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The Bottom Line

Pearl Harbor Day 2023

Last night, I had a rather telling dream about so many things. A woman, with a stack of papers in her hand, was pontificatingly asking me:


“Are you telling me that you don’t want this job?”


“No,” I calmly stated. “I’m telling you that if it takes you this long to decide if you want to hire me, then I don’t want to work for you.”


This sleeping brain activity wasn’t really a dream, not in the sense of a figment of my fertile imagination regarding a possible future event. It was, instead, the testy interchange from my past, a memory that needed to be remembered.


There is a major distinction to be made between the two scenarios. I very much wanted that job, but not under that set of conditions, or with the unskilled, overpaid persons involved. I was, and am, content to be spend my time, invest my time, further my time, and endow my time, here on this earth, protecting and promoting my own God-given talents.


I don’t parcel them out to manipulative users and con-artists of the corporate stripe.


The number of stinky but high-paid positions I’ve walked away from vastly — and virtuously — outnumber the jobs I’ve worked with a true sense of achievement and enrichment — not of my pocket, but of my heart. I put up with being mocked, ridiculed, jeered at, and back-stabbed by the Go-Getters of more than one generation, including the materialistic snobby mindless sheep within my own peer group. That herd of crass and crude conformists are peerless in many aspects, but most of all in their craven conception of the almighty dollar as The Almighty God.


It is true that I didn’t get the Dream House at age 30, or 40, or even 50, like so many of my greedy, grabby contemporaries who parted out their progeny like prized pigs to be raised by other people of the same ilk. Rare were the individuals who had the courage of any conviction, but, most of all, of the nurturing sort, to willfully sacrifice her own needs for those of her child. I can count those heroines from my past on the fingers of one hand. Together, we formed a fearless phalanx of women who unmasked the phonies of our own sex. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned as the inept high-and-mighty fraud that she always was.


Birds of a foul feather flock together. Those fetid flocks swarmed the skies of the 1990s and 2000s, cackling and bowing to the Stock Market, and What the Neighbors Think, and a thousand other vain, insipid, and worthless ways of living an authentic life.


The Authentic Life became so nearly non-existent during those decades that it was a surefire asset to became the most holy of holies among marketable merchandise. It got peddled by the sneering sellouts as a top-gouge-priced commodity, along with How to Hawk Humble Food at Exorbitant Prices, by the soulless creatures who saw their horrific days of doom during the year of our Lord 2008.


Those supercilious hucksters thereafter re-grouped and returned to the greed-trough, in 2020, for a new spin at the avarice-wheel, while Dear Husband and I plowed ahead in building our long-awaited Dream House in California.


I now revere the county in which I live more than my country. It’s a sad, but sincere, and sobering statement, but that’s my bottom line.


Watching the pompous jerks of my nation parade like idiots on the Global Stage, posturing as symbols of this great land, it’s enough to make anyone lose her lunch. For the sake of my health, I don’t look at the doomed buffoons. They’ll be gone, though not forgotten, and that fate is one they can’t buy, bully, lie, sue, indict, obfuscate or distract their way out of.


Once you sell your soul to the devil, there’s no getting it back. There aren’t any refunds, rain checks, plea deals, plea bargains, or mercy. For the cutthroat haters of America, who sin without shame, pecado sin vergüenza, there’s only the cutthroat song, la canción del degüello.


America will still be here, damaged, hopefully not beyond repair. The repairmen and repairwomen sure won’t be the traitors without a shred of a marketable skill, though those haughty narcissists will try, as always, to photo-bomb whatever bombs they had a hand in setting off.


Vulgarity nearly always looks the same. It’s a sight magnificently ignored by the heroes who, yet again, pick up the pieces from the wreckages caused by the godless who wreaked havoc upon their homeland for their own endless greed. The heroes, once again, rise to the fore, and, anonymously, and nobly, do the honorable dirty work of saving their beloved homeland.


I guess that’s how it should be, because that’s how it’s always been, how it always will be. History does not entrust the safety and security, yea, the survival, of any nation to the cowards, the moral cretins, the liars, and losers. They are the spoiled rotten hypocrites who preach duty and honor even as, in reality, they appallingly destroy their mouthed platitudes to which they are obscene strangers.


My laptop is still in The Shop, so I’ve made use of my favorite mode of composing a literary work — with pen in hand on lined paper.


It’s still true that I don’t stay within the lines whilst the lasered thoughts come pouring out of my creative mind. I do stay within the lines of the more important matters, such as morality and money. There’s a sublime causal link between the two spheres, one that the traitors of any nation never learn, and never will.

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