Many years ago, when Dear Son was a teen, watching the monotony-in-motion that was March Madness, there appeared, on the TV screen, these words:
The announcer kept repeating those two words, ad nauseam, in the way that media readers do. Must be their “training” to stay on monotone-message.
With some exasperation and measured frustration, I asked:
“Who is this Duke Drought guy? And why is he still in the game if he hasn’t scored for ten minutes???”
It turns out that Duke University, or its basketball players, had not scored a basket within the space of, oh, ten minutes.
In my October 2021 essay, Carnaca la Magnifique, posted in Outgoing Messages, my outgoing signal was a prediction that California would undergo a Great Flood that winter/rainy season. And the spigot had been turned on, ferociously, until January, when things dried up, fast, because of a high-pressure ridge that sat there, over the Four Corners of the West, seemingly forever. There was, consequently, no March Miracle, as the catching-up-rainstorms are called by those in the know about the true meteorology of nature.
I suppose there was, during this past March, a March Madness in college basketball, but it’s been more than a decade since I’ve subjected my ears to the loud droning sounds of that athletic sport. The air horns alone turned off my auditory sense.
About twenty years ago, I gave up any interest in NFL games. I haven’t watched a Sharks hockey game in several years. I furthermore do not intend to watch, ever again, any televised NHL competition.
It’s a loss, not a tragic one, but a diminishment of the joy and amusement of my writing life. You see, I used to pace the typing of my fiction into the laptop with the on-ice offense — from the crease, across the blue line, across the red line, and, then, across the goal line:
My favorite skilled performer was Patrick Marleau, displaying his Break-Away, solo, to put the Sharks up, to victory, with the winning goal.
Those days are over.
days are over.
days have just begun.
The parting of the ways in America is rarely achieved easily. The type of muscular democracy that I’ve always longed for in my nation, that forceful will of We, the People, in electoral action, has not reared its ugly head to the Political Class for decades. Americans are not a passive group, but they are committed to the duties and the responsibilities of working for a living, paying the rent, or mortgage; and providing for and raising the children. There’s not much time left over for keeping up with the Crooks in Congress, or in the Oval Office!
The elected crooks like it that way. They count on it. They do everything in their sleazed-up immoral power to make sure the citizens are asleep at their own wheel of democracy. For the ultimate taking-coalition, The Government, a sleeping populace is their meal ticket, their slush-fund ticket, their forever ticket to globally cash in on the hard-earned monies of the rabble who are working like dogs, or slaves, to survive the unholy messes made by the Ruling Classes.
The Ruling Classes, of course, blame the citizens for those catastrophes. And we are supposed to shut up and be ever thankful and grateful for the tax-credit crumbs They feed us. There is no mystery as to why those elected elites and hypocrites shelter themselves behind the walls of their millionaire mansions. The gaudy estates are guarded by hired guns who must also protect the crowned-head imposters whenever they dare to leave their palace-cocoons!
The industrious “life style” of the Everyday American does not leave many Every-days for the Political Way of Life. That hyper-hysterical way of life is how a very high percentage of certain parts of the population live, eat, breathe, sleep, and die. It’s an odious way to exist, for it’s not really an existence. It’s an addictive assault on the élan vital, and it’s not healthy.
The Political Class, and their cohorts in organized and codified crime, the Media, the Lawyers, the Regulators (aka Bureaucrats) spend their days and nights in a weirdly altered universe. They do not know, with real-life experience and with intimate specificity, the people over whom they Overlord. It’s a bizarro world in which those parasites must hire Experts and Consultants to explain the words and sound-bites and hand-gestures and attitudes that must be aped — for those apes to get a grip on the Public Sentiment toward . . . anything.
Detached, disconnected, disdainful, and drugged by any of a number of pharmacological substances, along with the old stand-by, booze, the Politician “feels” his, or her way to the lectern, to shout-lecture We the People about how We ought to live, and think, and feel — and sacrifice for the Greater Good, or the Greater God of Government. Which is to say: They, the Greedy Guarantors of All of Our Goods and Goodnesses.
(Unless those goods and goodnesses must be shipped to us, because the supply-chain shit-show has only just begun.)
We really ought to bow down to those reptiles, for the sheer chance of having them screw us.
Armed with a ream of lies, the Politico-Pawn of the Corporation sniffs the air, as if it’s not quite the purified and rarefied stratosphere that surrounds him in his bunker, the mansion so far removed from the grubby masses that it’s a wonder he even bothers to address those smelly peasants.
But address the peons, he must!
For he must get his fix, the lights, the cameras, the non-action, and the swooning of the servile sycophants who create the sick cartoon in which he plays the Major Role, the Main Character. No, not the Hero, but the Anti-Hero, aka, The Villain. The pathetic huzzahs that constitute the propaganda of his presumed prowess, in everything, are falling short; but, then, what is not falling short, except for the prices of everything, which are going through the roof?
Despite all of this manufactured success by the Villain Class, the financial failures just keep piling up. Methinks the women will be blamed. They always are (especially The Mothers).
The women really went for Adolf. It’s documented, by historians (and, subsequently, by me, Historical-Novelist, in THE DAWN) that Herr Hitler got his Führer-start by receiving obscenely expensive gifts from the uber-wealthy and adoring women of Germany. It is true that certain tastes have changed where dictator-worship by the babes is concerned, but let’s not kid ourselves: the focus of the focus-group polling is not on the grammatical excellence of the Orator. It’s on his hair.
Il Duce did quite well without any hair, but he did wear a hat to conceal the lack of a nicely domed cranium, such as the one sensually possessed by Yul Brynner. Adolf had that weird come-over, although it might have been a toupe. That flat thatch of hair nonetheless must have proven orgasmic for the frauleins and fraus. And he had all of those stellar industrial techno-experts behind him, supporting him, making money from his rise to power in what might have been the Mega-Military-Industrial Complex, gone evil and gone mad.
“Incompetent, lazy, a clown-show . . .”
Those are not my words. They’re from an American weekly news-magazine, founded in 1933, but presently owned by a globalist-media blob, World-wide Propaganda, Inc. That quote describes Adolf Hitler, but it aptly applies to the UniParty in America, and to the latest Chief Clown, the amoral marionette known here as Mumbles.
I try to evade the sights and sounds of the preening politico-clowns, but, a few weeks ago, I watched and listened to the Sultan of Canada. There he was, in his Skinny-Suit, projecting his own creepy neuroses onto an EU crowd. He was very slowly hissing his way through the words, “ssssynical populissstsss”.
I asked my Dear Husband:
“Does he know he sounds like Sir Hiss?”
He probably does. He enjoys being annoying. He’s one of those rich-brat kids that nobody liked when he was a child, and no one likes today because he’s still a petulant narcissistic child. This pinko-brat was merely warming up the slithering-snake speech for the North American snobs who eat up that sort of soy-boy-suit schlock. (I think Boy-Macron had been slated for this ghastly gig at EU-Central, but the Virtue-Signaling Jupiter has been too busy, sliming his pro-France opponent as a Russian asset, after having smeared her five years ago as a Nazi.)
The Sultan of Commie-Swing Canada suc-ssssseeded so well with the overly enunciated and lisping-litany Over There, that he proceeded to come Over Here and warn, with full smarmy hissss, about:
The Rissse Of Authoritarianisssm, Populissssm And Over-Nationalisssm.
I waited for the long, slinky tongue to instinctively come darting out of the reptilian mouth. It didn’t happen. I was so let down!
Do these idiots just make the words up as they slink along the slime trail to their corporate cash flows from uttering the latest insults to humanity? Are the speeches a mix of the hideous script and those brilliantly brain-powered ad libs???
The spontaneity is boring me, even more than the hideous script. That script is a carbon footprint-copy of every other globalist-hack script: My plans for My COUNTRY-X have nothing to do with the citizens of My COUNTRY-X.
The only place that the WorldWideGovernment exists is on the WorldWideWeb, and these imposters to governance have trapped themselves in that web, on a global scale!
The muscular democracy for which I’ve waited a lifetime is working out, in private, for the big public event: The Election. Historically, les jeux d’élimination, the Games of Elimination have been, uh, fixed.
The concept, therefore, of a free and fair election has become very quaint, almost antiquated, amongst the feckless frauds in charge of Under-Nationalism. Thus far, the citoyens have been under-represented in the voting booths. There’s been a most apparent Duke Drought, in just about every nation that calls itself a democracy.
When a nincompoop announccccccesssss the threat of the rissssse of anything, put a mirror in front of the smug marxist-punk face, and call it done. Call it over. Call a lid. And watch that pompous pot boil over with a flood of voter-sentiment.