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Mid-March 2022

Fashion As Leading Indicator


I predicted it. The Peasant Top of the Jimmy Carter Era is back. With an oppressive vengeance.


The ghastly style would have arrived much sooner in FJB Fashion World if it hadn’t been for the supply-chain catastrophes, er, “issues”.


It makes absolutely perfect sense.


After the citizens, and especially, the patriots, of America got treated like peasants by their political rulers, the appropriate garb is de rigueur. The Peasant Top, or Blouse, is the #1 Spring Must-Have on retailer hangers. Yes, all you floozy and tacky peon-maidens can wear imported and embroidered viscose, sewn by your own personal slaves in Asia.


Even the few Made in USA clothing websites for women are displaying, in the New Arrivals section, a monotonous plethora of long-haired female peasants, smiling in their cheap gauzy cotton, or in the ever-lovely and scratchy rayon with 10% spandex.

There’s an old story about the Russian peasant who receives a cash reward for something or other (maybe ratting on his neighbor) from the local commissar. Instead of asking how much he’s getting, he immediately questions the Authority:


How much is my neighbor getting?


And that, citoyen, is how the American people have become divided and pitted against one another, for decades.


We can blame the corrupt lackeys in the Media all we want, with justification. We can blame the corrupt cronies in the D.C. Swamp, and hit the right note on that one. We can blame the corrupt and putrid fossilized politicians with their dinosaur-death grip on our rights and our freedoms.


But we ought to look in the mirrors and ask ourselves:

How many times have we been wondering what the Other Guy is getting, and how come we’re not getting that much — or more?


In America, the Congress-covid bailout scheme (which, as of today, is still not ending) was the despicable socialist-snout, diving into private property, yet again, by the Ruling Class. The members of the Ruling Class do not buy their own property through the sweat of their brow, or due to any marketable skills, expertise or even redeemable qualities. Those legislative on-the-take lowlifes are the real Deplorables and Irredeemables, and there are vats of them in D.C.


I do not deem Paid Public Liar to be a legitimate profession. And their talents at the fine art of deception are bush-leaguer awful.


Those public sycophants get their land-&-mansions given to them. Gifted, if you so slovenly choose to grotesquely fashion a noun into a verb form.

Well, I guess, then, the Party member does own the estate to which he, or she, retreats from the grubby masses. We’ve got a ghetto-Congress-queen with her patois from the Golden State whose taste is exquisite: A French château with splendidly manicured and landscaped grounds.


For that Creepy Emperor without clothes or a brain, the palaces are recompense for his vital role in the access-racket. There are more palaces than he can count on one hand, which is to say, four.


Dear Husband says that when he goes on Thursday night to retrieve the garbage can from the collection site down the road, he knows that Mumbles is getting ready to leave for that weekend crawl back into the basement of iv-drips, located deep within the dementia patient’s dacha in Delaware.


The hard-working patriots of America must contend with the steady drip, drip, drip of a misery index yet to be charted, or even admitted, by the dunces in D.C. Trickle-down poverty, no, come-a-gusher-privation is the economy that certainly wasn’t planned by the Cabal in 2020!

They’ll come a cropper, not soon enough. Those underground treasonists have their lavishly guarded and lavishly built villas and fortresses, but do not be like Russian peasant and ask what They are getting from election thefts that put the Land of the Free on par with the Empire of Putin.


The citizens of the USA who chose to use their domiciles as rentals for income, they got rolled, yet again, by the preying mantises in Congress. The elected parasites simulate praying, on camera, but they’ve got the predatory-act down pat, off-camera. This insect is a relative of the cockroach, and, I can tell you from atrocious personal experience: the swamp town of Washington, D.C. has cockroaches crawling all over the place.


Do not set a slab of steak, that beefy red meat, out on the counter without someone standing guard over it!

I got to know the D.C. cockroaches quite well. There is the very large, brown type that crunch-crunches when you step on it; and there is the smaller, shiny (like patent leather) black type that dashes away much faster with the flick of the light-switch in the kitchen. I do not know if the black one is less crunchy than the brown variety upon impact with the sole of a shoe; I never was able to catch up with one to commit the crushing deed.


You’d think that the real-estate subprime collapse of 2008 would have been enough to teach American property-owners life-long lessons about the cockroaches of Congress and the bellies of government feasting their way into capitalism and into private property. Sometimes truths are forgotten; sometimes they’re never learned.

I was born into, and grew up in, rented spaces. First, an apartment in a housing project in Paterson., New Jersey. Then a series of cramped flats until my parents finally located a second-story flat, with an attic, in a 1920’s relic in Prospect Park, New Jersey. That brown-shingled building was where I reached the age of majority at eighteen, and it was where my father died when I was ten years old.


That house was also a rental for many fly-by-nights on the first floor. My family was not among the group of renters who ruin property; we quite willingly, at our own expense, made lovely improvements to those rooms. I learned interior decorating and design techniques and ideas from those projects.


The group of renters who destroy private property has only grown since the 1970s, and the ruling class also uses that unhappy truth to their profit. The Commie Housing Committee of the 1965 Hollywood epic, Dr. Zhivago, and its fashionable chairwoman, look more real in America every day!

My parents were too busy trying to feed eight children on one meager income to be able to even think of buying a house. That goal of home ownership became an enormous dream for the offspring of a working-class man who had done very well with an 8th-grade education. Half of us did reach those aspirations; I’m one of them.


During those years of my childhood, I was treated as a second-class citizen in that town of people who, for the most part, owned their own homes. There were other reasons why I was looked down upon by my home-owning peers and their parents:


I was a girl without a father, because of death, but a child from a broken home was nonetheless viewed as a lesser-than. Those divisions of social status went further and deeper: I wasn’t part of the elite religious clique of Dutch Reformed children, all of whom were either Select or Elect. Heathen need not apply!

Oh, the slicing and dicing of humanity was well-honed in that town truly without pity. I learned very young the ways that the tribe can cast out anyone different who might threaten the power of the tribe. Those customs are ancient, and they’re well-practiced by the elected elites, the social class known as the Wanna-be Aristocrats of America. The hoity-toity exclusive members of Hypocrisy, Inc. look smugly down upon the real doers of virtue!


Once I’d left New Jersey for university, in Washington, D.C., I recognized the same tribal tricks used among newer groups of people who must put others down, so that they can feel higher than, and above the outsider. Tribalism might have worked when tribes were real, and fought for land, not for votes. In the America of today, the only tribes are the ghoulish idiots making money from going on the warpath against Americans.

Unity is the strength that we Patriots must possess if ever we are to survive the onslaught of the intended and unintended consequences of the traitors in our midst. The vultures wait to pick at the carrion of citizens who abandoned their own ship of state, in order to embed themselves, like blood-sucking ticks, more and more in the flesh and lifeblood of our nation.


The unifying bond — of being American — is the blessing that the crackerjack haters and connivers in this nation try to destroy daily, if not hourly. It’s a full-time job! The payroll is enormous for the power mongers, the race-baiters and the fetish-fanatics who live off of the fears of citizens who fall into the traps of the Russian peasant.


For once, I’d like to see the majority of Americans look, not to see what their neighbors are getting, but to God, and ask:

“What can I do to help heal the wounds of my fellow man in this land of liberty?”


“What can I say today that can make a difference in an America that got sold out by my sham-leaders?”


“What do I believe when all that I’ve believed in has been torn asunder by evil men and wicked women, posing as humanitarians and philanthropists?”


And lastly,


“What do I believe when I’ve permitted all that I’ve believed in to become seeds of doubt, until those seeds have sprouted. Like weeds, they are now choking the roots of my faith in America, even in you, dear Lord?’


The Russian peasant exists to this day, in America. I am sure that the Russian peasant in Russia is in the macabre process of being cancelled by the Social Media Gods, all while the Faux-Virtuous in America are racing pell-mell to cancel Russian artistic geniuses of the past.

That two-faced farce will keep them busy for years to come!


The serpentine digital hate-platforms rake in big bucks, encouraging death to a dictator, but the average Joe can’t post an obvious truth about the latest capitalist rip-off act in his own country. Chanting Death to America is among the most revered of the Commie-community standards. It’s right up there among the virtue-fakes, sitting alongside the casting out of God-loving, patriotic men and women, some of whom sacrificed dearly for their beloved homeland.


I wonder if any of the Elected Elites will don the peasant blouse during the weeks and months to come. Those days shall count the ticking of the clock toward the final un-doing of those perpetrators of a gross blueprint that seized the reins of power in America, only to find out there’s no horse attached to those reins.