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15 October 2021

Not Faking It


I’ve come to the conclusion that Officialdom in this nation called America is filled with honchos and harridans who are not even good at faking phoniness. They all have that vain, dissipated, desiccated dumb look to them, except for the fat pud who believes he runs the WH pudding show.


I think, every day, there’s a pathetic performance by The Red-headed Commie-Pinko Prig, who obviously loves being center stage at Her Press Conference. I mean, to whom else would the group-think palaver belong?

The daily replay of Disco Duck commences, sometime, precisely when, I do not know, for I only rarely watch the re-runs of the hum-drum histrionics. And nearly always with the mute on. The one, and only, time that I clicked on the sound, I was stunned at how closely the fishwife voice matches the pompous but haggard physiognomy.


Those “visuals” are robotic-comedic. There she is, the Prima Donna Propagandist, monotonously sticking, in turns, each skinny finger up into the Pravda air. The clumsily dramatic gesture is employed to pontificate her prudish sensations regarding those swiftly operated Levers of Government. And she’s so intimately, so ghoulishly and thrillingly close to those crowbars of power!


Spearmint Sake must then further point out, yet again, with her unique vocal styling of snide ahems and uppity interjections, the talking points of the ghastly gibberish that she likely deems eloquent elucidation; but those idiot-scripted scribblers have missed Her Point! Most likely those apostles of stupidity, like the Napper-in-Chief, have fallen asleep on the job.

This taxpayer-paid package of idiocy is produced with the help of cheater notes, sitting there, on the lectern, just below the sleep-deprived eyes of this lecturer, along with the most effective pose to accompany each lie.


It’s the Duck Dynasty pulpit rules of style over substance. No, that’s not accurate. There’s no style, and there’s no substance. Just ghostwriting done by, for all we know, ghosts!


Most tragically, all of those fakers been installed in posts and are blatantly expected to fulfill roles that are so much beyond their capabilities, the outcomes are farcical. Not funny, but farcical.


Life, viewed as farce, can only go so far. After a certain point, a sense of unrest and dismal reality sets in. Even during my most jovial and sardonic moments, I am abundantly serious. I’m not faking it. In fact, I am usually at my most serious whenever I’ m joking. Truth is the fundamental basis of comedy, wit, morality, sanity, a rich life lived well.

I’ve often been surrounded by fakers, especially during my childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood. It is still difficult for me to acknowledge this glum inversion of the natural order of the springtime of life:


instead of being idealistic and filled with hopeful vigor for the future, my contemporaries were morose pessimists, skeptics, and cynics.


To be a teenager, and to nurture doubt to a point where hope is not only abandoned and lost, it was never truly held or found: that mindset, my friend, guarantees you will lose, before you’ve yet to play the game of life.


My peer group was replete with fakers. They were fairly good at putting on airs and putting one over on others, particularly their permissive parents; but they rarely fooled me. Oh, I got bamboozled a time or two by my wish to believe the sweet nothings that turned out to be sour somethings. But those wake-up calls were part of my crucial education in life. I was learning how to protect my dreams and my wishes from the gross disappointments, in human form, who could not possibly meet up to moderate standards of virtue and generosity of spirit.

I did not downgrade or degrade the aspirational needs and the hopes that composed my daydreams and life dreams. I instead grew well-versed in kicking out of my way the cock-and-bull that came my way. In time, I saw the c-and-b coming, and I did not allow the fast shufflers and the scammers and the counterfeiters to trip me up. I found a way around them; sometimes I let the fraudsters fall into their own traps.


Isn’t mastering that maneuver, or manœuvre, of survival what growing up’s about?


My feisty, fierce and calculating attitude toward life, toward living life, earned me the role of outcast among my peers. Cause everyone had to agree! We all wanted to get along, right? We’re a team!


Not necessarily. If getting along, and being part of The Group, and working with and for it, meant that I was the one doing all of the work, and bearing all of the duty-load on my little shoulders, and then was left holding the bag, I infinitely preferred standing alone, holding onto my own charity instead of having it pilfered by some smarmy teenaged thug.

The outcast, the outsider, the vagabond, the pioneer, the trailblazer: those are parts I’ve played, and continue to play, very easily and very well. Still, a part of me, the more sociable aspect of my nature, has always yearned to be part of a bigger whole, to chum around with forthright, resolute pals of my own kind, my own stripe.


Filling a niche of one — 1 — can feel a bit solitary, if not boring.


It was thus with immense joy that I experienced, during this past month, a heart-warming feeling of unity, with . . . youth.


Youth is a feeling of being alive, of exuding vigor and stamina and spunk. That sensation can be more a state of mind, than of body; and it is an essential element of any lifetime. All throughout my lifetime, I seem to have never fully grasped this anima of spirited independence, partly because I was stuck in the morass of people who were utter asses when it came to striking out on your own, taking a stab at sovereignty, and aspiring to self-sufficiency and autonomy.

The disco-balls, and the disco divas and dudes, who have not aged well, have clung deplorably to their squandered youth. I’ve not clung to youth because I never really got much of a chance to get a hold of it. I was always the unwanted conscience to a peer group of spoiled brats, always having to be the adult in the crowd of infantile child-parvenus, always needing to take charge of a runaway train on the tracks that I finally jumped off, so I could plow my own furrow and motor my own locomotive.


I’m embracing youth now. With style!


Why, those little redeemers of today!


Those clean-cut, healthy spark plugs of patriotism, who had to grow up during the wretched lies and treachery of the Eternal Recession, they’ve redeemed my hope in America, in the future of America.

I’ve not only witnessed, with my own amazed eyes, ears, heart and soul, the online cheers for audacity — from college students no less! I’ve encountered, first-hand, or first-ears and first-eyes, a young man at the local In-N-Out Burger. emphatically telling his chic-inamorata as they got into his boxy old Toyota, not Yo, but you-know-what to Joe.


The boy wasn’t faking it!


Is that not the essence of youth, the true spirit of vitality, something that cannot be plastic surgeried, or botoxed, or plugged into the balding pate?


To be young at heart is to feel, for real, all of those scary emotions that aren’t really scary after all. Passion has been so shabbily treated in this nation by the pornographic politicians, addicted to smoke and mirrors; and by those pop tarts and pop turds, enslaved to mirrors and cameras. Those two classes of losers have a lot in common!

But those hideous and hyped media-images, with trashy, contrived, and, I might add, poorly written, texts, are NOT the U.S.A.


The U.S.A. ain’t on video, or on store shelves. Not much is supposedly on store shelves this week, or next week, or next year. I’ve not as yet experienced that rampant hole in the consumer-layer of the slave labor bargain basement crap that has been shoved at this country for decades now. Then again, Dear Husband takes on that battle, in the division of labor that has kept me a happy wife. Happy wife, happy life!

The mask-madness formally ended my physical-store shopping presence, but that inevitable termination started a decade ago. One hot October day, I fumed my way out of the corporate drugstore that I dubbed Communist Variety Shopping. Their own brand-name merchandise had begun to completely replace the already degraded products on their store shelves.


And the flooring was some kind of smelly gray faux-velvet astroturf. In peel-and-stick squares. A drugstore dot-com, based in NJ, thereafter got all my devoted business (and I earned redeemable points!). Then, sometime in 2016, that successful business got gobbled up by a globalist blob, never to be seen again in profitable form.


I’ve moved on, to other online sites of retail savvy and spark. It’s always an adventure, marching toward that final financial frontier that’s not an evil mirror universe.

And that reality is our current quest in America, during our not-faking-it days and nights, weeks, months, and years of prevailing over a fake dummy-dictator regime, one that crawled out of a campaign basement and ascended all the way to a phoney tv set.


Each fully sentient, fast-thinking, finely singing, and fabulously clapping American must keep a sense of perspective, or, at the very least, get one!


There’s quite a shrewd division of labor going on between the capitalists at the online Vermont Country Store, and the online Lehman’s Hardware Store. The Yankees and the Amish have come to a commercial understanding of one another. It’s kinda fun and funny to scroll through those Made in the U.S.A. products, pages upon pages of them, and they add more each day!

The Milligan household is fully stocked on sleigh bells. Who needs motion detectors when you’ve got a leather strip of sleigh bells hung from every door in the house!  No one is stealing Christmas from me this year!


There is an undeniable division of Made in USA food-supply between Vermont County Store and Lehman’s: VCS dining is in style, with comfort food, souffléd with luxury and panache. The serving suggestions look completely decadent.


For Lehman’s, it’s solid basement provisions! For that catastrophic pre-Christmas event, the canned goods are ready and waiting to go, long-distance. No free-ship code, but there is a 20% off discount code, as of today, over a certain amount. That dollar threshold, however, is about twice the minimum amount for Free Shipping at the Vermont Country Store.

Free market competition is a wonderful thing!


From a distribution standpoint, one that is not bottle-necked, I recommend an American mix of both survival styles: splendour in the pines; and the all-nutritious, all-natural, albeit all-processed emergency food — for the smart patriot who ain’t taking it, never was, and isn’t faking any feeling anymore!


Let’s go!