Is there anyone who doesn't want to pick my wallet? Day labor employers, insurance people, women looking for a free ride - basically any time someone is offering you something it's to fuck you over. And the reason it keeps happening is because there are so many suckers out there. Just about everybody has got their Kool Aid they want to drink and boy do they get pissed when you try to take it away.
So I post this for all my delusional friends who think greedy countries really do have a future (regulated sin is OK!). But I don't want to rain on anybody's parade this time, I just want to say there are folks out there that say emails like the one I got below are scams. But that's not me saying that. I say do what you want. Go for it! You da man! You have all my support!
HELLO DEAR
KINDLY ALLOW ME THE MODESTY OF INTRODUCING MYSELF. I AM TONY C.SANKOH, SON OF MY BELOVED LATE FATHER JOSEPH SANKOH, MINISTER OF DIAMOND MINING CO-OPERATION IN SIERRE LEONE, AFRICA. I DO NOT WANT TO BURDEN YOU WITH THE TROUBLES OF MY COUNTRY, BUT THE SITUATION IS DESPERATE FOLLOWING THE RECENT WAR.
I AM WRITING YOU IN THE STRICTEST CONFIDENCE TO ASK YOUR HELP WITH A FAMILY SECRET TREASURE LEFT TO ME BY MY KIND FATHER. MR. JOSEPH SANKOH, WHO WAS WAS KILLED DURING THE RECENT WAR IN MY COUNTRY. MY SISTER WAS SHOT IN THE LEG AND SHE ALSO DIED. I AM NOW IN A REFUGEE CAMP IN BURKINA-FASO AND AM SUFFERING WITH NOTHING.
HOWEVER BEFORE MY FATHER DIED HE TOLD ME A SECRET ABOUT A $15 MILLION FAMILY TREASURE HE LEFT WITH A SECURITY AGENT IN BURKINA-FASO. HE DID NOT TELL THE SECURITY AGENT THE CONTENTS OF THE BOX, DECLARING ONLY PERSONAL EFFECTS WHICH HE EXPECTED TO STORE JUST A SHORT TIME BUT HE DIED. I CANNOT GET THE MONEY NOW AND ONLY HAVE A CERTIFICATE OF DEPOSIT (CD). IF I OPEN THE BOX, THE SECURITY AGENT WILL SEE THE MONEY AND I WILL NOT BE ABLE TO GET IT.
I NEED YOU HELP AND IF YOU KINDLY AGREE I AM WILLING TO GIVE YOU $4.5 MILLION SHARE OF THE TREASURE FOR HELPING WITH THE SECURITY AGENT AND AS A BUSINESS EXPERT FOR INVESTMENT. MY FATHER BEFORE HE DIED TOLD ME NOT TO INVEST THE MONEY IN AFRICA BECAUSE IT IS NOT SAFE DUE TO UNSTABLE POLITICAL SITUATION. I WOULD LIKE TO BUY A HOUSE IN YOUR COUNTRY AND I HOPE YOU CAN HELP ME.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION TO MY PROBLEM. PLEASE GIVE ME YOUR PRIVATE TELEPHONE NUMBER AND I WILL CALL TO EXPLAIN THE DETAILS. THANK YOU IN ADVANCE FOR YOUR HELP. THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONCERN TO MY PROBLEM
My main man, the right honorable Dr. King. He didn't take shit either.
I don't take shit. I don't believe in taking shit. I believe taking shit is a sin, just the same as giving shit is because if you take shit then you are giving shit to yourself - and you are a person too! But my fellow man does not share in that belief. Why is that, fellow man?
First, let me reiterate: if you come after me or my mine - for any reason - you forfeit your right to exist. I don't care if you got a badge or a policy or whatever is in that feeble brain of yours that makes you think you have the "right" to fuck me. Point is, you need to be taken out so that those of us who want to live can do so. And I have no qualms about being judge, jury and executioner. Why should I? The choice was made by you.
What endangers me most though is my fellow man walking around in T-shirts with "Fuck me!" written all over them. What's up with that? Is it because you think people will like you better, because - yes - most people do want to fuck you over. Is it because you think that makes you a good citizen? I mean, really! You think letting yourself get fucked is a contribution to society? I wonder if your dependents appreciate that world view.
Live free or die? Or: live rich or die?
Oh! What's that? You say you'd kill to protect and defend your family? That's mighty white of you! Wow, everyone's a rights activist all the sudden. Life is too precious to let it be raped and squandered, you say? Careful now! With an attitude like that they'll be calling you an extremist, a radical, a liberal! Shame, though, your actions don't match your words.
Aren't you the same people I see fighting to be allowed to be jobless, homeless and your health put in danger? Aren't you same people I see putting your pets and children out on the street? Aren't you the same people I see slaving away your life, one injury away from ruin? Aren't the same people I see walking around angry because you're always getting fucked? Aren't you the same people I see saying, "Nothing can change! This is the only way!"?
Yeah, I thought that was you.
See? That's the problem with religion: it takes the rules of man and turns them into the rules of God (And you thought you didn't believe in religion. Ha!). That sort of pretense is fatal. And that's why you let money fuck you and yours every day. Like it's some sort of unquestionable law of nature it has to happen.
Stop enjoying yourself! We're here to suffer!
Here's the truth: nobody gives a shit about money. It hurts, it hinders, it hemorrhages life when we have to think about that instead of our own lives - as God intended. But if you don't believe we were put here to do what we want, if you don't believe there's a natural order to things that will work if we'd just let it happen, if you don't believe there's an inexorable draw in every human to contribute, then you can only believe in the rule of money. Such is the price of perfidy.
And for that you get to sacrifice you, your spouse, your children, your environment and everything that you love. You reach for my throat but in the end it's your own you will find. Killing people on the altar of money doesn't make it holy. Nature doesn't demand money to live - only we do. It's love that nature demands. We (insanely) keep trying to make money as important as love, but in the end you can only serve one - a lesson we have yet to learn.
In the meantime, on the whole, you are some really boring ass people with nothing real to say.
She was the golden child with her streaming brown hair and richly tanned face. Her eyes were deep and dreamy, shining with the light of life. Shelley was but a teenager then; a prom queen, a cheerleader and everyone's sweetheart. Parents hailed her as a role model, teachers marveled at her excellence, her priest praised her devotion. At this high point of success, Shelley felt she could be an inspiration to others, to show them the Way to life and happiness. There was only one small problem with that idea: she couldn't stay in high school the rest of her life.
The light in her was true but the seduction had begun. Shelley took hold of her self-claimed Mission From God to lead others to the promised land - especially since she feared if she really did try to be herself in the big, bad world she'd find out she was nothing much after all. But she was not nothing, but everything. Energy radiated from her like a starburst, her footsteps leaving glowing marks behind. "Yes," she said, "the answer is yes." In love she did believe - if not commitment.
But the drug of High Praise was already taking effect, weakening her, whispering in her ear. "Rare is the soul who makes love work! Who are you to think you are one such as this? Do not risk your praise by following your own path. You have your followers to think about!" Once she had thought: "I must keep the light to keep the praise" but that changed now, perverted to: "I must keep the praise to keep the light." Not so very different, she hoped.
In college, she waited for the Magic Answer, to define her golden path to victory. Anxiously she noted some of her "lessers" in high school thrived and blossomed in the great collegiate arena. Would they steal some of her precious praise? How were they ever true believers? Wasn't she still the One? Shelley's eyes narrowed upon them: to take her praise was to endanger her Holy Mission. Had they no regard for God!
Shelley's ideal: A sexy nun!
In College she met a Concrete Man of the world who had Definite Things the world could praise. But she despised those who clung to worldly values for their worth. She knew of dreams and the worth of dreams and with dreams lay her fealty, by God! But what if she didn't make her dreams work? Like the seduction of the Holy Mission, Concrete Man whispered and cajoled in her ears to entice the chains of doubt. "Put on these cuffs of marriage," he hissed. "You can always take them off later." In her retelling of it, Shelley said she got over her initial revulsion of him because it was true love.
And now...the real world. No one gave a damn how many cartwheels she could do - unless it was some guy just out to fuck her. The Dreamless hated her for ever having dreams. The Passionless couldn't wait to see her dead. And the Responsible Ones wondered if she'd wake up in time. For the first time, pain came to visit her. "I still have my dreams, I can feel them and I love them. Is what I'm doing really so bad? I can always start following my own path!" But the reality was she was more desperate than ever, choked by the chains of an unholy matrimony, wondering just who the hell she was.
Time passed, but the pain did not, worrying her into despair, until finally she did something she had not done in years: gave an earnest prayer. "Dear God, I must know! Am I really something or am I really nothing? It's killing me to not know! I can't stand the thought of being a divorcee. What would people say of me then? How could I do your will of showing them the Way if they find out my life is lie?" Afterwards, the couple moved to a new town and a new life to start anew - and that's when she met her True Believer.
At last! I've found you!
The True Believer saw her dreams, was inspired by them, dazzled by them, overwhelmed by them, never the same would he be. Dreams such as hers marked a soul for life. Fretting and dying himself, he wondered how he himself could ever be worth those dreams. But he too saw the ailing of her dreams, knowing he was the perfect medicine. Yet the whispers in his ears hissed as well. "You're just imagining it, she doesn't need you at all. It's merely wishful thinking!" Each too scared to touch the other, they parted in unspoken tears - but the damage had been.
And thus was born Shotgun Shelley.
With the sweet taste of life the True believer brought - now gone forever - tenderness turned to terror. "Yes, your dreams are going to die! Who will love you then? How does salt regain its taste?" Driven from her bed in midnight madness, she grabbed the shotgun while heading out the door. Shelley couldn't get that word "dreamless!" out of her mind, chasing her down the street no matter how fast she ran. Her eternal soul lay on the line, doomed by a lie she could not escape. "My life is not a waste!"
Heaving in sweat, hair a mess from the running, she ended up in the park where a homeless man slept in an uneasy pose on a bench. Her first thought: "Isn't that illegal??" Who the hell could ever love you? You have no possible hope! You can't even sleep right!! But were her thoughts of herself or the homeless sleeper? One thing she knew for sure: "I've got a house and you don't, you piece of shit!" Then: Click-Click-BAM! and the houseless menace was disposed of.
Watch out, losers!
Church that Sunday was a momentous occasion. Shelley the approval junkie feared she never see her supplier again. Her teary eyes of an almost confession moved her pastor to sacrosanct sanction. "I can see clearly your devotion [to your addiction] is true! And I can see you earnestly wish to believe in [your made up bullshit] the Way. Trust in God [fraud] and know that you are an inspiration to others [to vomit]." And thus two people comforted one another having spoken not one word of truth.
Two choices had Shelley: to come clean, admit her life was a failure and her mission a smokescreen, or she could keep on going as Shotgun Shelley, blowing to pieces the Unworthy and Unloved. She wanted neither - but the twisting in her mind never rested in its torment and without relief she'd go visibly insane. Visible Insanity: her horror of horrors. In resigned ecstasy she found her solution: killing the Unworthy allows me to keep up my godly appearance, which allows me to keep alive my Holy Mission of leading others to life!
Shelley knew all society's blind spots, hunting them daily in printed paper and taunted TV. The rejected, the scorned, the witches of the day - her roving eye zeroed in on them all. She knew the sheep could not afford to care about the Unwanted after first having declared them Obsolete and a Stain upon society. And to her luck and amazement, the ranks of the unwanted swelled daily - seems her society had the same needs as she. Click-Click-BAM! repeated the gun of Shotgun Shelley - sometimes the death not even reported!
Prettier by the day
It was in a quiet moment, in her weekly get-together when she reigned once more as high school queen and princess that Shelley finally betrayed herself. Her head, suffering from the increasing number of truth she repressed, literally started expanding, and her eyebrows arched into permanently vexed positions and the corners of her mouth constantly trembled downwards. Over time, these traits marred her quite noticeably, forcing one of Shelley's friend to remark on it. But the voice of criticism was a long time foe of Shelley.
"Don't worry," she dismissed in her best Gloria Swanson, "my fans will never notice."
Subtly over time, her friends started distancing from this ordinary, everyday madwoman, but Shotgun Shelley is still out there, looking for those with social flaws or personal peccadilloes branded by a world falling ever further into its own disdain, crucifying Jesus on every corner, hoping that if they do it enough times it will somehow make it turn out right. And though at times outrage occurred after one of her killings, none dare stop her. For many are her followers, equally trapped by false hopes of proving their worthiness by squishing people like bugs.
I read the news today, oh boy. That's when I found out about Obama's plan for black supremacy, to steal the brains out of our children and turn them into obedient zombies, and to put all those who disagree into re-education camps where they will be forced to chant "I love the poor" over and over until they actually believe it. That bastard!
If half of the elitist snob parents of Plano are keeping their children home from hearing O-man's diabolical diatribe, I knew I had to get to the bottom of this. Luckily I have this friend of mine, Glenn Beck, and he showed me a preview of Obama's "hate filled propaganda" and I have to admit I was shocked! I asked him what we could do about this madman who has overtaken our country. Glenn said the only thing left to do was to leave the country - and I completely agreed!
Here's the speech below, but please, make sure no children are in the room!
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Conform or die!
Greetings children of America - or I should say, future comrades of America. My speech today is one of thought control and brainwashing. And if you do not believe what I have to say today, no one will ever love you again. And speaking of people who don't love you, my first subject today is your parents.
Tell me, comrade children, are your parents Republican? I hope not. Do you know who Republicans are? They are greedy and evil people - just like the ones Jesus hated in the Bible. And your parents want to loot and pillage this great country of ours until we are left dead and starving in the streets. So please comrades, if your parents are Republicans, turn against them with all your heart.
What your son will look like after he hears Obama's speech
Next up is my gay agenda. We need to gay up this country. At the end of my term, I hope to see a pink ribbon in the hair of every boy across the land. We will become the biggest pussies in the world and every country we ever pissed off will invade our ass - which by that time you will actually like. This is my secret plan I now make public.
And you may be asking yourself, why am I wearing full Muslim garb today. I'll tell you why: because it's Islam or Hell. Do you want to spend eternity with Satan, or do you want paradise as a Muslim? As a Muslim, even the biggest losers get laid in Heaven. Something to think about you horny pock marked punks. And I tell you truly: our Founding Fathers were Islamic and therefore so must we be as well. That or you hate America and want it to die.
Don't piss off a brother!
But children of Amerikka, I know what it is you need. Not a good education - no American corporation wants to pay your over-inflated salary. No, what you need is the true audacity of hope: fascist communism. Tomorrow I will introduce a bill declaring that Americans must share their toys and love the needy. Greedy people will be branded with a verdant G. Better think twice about hogging that gold colored crayon! Brother Obama is watching you!
Yes, America, you were stupid to make a black man your ruler and god. I am implementing my revenge on the white man starting with making all the water fountains at the While House declared "Blacks Only". Oh, and that's one more thing I need to fix: I'm painting this Honky House black and renaming it Parliament Funkadelic. Peace, and praise be to Allah.
The Sengoku era of Japanese history (roughly the entire 1500s) was a time of a complete crumbling of the power structure followed by the great drive for final unification led by me, Oda Nobunaga. Right smack dab in the middle of all this came the Portuguese in 1549, and with them came Christianity (the religion, not the real thing, of course). But the word played well with the Japanese populace, even gaining powerful warlords as converts who in some cases ordered those under their power to also convert.
The Japanese were open minded in their religious beliefs, often taking an a la carte approach, grabbing whatever suited them from each religion to form a spiritual world view unique to each person. The strict Catholicism of the Jesuits and Franciscans disdained all other forms of belief, however, requiring complete rejection of competing theologies. This was the first introduction of religious fanaticism to Japan and it played out in the seventeenth century when Christianity was banned and a popular uprising was brutally repressed. But in the totality of Japanese history, Christianity did not play a huge role even though its influences can still be seen today in religious ceremonies.
One such convert in the Sengoku era was Gracia Hosokawa. Gracia was born into a samurai family. In a samurai household, all members are considered samurai, not just the men (there are even some famous fighting female samurais). As a samurai, she too was bound by a code of honor and was expected to uphold it. But it did not preclude her from converting to Christianity and taking the name Gracia (her birth name was Tama).
St. Francis Xavier brought Christianity to Japan
Lady Gracia lived up to her name, being a person of grace and refinement. She learned the foreigners' words of both Spanish and Latin to help in learning her new faith. Her intelligence and beauty made her a popular and highly respected person among the Japanese elite. She was also married into the house of Hosokawa, an historic and strong house, serving directly under the most powerful warlords of the times over the past centuries. And her father was a high ranking general as well - he served under me.
Akechi Mitsuhide was one of my finest generals and a man of great intellect. He was no me or my right hand man Hideyoshi - he lacked the imagination for that. But I respected this man who had educated himself so well. And yet, because he relied solely on mere intellect, he lost perspective, stepping out of tune with the drive for unification. Always over-thinking, he became convinced that by killing me who had already conquered half the nation that he could slide in and become Shogun. Inflamed by his retainers who convinced him he was worthy of ultimate rule, they attacked me while I stayed at a lightly guarded temple in the capital.
And there I died.
Shortly after, my man Hideyoshi hunted down the now notorious traitor Akechi and killed him. This left Gracia in an extremely tenuous position as his daughter. Normally, all the family of a traitor is put to death as well. But her husband interceded for her, keeping her alive through the influence of his position. She was hidden until finally being allowed to return to Osaka, the power base of Japan in the late sixteenth century. It was during this time she converted and her devotion was never questioned as she was quite revered by the priests.
A statue of the great Lady
Inevitably, samurai honor and Christian principles came into conflict. Her husband's life was in danger as political alliances swirled and it looked like he was going to end up on the wrong side. He left orders for her to commit seppuku (ritual suicide) if he were to die. Knowing suicide was against Christian principles, she wrote to the Jesuit priests only to find on this point they would not bend. But her husband's danger passed - this time.
Picking up where I left off, Hideyoshi finalized the unification of Japan but chaos threatened once more with his death. The nation basically split in two between the loyalists to Hideyoshi's family and the usurper Tokugawa Ieyasu. Spearheading the loyalists was Ishida Mitsunari. And by virtue of this he had control of Osaka castle, an impregnable stronghold built by Hideyoshi. With the ability to garrison tens of thousands of troops and its Byzantine walls, Ishida considered the castle to be his trump card in the coming power play for control of Japan.
It was in this castle Gracia was stationed and for all intents and purposes, trapped. In fact, many members of high ranking families of the time were stationed there as well, part of a long standing tradition of hostage-taking to ensure peace between the different factions. Ishida looked to build upon this and take the family members of his opposition directly into his control, to threaten his enemies to either join him or at least to swear off attacking him.
Legendary Osaka castle
The great prize of Lady Gracia was whom he first sought to seize. To neutralize the great house of Hosokawa would be a huge coup on his part. But Ishida was a mimicker, not a thinker in his own right. He couldn't see how such a move might blow up in his face. And blow up it did, for Lady Gracia was a samurai.
She refused to be taken hostage, to betray her husband and also by implication, her liege lord above him. There are several accounts of her final demise but this much is known: she had herself put to death (to avoid suicide) and then her mansion burned to the ground (death for a samurai woman was by a knife through the throat). Lady Gracia was supremely devout in all her beliefs, be they Japanese or Christian.
News of her death caused such an outrage Ishida was forced to abandon his plan and subsequently went on to be defeated in the great battle of Sekigahara, consolidating once and for all the power in Tokugawa's hands.
You can visit her grave today - as I surely would were I to reach the shores of the Japans once more...
Wikipedia claims Lady Gracia is a popular person in Japanese culture, listing her as a character in over 40 stage dramas, movies, TV dramas, etc. from 1887 to 2006. She was also the basis for the Mariko character in Shogun, James Clavell's classic novel. It was through researching Clavell's novel I found out about the great Lady Gracia, and I know I too found her to be a person for all time, a person of both substance and deep conviction, never to be forgotten.
At first glance he seemed like any other disconnected businessman, absorbed in his paper, the world his oyster. He paid no heed to the black man with his grey flecked beard who shined his shoes - and likewise the shoe shiner to his customer. The pair could have hated each other, known the other for years or simply be two ships passing in the day. It was a scene played out a thousand times a day in Manhattan. But a subtle and perceptive was eye needed to notice the difference here.
The suit was as fine as any in New York. Tailor made in London, its simplicity spoke of a timeless elegance but with a sharp sense of style. He loved the suit for occasions like this, when he had business dealings with those who'd be impressed by mere linen. To him it was an actor's costume, but to others it lent a meaning of credibility and social worth - at least in their own lives. And because he was in a suit but not of the suit it made him seem all the more imperious.
And that was an edge. "Always good to have an edge" he'd say, for he was a Mystery Man. He knew exactly what those around him were feeling because he felt the same way too. He had a different air, like he should be somebody famous, as if he were traveling incognito, an international spy at the least or a man of high art at the most. He watched the gears turning in their minds, trying to place their finger on it, never able to identify what that certain something was - but there was definitely something.
Yet it was a mystery even to himself, that magic feeling he radiated. Once in a while a brave or cravingly curious soul would smile and snap his fingers asking, "Say, aren't you...", trying to get him to tip his hand. But how does one tip a hand never seen? He'd smile shyly back, shrugging his shoulders, explaining he was nobody known almost as if he were apologizing. For outside of his sixty two million American dollars, what provable worth had he?
A shoe shine had at one time been the sort of pampering he'd never allow himself regardless of his cash. Giving in to such luxuries meant dropping your guard and besides, it surely was an act of affectation anyway, a superfluous taker of time. Comfortable men would have them to feel important or a pathetic sense of power, an illusion of control over the world. But over time he found it was not the giving in that was weak, but the denial of oneself was. This shine served a purpose in his life.
The routine of the shoe shiner was one of ancient practice. He was not cursory or sloppy or disdainful with his work. To him as well, the shine served a purpose. And even though he quickly surmised his client was not a talker, he did not feel the wall he usually felt - or worse, the false polite patter of a man who'd be horrified to have this blue color black man in his home. Truth be told, he preferred the blatant snobs to the subtle ones. But a rare bird this client be, and a sense of dignity and respect came over him as these two men committed this transaction of mutual competence.
What's this I'm feelin? It's like I'm a kid again, runnin' the streets when I was free. Back when I had hopes and knew nothin' 'bout life. I fer sher thought God loved me back then and there be great things ahead a me. I don't feel no rules comin' down from this man. Sorta like when I dun that famous actor - only I felt like him was just actin'. This be an old feelin', a feelin' that makes me wonduh who I am.
By the time he was done, the suited man's magic feeling had firmly embedded itself in the shoe shine man, filling him with anticipation for some final revelation. His client certainly didn't have the rushed air of a yuppie, or the bloated self-importance of a mid-level manager or the self-centered obliviousness of a lifelong New Yorker. And even without talking beyond the minimum, he'd gained an unspoken rapport with the man, even liking him. He trusted his instincts, there had to be a reason his defenses dropped.
Announcing the shine was finalized, he saw a crisply bent one hundred dollar bill proffered with instructions to "Keep the change." This offended him.
"No, suh." He waited for the man in the twenty thousand dollar suit to meet his eyes, recognizing him as a man of substance and style that cannot be purchased. "No suh, I don't take no charity. Don't need no handouts."
"Duly noted," replied the man as if he'd just been told the price of tea in China. The bill remained extended.
The shoe shiner's instincts told him it was OK to take it, but he just couldn't get his head around it. Both his insecurity and his pride demanded he not be insulted but rather treated as an equal. "Well, what do call that if you don't call it charity?"
"Revenge."
The faraway look in the suited man's eyes spoke of a time before, a vicious time of unrepented cruelty branded upon his soul. This man's feet had touched the scorching earth, feeling the burn and caring for it not. So any chance he got to soothe the burns of the world, he did so. The eyes and the matter-of-fact sound of the voice relayed this story to the shoe shine man and he took the money as one club member from another trying to survive a world gone mad. They never saw each other again, but neither forgot the other.
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Back in his swank east side apartment, Harry took off the costume of his suit and breathed deep. With a mirthful smirk, he muttered, "All the world's a stage" and donned the clothes of a street bum - clothes that let him breathe. His business deal at the hotel had gone OK that day but he was bitterly disappointed once again no one had recognized his alias of 'Edmond Dantes'. Actually, his true frustration was something else. The spark was gone. Matters of dead men's money could never interest him again. The incident with the shoe shine man sealed the deal.
It has been five long, quick years since he had won the lottery - an event that had both given and taken away direction in his life. Time has come for something different. Something new - and real. Something that explains this magic feeling with nowhere to go...
This is you: It's 1991 in the sleepy town of Corsicana, Texas (pop 25,000). You're asleep in your home when you hear your 2-year-old daughter screaming in the night. You wake to find the house filled with smoke. You tell your 2-year-old to run outside as you desperately enter the fiery bedroom of your 1-year-old twins to rescue them. You cannot find them. Injured and burned, you give up. All three children die. So do you - in every sense of the word.
It's a year later. You've just been convicted of arson and charged with three murders of your precious children. It's a nightmare of small town Texas justice. You plead your innocence to no avail. A jailhouse rat testifies you confessed to him the crime. Finally, a witch doctor draws forth a lethal needle and injects you to death. Justice is served.
Justice of the insane. Justice of the blind and unhearing. Justice of men with hearts so twisted, they hope that in proving the evil of your heart, no one will see the evil in their own.
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Once again, the Chicago Tribune has delved into Texas law enforcement and found it wanting:
We like to be first in everything here in Tejas. Especially when it comes to killing people. It gets us all excited and bouncy. We brag about our love for law and order. "One thing about the death penalty: you know they won't do it twice!" Sound logic there! One thing is for sure: if we had the death penalty for those responsible for wrongful convictions it sure as hell wouldn't happen twice. Funny, but when I bring that up, they start singing a different tune. Life becomes far more precious when it's your own, huh?
You see, in rural areas, competence is considered "uppity" and mean to the common folk, the salt of the earth. Xenophobia for them applies to anyone who lives beyond the city limits - or anyone who thinks differently. And the civil war is still being fought. Here we got them know-it-all Yankees sticking their damn noses in our bidness all over again! What do they care what the truth is? Why do they got to go stir the pot up fer anyways? Damn you Chicago fascist foreigners! I'm gonna believe what I damn well please!
We all know the supposed rationale for the death penalty: deterrence. But I guess I's jess a big ole dummy cuz I can't rightly figger out that with all this here deterrin' we got goin' on why we still gots to kill so many of mah fellah Texans. No suh! I doan get that atall!
We kill of course, because we are such caring souls. Nothing concerns us more than victims' rights, our bleeding hearts love them so! It's all part of our relentless pursuit of truth and justice, things to heal the human heart. That's what we're doing here: making the world a better place one dead body at a time. Just ask us.
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"Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red."
I know that feeling. There's a lot of tears in those words. In previous posts, I've asked, "Who killed Jesus?" It would be easier to answer who did not.
Was it the dutiful soldiers who followed orders rather than their hearts, they who actually nailed him to the cross?
Wonder how many times Jesus covered his face
Or the mindless sheep, clamoring for lies for their lives, that their truth is the truth?
Click to see the guy in the middle
Was it Pilate, the slanderous slick jurist who asked, "What is truth?" in a pretense of not knowing, perverting the meaning of blind justice?
Let's ask him what the truth is
Was it the Pharisees who gained acclaim by their forked tongues and staged debates, through whom sin came?
Yes, words alone can make you a murderer. So can silent hearts. On behalf of my resident state I hereby declare, "We killed in error, turning our backs on the truth. We are sorry for our lack of faith and judgement, and lack of heart. We must do better if we are to have a future. We confess to this crime."
That was me you saw driving down the road with absolutely no place to go, imprisoned by the same tired landmarks, my head thrusting in silhouette screams, my hands gripping the wheel in white knuckle rage, looking for someone to run over.
That was me you saw spitting up blood in the alley, a thousand unstoppable parasites nibbling on my back of bent paralysis, grinding my teeth with thieves eyeing my wallet and a silenced God observing distraught.
That was me you saw shooting flaming arrows at my friends, aiming to keep them away, fulfilling my own prophesies of doom, dodging the arrows that come in return, calling in empty echo to come back.
That was me you saw walking down the street stark naked, hands held out in Frankenstein pleading, begging to be held with throbbing erection rifling pain through my body, twisting my insides in mind warping agony.
That was me you saw peeping through your window to gain a glimpse, finding you buttfucking the duped maid, watching mommy beat her daughter in front of the neighborhood kids simulating the sextacy of her own midnight madness.
Burn the fucker
That was me you saw lighting my writings on fire, burning them before you could read them, knowing the good they could have done, withholding life from proven worldly abusers, denying me as you deny me.
That was me you saw in leash and collar, yanked before the world by the money god's victory, selling myself out, damning the world for following its rules, forced to eat dog food before laughing masses of self-destruction.
That was me you saw sneaking down the sacred sidewalk, talking to myself in consternation, throwing arms around in defiant gestures, frustrated and confused by my position, watching you turn away with eyes filled with hatred.
That was me you saw hiding in the corner having a nervous breakdown, seeing you thinking I was pretending, hoping it was an act, feeling superior by ignoring it, leaving only my death to prove you wrong.
That was me you saw measuring myself for the hangman's noose, sucking on the end of a .44, no way out because the real pleas you never acknowledge, failing to die with convenience, all of us vainly praying the truth not to will out.
The intense throbbing pain never subsided, his energy bleeding unfettered into the universe - energy that would never be seen again. Floating out from him were dreams of paradise known and found, for his love had only grown brighter with time. His life had been one of mending walls and building bridges but now had come a time for washing all that away. There was a point to this?
"How can the truth not suffice?"
Mixed among the pain: confusion. Yes, he knew the sorrows of sin would always be though having never broken his own fidelity. But why sin in the first place? How can illusion win the day? Where is the reward in killing me? Can I do their living for them and life still have meaning? I can find no sense in any of this.
"Why make music for those without ears?"
His songs brought the joy of never-ending life. They danced in helpless bliss at the sound of his words, a healing light judging no man, cleansing dark hearts. Madly touched with desire and filled with frantic hope, crushing crowds followed the man from Galilee. But what of it now as they silenced his voice as a man who shutters sunshine from his home? Would they still kill him had he brought pain instead?
"How can love not be the Way?"
Who does not dream of it, hope for it, pray for it, live for it? Love rules all life from beginning to end, alpha and omega - no place stands outside of it. Who can not see to make love work? I led no one to the desert, only to life giving streams. Can hope be found elsewhere? Has anyone ever found death in love?
"Am I not you?"
A human of the human race? One who lives in the world's mercy by choice? Have I done any deed beyond what can be done? Is not my own fate tied to theirs? Must I not live my own life? Can my love live without also giving it? Why don't they stop this before it's too late? Soon, I will be able to do nothing to prevent their pain. "Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing."
And unstoppable tears streamed down the face of Jesus, he loving them more than they could know, a giving soul to the end. Please, oh please let me help you!
And darkness came over the land until the ninth hour, for the sun had stopped shining. At the ninth hour Jesus cried out in a loud voice: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" And when Jesus cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. At that moment, the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook and rocks split. When all the people who had gathered to witness this sight saw what took place, they beat their breasts and wailed, "Surely, this was the Son of God!"
He came rolling into town driving in Italian super suave style, an earthly god of spectacular virility and wealth. He had Rod Stewart hair and J Paul Getty disease. As his English custom shoes touched the ground, women competed bare-breasted to tie his Armani shoelaces. Men openly wailed in anguished jealousy and yet fearful rejection. Life would never be the same after the High Plains Banker stormed into town!
"Who are you??"
It was the one question no one dared ask him. After all, he was the Perfect Man, and what if he asked the same question of you, a lesser being? He pulled out his guitar, seducing them with songs of golden avarice and velvet ribs, fur-lined sinks and suicide sex on mountains of countless cash. "Baby, we were born to cum! Baby, we were born to fund!" In the end, no one really cared to ask him anything, they just knew his undeniable desires were their undeniable desires. To the High Plains Banker they could refuse no request - for his was a taking life worshiped from high to low.
Yes, the High Plains Banker wore his sunglasses a night - he saw the townspeople too well already. He himself had once been poor, working in a faceless fish factory with eyeless money guards and crippling crimes of the heart descended from a town who loved their god with all their heart and all their mind and all their soul. When they spoke, the blood of Jesus dripped from their tongues as they propagated His love for their misspent vanities. But this fisherman of souls claimed his worldly worth: a dreamer among zombies, a snapper of men's chains to kill the jackbooted joys of society's saboteurs.
Towering words of truth of the fisherman binded them with the light - and these ties they carelessly cut. Into the streets he was thrown, to proselytize to the dogs and cats and rats, for no human had ears. Wandering warlords of the street in fruitless hopes of ill-gotten glory and power-laden puke, chased him down every blind alley. "Pretty, pretty people we be!" Passing by in stolen Mercedes, believers of blight whipped the fisherman with god's own poverty, cackling as his speaking teeth dropped out and his healing heart dreamed ever fewer beats.
And for the fisherman's honor, no soul came walking in to hold the line. A Doubtless Decree was issued as Holy Law, giving its perpetrators godly goose bumps: "His is a death that must be, forever be and only be, so help us, god." For all of this time and any times after, this Holy Oath shall give a god's blessing of goodness. The last sounds of the fisherman were drowned by the victory clinks of crystal glassware and greed gone wild.
Until now...
Eyes on the prize?
The Banker's vengeful eyes sparkled in champagne reflections, weaving wealthy woe with plans to steal from the poor and give to the rich. Men of proud paper found erotic ecstasy in such rapacious wrath. "After all, unprized peasants would rip our horny plenty if they could!" And of those of worthless work, the Banker religioned a credo of savored slavery sold as salvation, an honest day's work for a dishonest pat on the hollowed head. "Oooh, you make greedy fun!" squealed the piggly classless. Puffing on a succumbing cigar, the High Plains Banker blew sarcastic smoke on their spellbound sins. "To hell's home for all!" And the hearing ears grew nearer.
Vampires of the day they'd be - for not even the exposing daylight can kill such wonderful wickedness! Hateful howls are the word as the knifing knives shear the sheep but who can hear when so powerfully possessed? "Save my life I'm going down for the last time!" - but not even its victims dare refute the universal love for the Doubtless Decree, from which all goodness flows. In guilt's guidance, fleeing sheep line up for the hangman's noose hoping fiduciary fidelity prove them worthy in the Banker's eyes. The Banker laughing spreads his wings, "There's no answer but my answer! There's no voice but my voice! There's no dream but my dream!"
Fanned by fault-finding fiends, the Banker hangs the relished relic of a dangling dollar over the side of a hard-hearted cliff. Seeing this, the comely cattle dive off head first hoping to grab electric boots and mohair suits. Even as death became them, the puzzled participants wondered how the drifting Banker held such a godly grip on their silent souls - serving the Banker even unto defeated death. "What are words for when no one listens at all?" Only during the certainty of the fateful fall of folly does telling truth will out: the banker's ways are a deliverance to doom, an illusion of life. Giving up on the demands of good dreams that must be dreamed, the "pretty, pretty people" design their own demise.
This whole healthcare reform debate is a microcosm of our society as a (w)hole. A serious issue addressed in a non-serious way. All sorts of mindless assumptions and assertions are being made both for and against reform. And it's not really about bringing a competence to the situation but rather winning the argument. Winning arguments requires no accountability - so that's where the fun is in most people's eyes.
You can find some really detailed columns on reform, breaking down the nuances in a very serious tone of a 1,200 page proposal. Some others take stances of absolutes of either it's all good or all bad. We talk of compromise and pragmatism and the politics of it all. Mostly, we contort the situation to fit into whatever fantasy we like most. One thing I hear very little talk about is actual healing.
When Johnny breaks his arm, are we then going to sit around and yap about "compromise" and "pragmatism" and "politics"? Judging by our actions, the answer is yes. And who among us when sick wants to be taken to an insurance agent for healing? Judging by our attitudes, everyone. So who wants to talk about a solution that truly provides medical care to all? Judging by our words, nobody.
Be practical! Don't fix it till you find the profit!
And so it is when a silly people take on any issue of import: entertain us with suicide right on the stage. Tell us how the world is going to die and how you're going to prevent it. Tell me about your "insightful pragmatism" of how saving our environment is not economically feasible. Tell us there's a way to life without speaking the truth. Tell us we don't already know the answer.
Solutions That Do Not Solve® - never looking at the bottom line. It's all about the appearance of responsibility without actually taking any on. It's about making coherent, intelligent arguments that speak to the surface of a situation - but never question the fallacies of its foundations. It's not the words you say, but the conviction you say them with that counts. Bullshit, bombast and buffoonery hold sway in hearts that stand for nothing.
We are not a serious people. We are a silly people, a sad people, a sick people.
And I say this to you while sitting here buck naked, smoking a joint, with a raging boner and surfing the net for porn.
Hey, gringo, over here!
