Books for Everyone!

16 April 2021


This morning, I ventured out into the windy air that was filled with spring pollens. April is the cruelest month, especially for my sinus. I nonetheless braved those invisible elements, and, putting forth a face of noble indifference, and a nose of noble scent, I looked out upon the world outside my private sphere.

I came smack-dab face-to-face with the appearance, spectres really, of the frightened bunnies known as Californians, in my local Garden Center. I was, of course, mask-free, while others of a more vintage age, and a less confident stripe, held onto their masks like life rafts.

I’ve lived in California for several decades now; and I have yet to accept the mind-boggling existence of the abundance of anxiety-ridden people who seem to prevail here. I say “seem” because the bold ones, the courageous among us, are quiet and, for the most part, we remain anonymous, even unseen. We may in fact outnumber the grimly petulant groaners for whom life is more than they can handle, on a good day.

We, the calm Californians, do our business, return home, live our lives. Part of living our lives is to try to figure out how to shield ourselves from the prospective, if not inevitable, financial fallout from the Government Shill for the Corporation — the run-of-the-mill debauched dork known as a Governor, putting out his next Panic-Attacked Preposter-osity.

California is not unique, or even leading the way on this horrendously banal state of governmental affairs. The states are united in this nation due merely to this one singular dead-headed end-of-the-road: the “elected” Head Honchos are the hand-picked poltroons, hand-picked because they are poltroons who slavishly shill for the Globalist Corporations. These looney lackeys lack basic marketable skills, except to mouth platitudes that even they do not believe. I doubt these flaccid hacks believe in anything other than gluttonous self-gratification. And I doubt the Globalist Pigs will keep their filthy racket going once the U.S. consumer nasties them in response to the way the pigs have nastied the U.S. consumer.

I try mightily not to complain about the cowed California citizens, the “victims” of the clueless career politician “in charge”. They’re victims of their own stupidity, and they do not wish to lose their stupidity. It’s become too much of a chum in a world where the scare tactics have grown very old, as have those true believers who put inordinate trust in falsehoods. Better the devil they know than the devil they don’t. Obviously, they give short shrift to God, or angels, or virtue. Jaded and jilted, they slink from one calamity to the next, blaming everyone but themselves for the fates they brought to themselves.

Those loafers-in-life durst not abandon their old friend known as fear. Fear will never leave them, unlike the pompous poseurs who lied to them and got away with the lie and then abandoned those losers who bought the lie.

The pompous and well-paid poseur, however, is also a loser, a lying loser, whose pockets overflow with putrid payments for her prostituted self. To each her own, she’s found her own. And they own her. To the bitter end, they own every rotten piece of her. That reeking gaggle makes up the bitter weeds in every state of this nation, those bountiful lands ripe with wildflowers. The wildflowers wish only to live freely, as God granted life to be for them, for everyone under His sun.

The bitter weeds among the California wildflowers are a pitiful sight. Old before their time, and their time passed them by long ago, probably during childhood. They were born old, and repelled any optimism even before they truly got a whack at winning in the world. I’ll be cheeky enough to say they likely weren’t even content in the womb.

The delusional belief that death could be outlawed, out-regulated, out-run (those 4K Runs for Peace did in many a joint, including the druggie one), out-taxed, and out-moded — that folly came to a crashing halt early in 2020 when an infectious disease, a virus, made fools out of the garden variety idiots-in-charge. The rest of us found better things to do . . . as we’ve always done, like develop our own herd immunity outside the inane and insane domain of Governor Gruesome.

There is no neurosis like a modern neurosis! The kind that makes money for the grifters and the non-producers of the world. I’d rather cling to my animal passions and leave the neurasthenia and derangement to the filthy rich. The filthy rich can buy everything but love . . .

Is that not what makes the world go round?

The real world, the true world is the universe of love that cannot be changed by politicized kooks and spooks, and their asinine alarums that can be predictably timed on the half hour of the third hour, every third Thursday of the month.

According to the late, great and forever inestimable Winston Churchill, “Courage is the first of human qualities because it is the quality that guarantees all the others."

Ergo, if a person lacks courage, reams can be written about all of his revolting lowness of character, his failure to be a man, his linguine spine in the face of any crisis. And reams have been written, and will continue to be written, about the lily-livered male and female chickens with their heads cut off.

I have nevertheless gotten to the point where I refuse to read any more blather about human bilge. I need, I yearn, and I hunger to look to the future, toward those days and hours and moments of joyous contentment to come — after the decrepit and demented dungeons of doom collapse on the very people who fabricated them for profit against the wills of a free people.

The sun is shining most brightly on the unavoidable backlash against those bumbling bullies and elected whores who pulled off their latest scores against democracy and decency. One day, those frauds shall be gone with the wind. I’m valiant and sassy enough to say that the frauds will, one day, even be replaced with entrepreneurs of excellence, real-life action figures!

The whipped puppies among the citizenry will not be a part of the jubilation that arrives with the just desserts for those amoeba-like traitors, the 21st-century Benedict and Benecia Arnolds. The dour deadbeats of this democracy no longer know how to smile; it’s been years since they chose a sincere grin over a sneering frown. They prefer deceit to truth, chicanery to reality.

For those among us who are audacious and adventurous, undaunted and undeterred by the cruelties that came our way, I offer these choice bits of literary brilliance:

“You have no enemies, you say? Alas, my friend, the boast is poor. He who has mingled in the fray of duty that the brave endure, must have made foes. If you have none, small is the work that you have done. You’ve hit no traitor on the hip. You’ve dashed no cup from perjured lip. You’ve never turned the wrong to right. You’ve been a coward in the fight.” — Charles McKay

“It's a curse — this not wanting to look on naked realities. Until the war, life was never more real to me than a shadow show on a curtain. And I preferred it so. I did not like the outlines of things to be too sharp. I like them gently blurred, a little hazy. . . In other words, Scarlett, I am a coward.” Ashley Wilkes, Gone With The Wind, by Margaret Mitchell

“What a man dares to do, he should dare to confess — unless he is a coward.” — Rafael Sabatini, Scaramouche