This week is my social coming out party and unveiling of a different mental pathway. I am eager with anticipation. Since July I have been in the process of application for the State Senate position open in Albany. Four sullen months watching a restrained me, who I think other people want to see—address the public in my Sunday best (washed old clothes), lightly scolding the people like they were a class of second graders with full tummies at Christmas time, Halloween Day, and Valentines—even those poor souls neglected and unloved. I gladly practiced social distancing while nonchalantly rolling a Golden Rule stink bomb into chat rooms, never raising my voice to a decibel level that could offend any person’s late night snack in front of the TV. No howling. Just repetitive, self-righteous preaching to a bored and cynical choir bereft of heartfelt singing, disruptive dancing, passion with bricks! Just Internet dirges mourning the loss of a national identity that openly snuffs out life at the lungs, gills, stomata, quicker than their souped up Priuses or Ram trucks can r.p.m. past a protected wetland. The collective rush to put life out of its misery—the superpower of just one species that began mass killing the day James Watt graduated from university another self-satisfied, yet unfulfilled asshole. Ninety makes of automobiles and American adults can recite most of their names if taxed with the problem of ages. Ask the people who the president of Honduras is (even the professors of Spanish), and silence will be drowned out by sizzling dreams of grilled chicken sandwiches. Yet the President of Honduras representing his glorious nation just solidified the passage and implementation of the Nuclear Ban Treaty, and will never be the Donald Trump or Joe Biden reason our children melt against a wall, no matter how unknown and inconsequential he is.
One of the early names I had for this blog was The False Consensus Effect. It’s a heavily tested theory in social psychology proving that people have a general tendency to think that most folks agree with them on whatever issue is at hand. I ran for State Senator a poster boy for this psychology. Surely, I thought, most people want nursing homes to be resplendent, well-appropriated houses of pre-dying —no right mind wants to forget their elders lying in sick beds suffering internal wasting and nauseating cafeteria smells. The 48th would vote overwhelmingly for a candidate purporting The New York Health Act—a “medicare for all” legislation that would improve eldercare significantly while stuffing a sock down the throat of profit until dead.
Enter the reality of people’s minds—what they assume other people think (the false consensus effect), and suddenly God, guns and cow’s milk matter more to the North Country voter than grandma’s stale doughnut for dessert and inevitable death that need not have been inevitably agonizing.
I thank those comrades who I was able to reach out to on a shoestring budget ($196), themselves practicing a delusional consensus that the majority of strangers believe and behave as if a sixth extinction is in full swing, and condemning the candidacy of my opponent, the capitalist, who doesn’t give a crap about policy to slow down the extinction as long as boring jobs can be nabbed at the power plant and prison.
The grand delusion is the hope, even belief, that the re-elected Senator will slow the delivery of a hard death to grandma on a hard floor, because she is human and probably thinks like you, or is ready to, when informed about the realities of cause and effect. But that is just lazy thinking, and already proven to be way wrong.
The false consensus effect recycles the peanut butter jar and elects representatives to usher in the dark decades to come with corpse bells tolling away 20 - 50% of earth’s species by 2100.
Well worth the trade-off for some steady work in the 48th! Good paying jobs with benefits and purchasing power for a wide body Ford truck made in Mexican lands of desertification and despair.
I thank the tiny minority of people who picked me for the job of legislating sane laws and statutes to reckon our society to the damage we have done. I believe most of you wake up each day, like me, with sturdy thoughts of anarchy. It’s the pressure of a very influential and greedy tribe that blunt brave radicalism down to the dull blade of conformity. I thank and apologize to the kind people of the 48th because I acquiesced to the power of a system I refuse to trust. I am sorry. I played along when I should have shut up and stayed put. To any human group who would play a game called politics, that no matter who wins or loses tomorrow, all life is eliminated eventually, I vow never to apply to again for recognition. Now I think I feel that the true aim of any human life is to become the anonymous conscience of the world. And no mass of people are prepared for that responsibility as much as the individual “I” behind the eye.
While grounded in the land of the humans I have come to respect the tried and true theories of social psychology. Believing that anyone at all might think like I do feels very natural, though scientific research proves it is not. Here I’ll tweak a quote by Emerson from Self-Reliance, written at the dawn of America’s industrial revolution, when smart men and women believed deeply how one person could leave a positive mark on a future world. First his quote, then my modern adjustment—
“Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist.”
To make it relevant to modernity:
“Whoso would be a man or woman must be a mental misanthrope.” People have put future generations out to suffer rapid climate change. People have not only created an extinction event, but cranked it up full bore for more potato chips and scented candles. There is not a human breathing today, innocent of the worst crime ever committed—more hellish and gruesome than any fictional devastation found in movies and bibles. I have said this before, and I mean it more intently as I wind down my already meager influence to human society. There is only one evil, and it is human made. There is a universal good, and it can be found in all things not human.
Will this truth bring any endangered life back to homeostasis?
No. But it will carry me through to the end eating Corn Chex® out of a dollar store red bowl. I is the killer of all. And we the mass delusion of galaxies.
Happy election week!
I painted this in 2016, moments after learning that Donald Trump was elected 45th President of the United States. I put on Bob Marley, and when “Three Little Birds” came on, I made my hands do this, and the title do that.
I remember the silence on social media the day after the election. The once loud, collective anticipation-expectation that got squashed because a billionaire sociopath and pervert won a contest against a millionaire sociopath and war criminal. The billionaire pervert was the populist option to idiots. The millionaire war criminal, the established choice for hypocrites. There was a doctor running the same race, who wanted what every child dreams to want before the bullies take over the schoolyard. However, she and her supporters were shamed by the hypocrites and mocked by the idiots, and became what the hypocrites declared were “spoilers” to the spoiled mass of American humanity. Few condemned the 100 million people of voting age (1/3 of the American population) who assumed rightly that no president was going to relieve a urinary tract infection, nor improve a child’s life in any foreseeable way. So they avoided the polls.
The billionaire sociopath won the day, silenced social media, and even made thousands of happy, sensitive children sense doom for the first time. “So it goes”, Vonnegut would say. Another mournful day after a United States Presidential election. No matter what the outcome, lots of earthlings were gonna suffer and die.
I channeled the Bob Marley tune into the painting to assuage my neighbor’s concern that a bigot was elected to lead our country. A racist Uncle Don, or a child-burning Hillary didn’t make any difference to me—both were a severe threat to humanity. But I knew the folks on social media were worried and afraid, and many took the next logical step, like me, to work out their emotions creatively. Mothers began sewing vagina hats to set atop their young daughter’s hopes and dreams. Fathers got on Facebook and hated tremendously with gusto. Some attacked me for pointing out that neo-liberalism and neo-fascism mean the same exact horror to every life on earth not American. And all clan hell broke loose when I began to question the insanity of little post cold war Russia constructing our new political reality—a propaganda boost brought to us by Jeff Bezos, the richest man on earth. I wrote about it after quitting social media for several months:
Democrans and Rebublicrats restrict reality to what they read in the newspapers.
Recently I painted a bear atop the Burlington Electric Department up in Vermont, where it is cold, like Siberia. This huge Russian bear empties an old honey jug of hydrochloric acid all over the electric grid in order to infiltrate American homes with fake news and pro Donald Trump propaganda. He is also a consummate hypnotist and can manipulate any mind away from reason and rationale into a devoted post neo-con loving, Confederate flag waving, Rudy Giuliani, gaudily over-dressed in endangered animal skins.
This most recent fake news story came from the powerhouse propaganda corporation, The Washington Post®. Coupled with the almost declassified unverified intelligence report on election Facebook ads by Russia, it had a huge impact on worldwide media opinion and turned many in my nation, (who by virtue of what I have learned through social psychological research, were already very North Korea lite and vulnerable to government propaganda), into Facebook® political hacks. Even some of my more sensitive Facebook® friends couldn’t leave it alone. The sky is falling! The sky is falling! Chicken Littles with very little, or at best, woefully forgotten historical education. It seems the only political triumph sought is the removal, by impeachment or volunteer abdication, of the most recent President®-elect. No ideologies are being expressed. No anti-war protest, or reminders of rapid environmental deterioration. All of the bad in the world, many of these Facebook®ers decree, can only be fixed by the removal of this one man and his sinister lair of cabinet appointees. He is the sole road block to every potential good mankind can promote or achieve. If we rise up collectively to Facebook® and Twitter® troll him day and night, then surely we can oust this monster from power, and then all will be right with the world. Our government will cease to be the number one arms dealer to Earth, Inc. The U.S. will immediately sever all connections with insane states of insanity like Saudi Arabia and Israel, and we shall get back to the clear-minded and reasonable policies of Barack Obama, and continue where his administration left off, pushing for a trillion dollar nuclear upgrade, bombing the be-Jesus out of poor oil path nations, charging the poor for health insurance, watching helplessly while BP® or its equivalent, churns another Gulf of Mexico into a thick crude oil shake.
I am witnessing people use social media to right the world order, when they have never known a right world order, nor are even able to dream of one unless their political enemies are defeated. They cannot or rather, will not do it themselves. That kind of thinking is crazy, forgetting all the while that both Hitler and Gandhi were small, rather insignificant themselves at one time.
If Facebook® is to work as a tool for positive change, it needs to replace it’s “Like” thumb with a meet-up link. That is, if you like Jimmy’s post about a beer he drank in Harvard Square, you can arrange for a place to connect with Jimmy (perhaps a pub) and discuss the virtues of that beer and maybe more of its kind. Or, if Jimmy is a staunch, flag-waving Democran or Republicrat, you can forgo the cute little thumb’s up, or the deafening silence of the dreaded no-thumb disapproval, or worse yet, the tell-tale nonplussed reaction expressed in comment mocking of your politics, and actually spend an hour or two peacefully assembling with others of like-hope in Jimmy’s house, if he ever can let go of his many internal fears, and actually invite you over sometime. Nope. Let us Facebook® our politics instead. That is how we can tell revolution is just around the corner. Or, wait a second—check out this adorable puppy licking that parrot’s eyeball!
I believe this to be the more likely scenario: Facebook® will remain just a cyber hangout for some very nice people, but also quite a few impotent trolls as well, discussing the vices and much less often, the virtues, of each other’s ranky-dank under bridge hideout.
I would like to finish up with a popular story out of the annals of social psychology research describing the “Bystander Effect”.
In 1964, a young woman named Catherine Genovese was raped and killed in two separate attacks in Queens, N.Y. After investigation police noted that 38 people had either witnessed the violence or heard Genovese scream, but at no time did anyone make an effort to scare off the attacker, and just one woman called the police. There are many situations like this happening every day. They used to call it cowardice before PC made everyone equally special so long as they possessed a router in their home.
Facebook® is by and far the greatest promoter of the bystander effect. And it works a kind of magic on our brain’s sensitive clan approval cortex. Nobody does anything of substance anymore. Or, at least it appears that way. The completion of a book to be published is liked as well as the latest video of a cat stuffing itself into a flower vase. This summer, thanks to Facebook Live®, I even got to witness with my own eyes an actual murder on the side of the road. I didn’t like it one bit. I left my angry face emoticon for all and sundry to contemplate. I was so mad. I went into the kitchen and made myself a sandwich.
Zuckerberg bets we don’t do a damn thing with our minds and bodies besides twiddle our thumbs and continue to debate news stories we read or see on TV. I think he likes it when some nonconformist fool tips the moderate scales just a wee little bit with a thought expressed about everlasting peace. You should see the bystanders rise up and—comment like the world is about to end. But then Jeopardy is on at 7:00 PM, and the social media victim probably deserved exactly what she got anyway.
Facebook® is a place for mind and do rot.
One last quote, and then Facebook® is that embarrassing coffee table fluff book I hide away when guests stop by.
I have named the destroyers of nations: comfort, plenty, and security out of which grow a bored and slothful cynicism, in which rebellion against the world as it is, and myself as I am, are submerged in listless self-satisfaction.
—John Steinbeck (famous non-Facebook®er)
So where am I going? This first newsletter is a swan song of politics, and not at all what you should expect in future posts. I want to give you your money’s worth, because now I aim to please in order to acquire precious metals for my grandchildren to convert to contentment some day however they see fit. I am earnestly searching for a sunny day philosophy to take me into the golden years. I am a painter, but not a very popular one. I express myself well, providing release I very much need on a daily basis, which is what matters most psychologically. But now I want to make me into something worth your while. A commodity valued at $35 per year.
How much is that per day?
Less than 10 cents.
Please remember I am also selling paintings, all of my paintings not at exhibition or consignment in a gallery, go for $30 each. So one of those a year is even less than 10 cents a day. One purchased for the rest of a life time extends the value of that painting to outright ridiculousness on a commodity value scale. About a third of one penny per day if you happen to have another 30 years left to live.
20 years ago I wrote about the joy of earning a nickel a day from an enthusiastic patron. Now it’s 10 cents a day. Time inflates the ego as well as the dollar.
What are these illusions that in the morning are virtually non-existent, but by early evening drown you in violent whirlpools of confusion?
Where do I begin? You see, this morning I feel happy and free. The world is an infinite exploration. I awake with a blast of anticipation, excitement, belief, wonder, hope, joy, real strength of character. I can even have positive thoughts about begging. And unlike the evening, the thought stays true, and keeps itself clear without the illusion of other people’s feelings getting in the way. A current reality I am dreaming up is to attach a wooden box to the side of the house and cut a slit into the top. A collection box wanting for nickels. I imagine donors walking to the artist’s home, not for the artist’s sake necessarily, but to knock themselves out of agonizing routines. This morning I am certain that joy will come to the man delivering a nickel, whether it be to God, the hungry old woman, the Children’s Aid Society, or to yours truly. In bad weather the nickel donor can take up a staff and obtain an old sock to stuff his nickels in. Already his life has improved significantly. A walk across town on a nickel delivery might turn enough envious heads from inside their cars to really make a difference. “Hey, isn’t that Mr. Howard, the shop teacher? What is he doing walking through the snow? Why isn’t he in his car? Where can he be going?”
Mr. Howard finally came to his senses, picked up his dinner plate, and threw it against the wall. “Freida, where’s the coin jar?” he said, and then wondered why he didn’t know where the coin jar was kept. From that realization he moved on to the next obvious one. He was near invisible to the people in his life. His loved ones saw right through him. Sure he kept his toothbrush in the holder beside the others, but the big question now was: Would they stop brushing their teeth if his toothbrush was gone? Sure, being a shop teacher earned him a mountain of nickels, but even that couldn’t keep Freida from thinking about her gorgeous foot doctor—the blonde, blue-eyed Adonis with the incredible hands. Son and daughter were touched by Dad once long ago, when he played football with them and Buster in the yard. They pitied him for putting on a show. Suzy was five, Tommy was six and Buster was the puppy Mr. Howard bought with a bag full of dirty nickels.
Now he takes another look at the home which he hath provided. “Why aren’t we begging for nickels?” he wonders. “Man, we all got it too easy. How is it possible to appreciate anything? And thoughts...! My God, what do they matter? Thoughts, dreams, they are nothing in a home overflowing with nickels. Why did I not see this before? I guess it’s okay to teach other people’s brats how to cut factory wood and tighten bolts, as long as my own brats say, ‘Thank you father,’ and ‘I love you father.’ But they never do. And Freida puts that god-damned plate of food on the table every night. I don’t know, but she might have spread ten toxins on her body to give it that shine today. I wouldn’t stop to count because the days and nights are streaking by and I have nothing to show for life but a house stuffed chock full of nickels. When Suzy and Tommy open their mouths to speak, nickels pour out in a stream. Freida’s a walking sheet of noisy nickels. I got nickels falling out of drawers. Buster won’t take another treat for going outside. Now he hoards nickels in a pile by the garbage. This morning I was late for work. It took twenty minutes to clear the nickels off the driver’s seat. Since I heard about the man in town with a begging box, every turn I make confronts me with a wall of nickels. I never knew I had so much until the other guy made a complete ass of himself. Now I cannot will the nickels out of my mind. I have to rid my thoughts of every last nickel!
So Mr. Howard takes up a staff. Yesterday it was a broken branch fallen after a west wind. Today it is a staff. He stops at his car to pick nickels out of the ashtray, and drops them in a tube sock. He ties a knot in the top and walks out into the street swinging his sock.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” yells Freida standing in the doorway.
“I am going to the artist’s house to drop these nickels into his begging box.”
“You are like hell!” Freida screams. She’s in a rage. Her eyes are hot. She feels the heat behind her eyes getting hotter. She shakes her body and waves her fists at her husband. She curses. She stamps and screams. Mr. Howard returns her fit with a look of cheerful indifference. This gesture makes her livid, beside herself with a red hot hated for her husband. Her temples are flaming. The heat starts to melt her eyes and suddenly her head explodes. A blast of lava-hot nickels erupts out the top of her head. They land whoosh-whoosh onto the frozen blacktop, shooting bullets of steam into the cold sky.
Mr. Howard walks up to his wife lying in the doorway, steps one leg over her prone body, pokes his head through the door, and yells up to the kids to bring him down another sock full of nickels. “And clean up your mother,” he says. “I’ll be back in a few years.”
Was that worth 10 cents today?
No? Yes? How about this? One third of a penny a day if you live thirty more years.
So I am in earnest about asking all and sundry where I should go from here. I am crowd-sourcing a career idea. $30 a week is all I desire in pay, from my painting and writing effort. Any suggestion must involve me and my art being useful outside the home, and structured around doing the things that I want to. The $30 will be converted to silver to save as legacy for my grandchildren, fortunately well provided for at present—but who can foretell the hard times of the future?
Here you can follow me down into my basement studio, and witness the genesis of this painting I did yesterday morning. I talk a bit about my practice.
Please come back though. There is more to read and see.
My great grandfather, Henry Throop, was born in 1880, raised in Lebanon, N.Y., attended Colgate when it was still a prep school, went to Cornell University to study civil engineering, married, and settled in Syracuse, where he worked as a railroad engineer, and then on his own as independent engineer/contractor until his death in 1956.
I use his life often, both in writing and conversation to juxtapose today’s culture to the one flourishing a hundred years ago. Was it a better time? Who knows? I can say with certainty that Henry was a very mature twenty-something year old. He kept a journal—observations and day to day life for the most part, and also an expense account book, showing where every penny went. Every single penny! I have decided to use this account book to revolutionize the way I intend to sell my work.
My Silver Dollar Campaign
I have had it with the business of art. It doesn’t work. The moment the painting gets offered, haggled, denied, etc, on the market exchange, the entire culture of the thing created gets violated. There is no eager naivety as soon as the money door opens. Only once have I made a painting thinking about money, or a sale. Here it is:
I was invited to a rock concert with some friends where there would be a section of the parking lot cordoned off for vendors. I painted this the night before, and had it sold before we finished setting up the tent. It is stated in my great grandfather’s account book that on September 14, 1907, he purchased the following for one dollar:
2 loaves of bread
1 dozen cookies
toothpicks
paper
salt
chestnuts
peanuts
pound of butter
and a haircut...
A dollar in 1907 had the spending power of about $25 today, sans the haircut.
So, about $40 today would buy these goods Henry bought in 1907 for one dollar.
I love the silver dollar! For several years I have watched its value move between $15 and $35. And it’s just a dollar! It also feels good in the hand, and I bet many of them in a small pouch attached to my belt (a lá Rimbaud), would feel even better. Henry’s items listed in bulk are worth any one of my paintings. No one is buying the luxury items I have made available. So I have sweetened the pot in order to avoid the money exchange problem for the rest of my life. I will amass silver coins! From this day forward, any one of my paintings not hanging in a gallery can be bought for a silver dollar. Not what a silver dollar will buy, but exactly one, shiny silver dollar. I don’t want to barter anymore. I want to jingle coins in a pouch. I have set the value, and it is universal. Any size. Any painting not in a gallery. Of course, the buyer must pay for frame and also shipping and handling on top of the silver dollar. Frames, shipping and handling could be exchanged in paper currency, however, the painting itself —always just one silver dollar. Please think about this, and spread the idea far and wide. There must be a painting of mine that someone likes for such a fair price. I am just so exhausted from these encounters with the self doubt monster. It’s time to kill the money. Think of unique gifts for birthdays and holidays. I look forward to jingling real silver coins in a pouch.
So we are in the midst of election week, 2020. It used to be election day; now it is election week. Do we know who won yet? Who gets to be King of the United States? I wrote about the time not too long ago when the President was infected with coronavirus and admitted to the hospital to help him breathe. I began this newsletter with political diatribe. Allow me to stick to the theme.
The President Isn’t the Only Killer I Hope Dies Very Soon
I leave these notes as grandfatherly advice to the young minds of the future, especially my actual granddaughters who are too young and beautiful at present to have compassion about squirrels they don’t see or human Presidents under the influence of coronavirus.
I believe the future needs instruction on what to do with the powerful killers of life. It’s an easy read and leaves everyone off the hook. Here it is:
Wish them dead. Wish hard them dead. A living Genghis Khan brutally killed people and earthworms and wildflowers crushed beneath galloping horse’s hooves. Genghis Kahn dead was a huge relief to many, many living things of little to no consequence. Multitudes of kind, simple people wished Genghis Kahn would just die and be done with. And he did one day, like George Washington and hopefully Donald Trump very soon.
Wishing death on anything is very natural. Not wishing death on what kills you for sport is human all too human. In fact, super-human when you wish the killer speedy recovery so he can get back to killing brown children in the Middle East while engineering the world to doomsday faster than a speeding train.
Morality does not exist in nature, and the philosophies that get closest to nature, I believe, learn to realize this if not actually believe it when diarrhea cramps have them calling up to the supernatural.
The truth is people do not matter more to nature than daffodils or bumblebees. If nature had a human-like consciousness, it might think human life worth even less for all the shit it has stormed over the earth. But we know that nature holds no value over any life that takes care of itself until it ends.
How should we human beings take care of human beings is the seed of all religion which defines law and identifies morality. But religion isn’t natural, so morality is illusion.
Loads of religion got believed in long ago because it understood the human desire for justice and it helped that superstition was as good as observation when the only tool was the senses; and most times lots better because people got bored in the old days as much as the new days, and needed fantastic stories to pass the time. Early religion relied on a just god that everyone believed in enough to avoid mortal sins. Whoever controlled the pretend god, got to call all the shots, like who should marry what, and who must die when, and so on. The controllers got to do whatever they wanted, and knowing that their gods were fake, did all sorts of sexy sin-making throughout a life naturally expected to be the only one ever. Hence priests and popes of old and new having lots of “immoral” fun committing moral crimes to their pretend gods.
I don’t believe in the old religions. I don’t think anybody does, really. Not if he or she has a smartphone, or a weed whacker, or a window seat on a flight to Chicago’s O’Hare. I don’t believe in human creations, mortal or immortal, any more than I do rocks in the earth.
All of this is not meant to abandon the need for human laws and morality. Because we have smartphones but also nuclear weapons, we must keep pushing toward a universal, deeply felt and practiced morality, else we perish along with lots of other life on the planet. Nature will survive nuclear winter, though it might look like some three-headed fish goat for an eon or two. But our own survival depends on a new morality. One that actually kills the killers to save the end of the world to its natural geologic time.
I do not feel the desire to kill, but I do hope for the death of the killers every hour of the day. Living Presidents of the union are at the top of my wish list. Words hurt. An order to sweep a human area clean with razor sharp shrapnel hurts an awful lot more. Donald Trump checking into the hospital with coronavirus is the beginning of a wish satisfied. And if he exits alive, even standing on two feet, then I get to wish again that he die younger than he could have from permanent organ damage inflicted by the virus.
I don’t believe in a just god. I seek justice in the natural world, which I know is delusional like bar mitzvah and catholic funerals. I wish for it. I pray for it. Morality is a human concept developed and honed over centuries of delusions of the supernatural. Wishing is too. It’s all so very natural.
In this video you can sit in the grass and read along with me (text below) on a beautiful November afternoon.
From my 2011 smash hit publication, Moonlight in Groundspruce Woods!
Poor is Power to the People
Now how should we behave toward our distant, far away leaders? Our government torturers in Washington stuff bananas up the holes of criminals. It should be time now, don’t you think, to torture our government? Nobody wants to get caught disobeying our parents, the scout leader, the shop teacher… We know that after having all that “against the rules” fun, the principal awaits us in his office to act stern and grave and perversely sadistic. Scary thought, torturing authority. All the money and power is on its side.
What tortures governments?
Easy. A massive constituent rise in monetary impotence. Citizen withdrawal. Limp spending. The majority population can opt to live below the poverty line for their remaining years on earth, and our government reluctantly supports its black sheep flock.
Multiple millions cashing in their EIC checks for their childish transgressions of ease and contentment. No more budget with your name on a bomb. Once poverty is yours again, all worry and complaint about government behavior turns into gossip. And if the political landscape gets darker because your potential brothers and sisters in poverty were too terrified to forego cable television for nirvana, the principal might deserve a powerful smoke bomb to detonate when he stops by the classroom to challenge your soul. Maybe just a cold cock will do.
True, no puny (however wonderful) life alone will shield blows of government superpower paranoia. “They have vays of getting view to talk.” A fruit-stuffed colon being one of them. Pushed up by the scaredy-cat stoolies of a faceless bureaucracy, who make tearful oaths to constitutions, yet obey the rhetoric whims of political millionaires and billionaires and their old men general mercenaries, the latter who disguise prostate agony with attractive medals and decal stripes forged and sewn by the lucky poor of China.
No. Human beings will never en masse to voluntarily choose poverty. The innocent and determined few can and should, if only for the joy of temporary sanity. The poor are not guilty for torture, pollution, injustice, nor even the poopy-scat culture melting our brains. Only the most overtly evil leader would electrocute his nation’s children for the innocent crime of poverty. Unless of course some of these unfortunate brats of bad taste are Jewish, Muslim, dark-skinned, or in any way cumbersome and blocking the path of prosperity for the caretakers of their glorious governments.
It is time for the wise to get quiet and poor.
Poor and unseen. Pretend timidity and anonymity, and torture your government inconspicuously.
It’s Friday morning of the ongoing election. I am free of my four month long public responsibility.
It feels good.
I shall leave you with a virtual exhibition of some of my candidacy paintings. Both adversaries won hands down. However, I won the legacy. These pictures will age better than any policy set by grifters and gangsters. I do not wish them well. I wish them hell.
Enjoy the show!
I Ran for State Senate on a $196 Budget, and All I Got Were Good People to Vote for Me
Head to a special place on my website to see!
Thank you so much for subscribing! Until next Friday!
Ron