery.  And the renegades still angry after 100 years of resentment for the very concept of union?  They wanted their slaves back.  And the CIA?  Who knows?  Maybe the CIA saw serious problems with a president who told West Germany that he, too, was a Berliner.  

Big mistake, JFK.  Yes, at the time of his somewhat fatal speech, West Berlin was being given the starvation treatment by the USSR.  The question remains: Have the Germans really repented for the horrors they brought upon outcasts like the hypothetical and resurrected Jesus?  

Who knows?  Hairless monkeys wanna some turf to call their own.  White monkeys.  "We'll kill the earth because we're the only ones who belong on it!"  Seriously? 

Yes, some do see the mess theocratic nonsense has done to the Age of Reason.  Some see the unreasoned "faith" that is actually no faith at all.  For the good of humanity?  I beg to differ.  In fact, I'm not begging at all.  

Dream Jesus?  He was happy.  Glad to be alive.  Why shouldn't he have been?  He loved what he saw, and knew, and also saw much of that in danger by--guess!--a corporate empire that used physical brutality to bring "profit centers" to heel.  Three massive Roman armies camped outside Jerusalem: "It's a nice Judea you've got there, be a shame if somethin' happened to it..."  Doubtless, a people whose theocratic leaders were scared shitless, were also terrified.  After all, only a few centuries earlier, a descendant of Alexander the Great opened the Jewish Holy of Holies and placed his bust inside of it along with a demand the Jews worship an image of him.  

Images?  Who's demanding the same thing of other human beings right now?  

I always liked the snark and moxie of a band called Jane's Addiction.  First record?  "Nothing's Sacred".  A lovely sculpture adorned in green and silver portrays a two-headed woman, like a Siamese twin, both heads in flame.  Perfect: The old high road + the low road = big big money.  One, the high holiness preaches transcendence and serenity; the other, running leftward, acts out the same old Roman brutality and nastiness as the ever vulgar Roman strategy and tactics for to get more shiny garbage.  

All people need a good bitch-slap once in a while. Right?  

Here in the US, dignity is on trial.  In the US, what used to be an expression of a collective constitution, i.e. those traits of the American people at the beginning of the United States as a republic, is now a neurotic expression of something that has been plundered away by an invisible empire of commercial greed and hegemony.  One arm preaches freedom, dignity, equality, and justice.  The other arm brutalizes half the world.  

Rousseau once insisted in "The Social Contract" that men need to be forced to be free.  But how much force is necessary for that freedom to first emerge and then become an instrument of submission by people for whom enough is never enough?  

"But I wanna remain with the Earth and with the world!!"

Thowed off.  

Ideology: the stiffening into stasis what used to be named liberty and freedom.  In the 19th Century, Dostoyevsky, emergent after four years (only four?  hold my beer!) of torture and misery in Siberia, wrote of what he rightfully perceived as invasions of ideology into Russia, a wide expanse ruled by patriarchy, something the Christian novelist feared: the future of his homeland, he believed, would be carved up by ideologues.  

Read all about what happens in his novel "The Possessed", or as it is now commonly titled, "Demons".  The ideologues, anarchists and "liberty lovers", step into a small town in an attempt to generate a sort of silent revolution with the goal of creating Heaven on Earth.  

That's a fool's errand. 

And the demons are willing to kill to get them some Heaven. And then maybe trademark it. Put it on the market and tour Heaven with a medicine show, the dope presented out of the tailgate of a big red pickup truck.  

Here in the US (for what it's worth), the strategy and tactics of political and economic atomization is part of "the great big plan". Self-interest is trucked around town and city and farm as if it's "the answer" to all the failings of the poor and bereft of faith in what once was a pretty good place to live.  "You are an independent entrepreneur" the clowns and jokers insist. "You are obligated to no one else!" 

That explicitly runs contrary to the United States Constitution and contextual documents thereof.  However, while "absolute" self interest is another game played by hairless monkeys, self-interest can be a useful tactic when one's "collective" or "corporate body" is in competition for "loyalty" among customers. 

When does self-interest go too far?  Is it gone too far when self-interest works great for those with the wealth to compete?  Is it so special as to suggest that "the biz collective" and "corporate body" is in hard-core competition with the very concept of the United States?  

How much enough is never enough?  

No one is ever absolutely a creature of self-interest.  Studies, serious philosophic investigations, have been embarked upon in order to ferret out the advantages and disadvantages of such a pipe dream.  Upshot?  Absolute self-interest is a war machine.  It's overtly destructive.  It kills and maims.  

But cooperation!  The "biz collective" and "corporate bodies" cooperate!  With one another!  

What cooperation?  I've seen plenty of de-cooperation in my lifetime. Who knew it was positivity to go into hardcore competition with one's consumers?  Oh.  Litigation.  In Texas, class action suits and tort suits have been declared illegal.  

Apparently, such threats are a danger to the 30 pieces of silver Barabbas copped by turning in a supposed savior in Gethsemane. 

That was a garden.  Anyone wonder if there were actual roses in it?  

Some get the petals.  The rest get nothing but thorns.  But hey!  All you have to do is cry "freedom!" and it's all good.  

In other words, hairless monkeys in demand of an endless "more" are more alright: more Mickey Mouse than anything I can think of right offhand.  

There he was, the Dream Jesus. Laughing.  Having fun with his little brother James.  Even setting him up with a lovely woman from what is now Lebanon.  He lived in a hovel.  Not good enough for Southern Culture, obviously.  The mansion set would have rejected him outright as a leader of "a mob".  Which is interesting, really, when one investigates Edmund Burke's use of the word "mob rule" to describe what today's perpetrators and ideologues like to call "anyone who challenges our sacred ideology": 

Burke, worried about a pro-democracy movement in Great Britain, one inspired by both the American Dream and by one Thomas Paine, moved to condemn the entirety of the French Revolution (an initial but ham-handed attempt at resurfacing a longstanding kingdom in preparation for the possibility of democracy) as "mob rule".  

Who knew that Robespierre, Marat, and other ideologues were so wrapped up in their abstractions as to have lost even a virtual understanding of the needs of the French People? 

Ideologues.  Kind of like taking the dynamism of fresh water and tossing it into the refrigerator.  "Thowed off". 

Burke?  He wanted to ensure his place with crazy old King George III.  After all, King George III was already too paranoid to be a reliable king.  Terrified hoi polloi might usurp him, possibly even traumatized that "the divine right of kings" failed at the hands of American men and women who knew the natural world much better than he or any of his foolish clan possibly could, crazy old King George III as already mopping up pro-democracy activists, including Paine himself, and either executing him (or quietly murdering the pro-democracy movement's leaders), and imprisoning Paine in the fabled Tower of London until "the heat blew over". 

Paine did get loose of that idiocy.  He traveled to France, and helped inspire the fitful yearnings of the French people to lose a king.  Harder than it looked to French idealists.  Yes, the leaders of the pro-democracy movement did try peaceful means first: a group of adamantly pro-democracy leaders traveled 30 miles from Paris to Versailles, and calmly requested audience with the king and his aristocratic suck-ups.  

Refused.  Rather than going back to Paris downheartedly, a presumed "gift" of the chickens of Versailles, the leaders gathered in a tennis court and made an oath. The oath?  A vow to never disband until France gave the people a representation: a Constitution that was no longer a neurotic "irritable grasping" for a kingdom, but one that reflected then-modern moments in time: 

Were the French ready?  I don't know.  What I do know is that the peasantry was excessively angry at "the divine right of the King [or business community]", especially when later Marie Antoinette who legendarily offered them advice to "eat cake", but who in the real world advised the peasantry to eat some bread and shut the fuck up.  

Oh, why oh why would the peasantry rise up and cut off the German and Hapsburg transplant?  The arranged marriage of a quasi-demented King with the Germans.  How pivotal.  

My favorite aspect of "The Days of Rage", 1790s French version, is when King Louis XVI and retinue tried to make a sort of "cowboy movie" escape.  

The grand King of France dressed like a woman, thinking possibly that becoming a "trans" might save his life.  Masquerade parties seem to be "the big thing" in Washington DC these days.  After all, the American "aristocracy" is girding its loins, quietly attempting to put down rising discord among the country's repressed, depressed, suppressed and oppressed majority due to a sort of triangle: so much wealth on top, so much poverty at the bottom, and then an essentially white middle class in between two adversarial forces, struggling to maintain as wealth continues to flow upward, while financially "beneath" that beleaguered middle class, a sort of lower class begins to militate against said economic oppression.  The middle class, squeezed half to death by demands from above, has to cut, has to downsize, has to do all kinds of things to maintain economic stability, and thus the cuts and downsizing affects the poor, money and profit being too scarce for the middle class to maintain its financial dignity, and thus all that the country receives from and oppressive wealth calumny is this: 

Rising antagonism.  

The silly part involves that self-bestowed title of "aristocracy" is taking desperate measures to stave off either civil war or revolution.  By not giving one single inch to righteous demands "from below".  That's reminiscent of another "revolution of misery": the Russian revolution(s).  When discord began to rise during (and long before) the Bolsheviks hijacked a pro-democracy movement's aspirations and literally reversed that in its tracks, Czar Nicholas II, a weak-minded, self-interested and self-absorbed "divine rightist" tried what we could call the "US aristocracy tactic":  Oppress the living fuck out of the righteously and demanding poor.  

Didn't work out too well, did it.  

That fatal scene of the Bolsheviks taking Nicholas II and his immediate family into a squelchy basement out on the prairies and executing all of them until the blood was bloodying the murderers' boots should serve the "American aristocracy" as a warning.  Yes, that can happen here.  And no, calling the revolution of rising discontent something from "the right" is eminently stupid.  Co-optation of dissent and discord doesn't seem to be working out either.  

What to do?  Take precious jewels out to the countryside and either bury them or beat them half to death until they agree "to perform" for their self-aggrandizing masters?  

Blowback. Karma can be a real killer.  Just give that time. Giving time to a blowback, if used to aggrandize selfishness and the refusal of power to those demanding justice and some equality: Well, as Jesus himself supposedly observed: 

"You'll know them by the fruits of their actions". 

And here in the US, "power to the people" is somehow communism?   Quite a wonder what the ideology zombies will come up with in order to cover their lardy asses.  

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