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14 June 2022

Rubber State


This morning, I made a quick click-down of the digital-news “heads” (which rarely match the bodies). The numbers are coming out, all of them dumbed-down, incorrect, detached from reality. Double the digits, and you’ll have an accurate fix on the fiscal facts.


I finished that task inside of 3 minutes, and then announced to Dear Husband:


“You ought to be proud of me for not going to Rubber State.”


My dear spouse was, and is, very proud of me for avoiding at least one potboiler propaganda website that pretends to be of a certain philosophical stripe; but is, in rather obvious actuality, a Brady-Bunch template of tinhorn hypocrites, critiquing certain public individuals who are eons beyond these hacks in courage, intelligence, insight, and sanity.

Yesterday did it for me at these Rubber State cesspools of clickbait. Cheap shots at a real President concerning his lack of keyboard control on that bot-driven behemoth, a world I never joined, and never shall.


So if Commander Braggart (who built a luxury real-estate empire) is so stupid, what are you, the sniveling, insufferable elitist, doing, working for clickbait at a website that’s so creepily corporately funded — that you cannot even use your real name?


The entire set-up repeats itself, ad nauseam, across the ether-sphere, regardless of the topic. The List of Whatever is in. Really in. (Although I have noticed that the List of Corporate Bankruptcies has vanished, which means they’re about to take on true poetic-justice liquidation.)

The List Click is an appallingly rude insult to the concept of a list, and I go way back in my love of making lists.


There basically no longer exists correct and verifiable online information. The typed tripe is paid propaganda which few people will persist in viewing. I wonder how long this moronic marketing model will last?


With the implosion of an economy, the implosion of online retail has logically followed, and Digital Advertising World is experiencing something called capitalism!


Screenload after screenload, page after page, of the same content, on differing sites, with weird names: there is your Information Highway that has turned into a back-alley rutted road to Siberia.

Oh! That locale is in RUSSIA. Yes, I’ll keep that editorial word choice. Methinks it’s hit upon Truth.


The Road to Morocco does come to mind about the hideous highway that turned into a joke, a bad joke — a series of bad jokes.


The huge (YUGE) financial losses this recession-time around could not happen to a nicer crowd of narcissistic nitwits who still think they run the world.


I’m gaining enormous closure on the cases of snobbism from my past, the insulting whiffs of pomposity that I underwent from living amongst the Potomac Pravda. Those beltway boys, and girls, were the journalistic jerks who laughed at Ronald Reagan, then pontificated — at his funeral — about what a great leader he was.

It must be unceasingly sad, in a bitter sort of way, to live in a world that does not exist, but you’ve not the courage to even question the facts of its delusional existence, so sucked into that vortex of snooty venom are you. Before a person knows it, he’s been compromised beyond being capable of admitting to his own moral flaws; ergo, the knee-jerk pointing the finger, incessantly, at the faults of others.


The Highbrows and Stiffnecks all need to be put into a rubber room together. Well, yes, they actually are in a rubber room together. It’s turned into their personal Rubber State, wherein they hiss and claw at each other, while We the Patriots of America try to figure out how to replace eggs, as the cheap meal, with something else of equivalent protein content.


We’re all in search of something lately. Me, I went in search yesterday of hardcover books presenting a true history of ancient Britain. My, by now, routine experience of reading book reviews online revealed the rubber rooms of the keyboard warriors. The dolts think they can automatically doom an author of the 1940s to instant death in the 2020s.

The PC Wokers, looking for Netflix in book form, nearly always convince me that THIS MUCH MALIGNED WRITER is the one whose historic publication is very much worth reading. The contrarian approach does not always work for me, but, when it comes to sieving through bloviated opinions on the writings of an author, I’ve very successfully used this tack since my years of home-schooling.


The most reviled History Textbook typically turned out to be a true gem amidst tacky, dull zircons. My failsafe rule of thumb is to only seriously peruse (or pursue!) books penned before I was born, although I have been pleasantly surprised, on rare occasions, with an account or two authored by individuals younger than myself!


Thanks to the insufferable ignorance of the Verified and Expert Commentator, I suffered myself to purchase three hard-cover jewels of the long ago. Those non-fiction editions shall grace my library shelf quite well, and grant to me the hardcore facts for which I yearn, monthly, weekly, daily, hourly, minute-by-minute.


Most laughable of all of the wheezing whining was the gripe, posted anent 3 different books, that the history did not include enough information on Women.

The code-name for this anonymous crone was the term for a type of fungus, one that generates from algae. It must have been my allergy to molds that repelled me — like pinging from inside a rubber room — from her 3rd keyboard-complaint about a male author who did not bow to the Gaia-Warriors whom she believes made Celtic Britain such a tough nut for the Angles and the Saxons to crack. The Celts were, indeed, cracked, but not without a ferocious fight.


I’ve no doubt that the women of 600 A.D. were the ones who cooked and fed the men the meats they needed to build those muscles for battle; but I do believe the men did the hunting. Women are fantastic gatherers!


Speaking of fantastic gathering and a ferocious fight, I experienced much consternation and impatience, yesterday afternoon, whist gathering Newspinion on the monotonous but macabre plight of Great Britain. The Scots in me fully believes that the Prime Minister there is depriving a tribe somewhere of haggis. This incremental societal offensive against his offensiveness drives me nuts. I need a rubber room.

There are only a few ways that the citizenry of my nation, the U.S. of A., or of any nation mis-governed by amoral idiots can prevail over the Rubber Rooms that have turned into the Rubber State.


Here, in the States, the body politic has been warped out of shape by the rubber-ducks and their shenanigans within a juvenilely-run regime. The numbskull zealots run around like rubber chickens with their heads cut off. The tone-deafness of these incompetent punks is part of their basic nature, but not of their “character”, for they lack such a moral compass.


Elsewhere, the parliamentary system is a Rubber State of treacherous affairs, one that the bonehead High Muckamucks in America wish to emulate. Mercifully, our Founding Fathers covered the constitutional bases when it came to institutionalizing conflicts-of-interest which, I sense, is a false bottom of greed and depravity.


The anti-Rubber State recipe for the stalwart realists of the world consists of reading the right stuff — quality books.


Reading Rudyard Kipling’s “If” is a starter. The fiction of Mr. Kipling is rather dark, and can be a downer; but this poem is uplifting, inspiring, and soothing to the soul, for those of us who possess one.

Reading good history, of any era, is one big step forward — into clarity of mind. The only desirable annals of yore comprise precisely and reputably annotated chronicles of events, usually written prior to the chaotically revisionist 1970s.


Reading good books, mine included, is yet another means by which to move ahead with magnificence while the wicked wusses amongst us lose whatever’s left of the rotting gray matter above that reptilian brain stem.


They have lost their minds, which They never had, to begin with.


Do not lose yours.