The We / Me Scale

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It’s a forgone conclusion that We v. Me pretty much sums up today’s ugly, never the twain shall meet, THICK, hyperpartisan divide; especially Stateside. If your own homeland suffers from a similar mental malaise / meltdown, you do have my heartfelt sympathy and, for what it’s worth, my Get Well Soon wishes.

Naturally, dual connotations of a word, such as THICK, not only define that vast divides’ dimension, but also aptly describe the Me-oriented persons’ density. To get a better handle on this, we’ll need to…

STEP #1: Establish / Title a Scale and briefly describe each tier’s people…

The We/Me Scale

  • Free We: Progressives, who accept laws, which lead to society’s betterment
  • So-so We: Capitulators, who obey life enhancing laws only to avoid penalties
  • Sorta Me: Bellyachers, who seem to obey; yet, litigate virtuous laws to death
  • PO’d Me: Anarchists, who’d overthrow a nation to absolutely overturn all laws

STEP #2: Run a thought experiment to assess how each brand of beings will likely react to, oh, say, their local communities’ public safety motivated, public sidewalk snow / ice removal mandates; oh, say, in the wake of a climate change generated, freakish winter storm.

  • Free We folks will willingly shovel every several hours, throughout the entire, seemingly interminable event, in an eco-friendly manner; only resorting to snow blowers if they have medical issues.
  • So-so We peeps won’t venture outdoors until the bitter end; barely meeting the stipulated snow removal deadlines.
  • Sorta Me individuals might hire enterprising neighborhood youngsters to get ‘er done, but, typically, will await the spring thaw. In the meantime, these scofflaws, if/when fined, will delay payment while litigating till hell freezes over.
  • PO’d Me entities will flat-out flip-off all laws and fines; all the while fantasizing about off-the-beaten-path plots to browbeat civil society into submission or obliteration (whichever comes first); their responses varying; i.e., depending on the severity of their psychoses.

Most worrisome is how that last on the list ilk might even consider bizarre tactics, such as…

  • Setting up a “hunter’s blind” to ambush any enforcer who’d have the “audacity” to fine them.
  • Hiring a backhoe operator / helicopter pilot to excavate / evacuate the public sidewalk; airlifting each snow / ice loaded concrete section to a nearby airport; to be jetted off to some torrid locale; and, once everything melts, reversing the entire process.
  • Literally going ballistic by hacking into their homelands’ nuclear facilities; targeting and launching the nukes, thereby melting down every molecule of frozen H2O; HELL, every molecule / atom period (nation / worldwide).

Granted, even the possibility of that sounds astoundingly farfetched, BUT, then again, prior to January 6, 2021, so did the possibility of a sitting U.S. president, first, rallying HIS private army; next, deploying them to attack the very nation that he had sworn on the Holy Bible, to preserve, protect and defend.

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Crapshoot (Parable)

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Once upon a time, obscenely wealthy, greedy guardians poorly reared their sonny, named Sonny. In exploiting his still wet-behind-the-ears susceptibility, they had facilely convinced him to follow in their well-heeled footsteps.

Consequently, from the tender age of four, onward, that li’l hellion was hellbent on hotly pursuing the unrestrained accumulation of untold wealth; even to the point of shaking down (in one devious way or another) his exclusive prep school’s entire student body. Needless to say, Sonny wound up friendless.

It was nine laps ‘round ol’ Sol later that the night of Sonny’s coming of age party had finally arrived; a swank soirée where his ‘rents had needed to surreptitiously rent attendees (actually megabucks bribe his “guests” to show up).

However, even more germane to this sad tale is all that went down the morning after.

Then and there we discovered underage drinker Sonny, in one of those head over the commode moments; hurling chunks, expletives and ruminations re overindulgence. Yet, in spite of his hungover pounding head and achy abused body, he was still able to plot an all-out offensive that’d facilitate his inheritance of The Golden Throne; even going to the extreme of commissioning scoundrels to corral and exile everyone who boasted his bloodline.

And topping off his hit-list (<—typo: missing “s”) was none other than mumsy and dadsy.

Well, once his goon squads’ dirty work was a fait accompli, so too, was his premature ascension to absolute power. Next up, even before the ink of his very first royal decree had fully dried, his retrograde rules and regulations had became the law of the land; inclusive of… ahem… that d-head’s edict that would (literally) keep a lid on the chamber pots and outhouses, kingdom-wide, till kingdom come!

It would now behoove his deployed army (soon to be known as The Potty Patrol), to enforce total compliance. Indeed, no private citizen would ever be allowed to party down… correction… potty down… until they had ponyied up one gold coin per… ahem… visit (approximately five smackers adjusted to 2021 U.S. dollars). Worse yet, these soldiers had standing orders to shoot any scofflaws; namely, the behind the bushes squatters.

Of course, just to ensure His Majesty would be able to score his thrice-hourly fix of adulation, Sonny’s sycophantic handlers and henchmen had conspired to schmooze the Patent Office hierarchy into declaring their Liege Lord the inventor of:

The Pay Toilet!

Henceforth, any of that kingdom’s honestly authored history books (if such publications even existed) would dub Lord Sonny:

The patently offensive patent holder!

And, tho few intellectuals had actually considered the full etymological ramifications, in essence, each time a soldier unlocked a Sonny locked up potty, it trotted out a whole new connotation for the phrase:

Can Opener!

However, one must never dwelleth on such piddling, crappy matters.

Cutting thru the crapola of Sonny’s character flaws and abuse of power, we arrive at the morals to our story:

  • Can opener laws can open up cans of worms!
  • Poor child rearing and potty training oft lead to crappy, butthead leaders!

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Service Interruptus

Subtitle: Ma Bell’s Bells and Whistles

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For the benefit of WordPress readers, who may not be American History buffs and, as such, are unfamiliar with what Ma Bell stands for, it all hearkens back to

“The common nickname for the Bell Telephone Company when it was the monopoly communications provider in the U.S.; a slang term referring to AT&T Corp., which provided the original telephone service in the United States, and thus was considered the ‘mother’ of the telecom industry.”

Non-Credited Google Search Goddess or God

Moving along to “her” Bells and Whistles…

Not long ago, I discovered a small, mysterious package on my front porch. Since Sunday deliveries are rare, this had likely been “camping out” there overnight.

With that WHEN issue readily resolved, the more ominous aspects became WHO delivered it and WHY something so valuable and visible (to both motorized and on foot passersby) would not get readily ripped off? Also, in an era WHERE OrangeMan has rudely awakened his rude, psychotic, domestic terrorist sleeper cells, I realized HOW a call to my local police department might not be a bad idea. Just to be on the safe side…

  • Perhaps one of their canines with a nose for nitro could give it a sniff?
  • Or, in lieu of that, the bomb squad could do a bucket of H2O “baptism”?

Anyway, my more rational head prevailed and remained, intact, on my shoulders, too; i.e., when, no Kaboom resulted from my DIY, more conventional box opening tactics. Of course, that didn’t necessarily mean there’d be no explosions; after all, aggravation can cause one’s head to go BOOM, too, as it were. I’ll get into the brain strain particulars in a moment.

So, there I was, staring down a brand spankin’ new flip phone; one which I had never even ordered. Well, at least, my service provider’s accompanying cover letter dispelled any lingering notions that this might be some sorta diabolically designed IED.

Their “love letter” continued, (my word choice, not theirs): As you’ve heard by now (no I hadn’t) we’ll be sun-setting (how lyrical) our 3G network by next spring (Ahh, when love in the air hits the cell towers?). To ward off service interruptus, we’re providing you the latest 4G model; at no cost to you.

And so, I lived happily ever after? NOPE!
Service Intrerruptus? YOU BETCHA!
Check out this Litany of Laments:

  • Quick Start-up Guide sans open phone/install battery instructions
  • While online manual did resolve the prob, it soon led to a new one
  • Annoying Google Assistant’s (GA) spoken words oft unintelligible
  • Worse yet, “she” loved telling the time every minute on the minute
  • Yelled all incoming/outgoing phone numbers for the world to hear
  • Online tech manual’s TOC could not direct me to mute GA tutorial
  • Tech Support call led to agent who, help-wise, couldn’t phone it in
  • Techie’s www was down, so she could not research the prob, either
  • She recommended a visit to their brick and mortar retailer for help
  • Not wanting to go public during a pandemic, I re-boxed this device
  • Meanwhile, I wrote 2 monthly checks for a phone I could not stand
  • Eventually, I violated my tuff pandemic rules to visit the local store
  • The savvy techie needed barely two scant minutes to silence the GA

Naturally, I do recognize how folks, with vision issues, would find the Google Assistant a Godsend. Even so, I’m certain that they’d find being told the time 60 times per hour annoying, too!

Now… long sigh… not being one to complain sans dispensing any constructive criticism, at all…

Would not everybody’s lives be much easier if smart and stupid phone designers* would OPT-IN to making each fresh out of the box phone, just that, a basic phone?

Devices where the user would then need to OPT-IN to, NOT OPT-OUT of the damned bells and whistles.

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* Double entendre discovered and italicized while proof-reading.

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How about a Fast Food Fast?

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Forward: The below mentioned, fast food behemoth shall remain nameless as will its CEO. Opting for anonymity is not only wise within a litigious society, it also serves as a reminder of how, within a business world awash in copycats, we’re not discussing a freakish anomaly.

To say the least…

For nearly seven decades, a notorious junk food purveyor and his predecessors have been persuasively detouring gullible consumers down a one way, dead end road; emphasis on the word DEAD.

To say more…

These customers wind up pigging out on foodstuffs devoid of life sustaining, essential nutrients; overloaded with saturated fat, excess sodium and sugar; all the while, watching their ill-advised, sickening, dietary choices enlarge into an entire, unhealthy (albeit short-lived) lifestyle,

The youngest of these patrons are particularly vulnerable to this company’s manipulation, when tiny toys, trinkets and other worthless swag get served alongside their grub; when aired and streamed weekend cartoons’ adverts trot out their corporate stooge / playful mascot; the affable doofus whose main mission is to deviously indoctrinate these tykes; relentlessly reprogram them until they morph into inveterate, junk food junkies.

In time, when morbid obesity induced, critical illnesses start to strike down these unfortunate youngsters, guess what?

Lo and behold, oft too little and too late, it’s the corporate monsters to the “rescue”. You see, they’ve, oh so conveniently, erected multiple hundreds of pediatric care hospitals to house both their self-made, gravely ill patients; as well as their worried sick folks.

Little doubt, such a corporate gesture has less to do with displaying genuine compassion; more to do with helping Mister Moneybags back-burner whatever vestigial guilt he MIGHT be “feeling”.

Granted, even an unintentional merciful act is a wonderful thing, and, beyond that, it IS the very least he could do. But, how about doing more?

Look, I’m not about to suggest that he shutter his eateries. All I’m asking is why not, instead, supply healthier food to his ravenous captives? In time, once the demand for junk food wanes, he might even be able to shutter a few of his hospitals.

Or better yet, repurpose them so their medical staffs would wind up caring for all who are ailing; both physically and fiscally.

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Sure Bets

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On 01/22/2021, in a fleeting moment of lunacy, Democratic Michigan Governor Gretchen Whitmer’s signed legislation opened the online gambling house and sports betting floodgates. Her way of placating the vast legions (or is that lesions?) of her state’s hardcore conservative, corrupt, crybaby, wallowing in wealth, income tax scofflaws? Of making damned sure they’ll never pay their fair share of taxes?

Hmm… that these righties will still NEVER vote for her sounds like a Sure Bet!

Anyway, this now means that raising sufficient revenue to keep our home state plodding along, heavily depends upon how successful the scum of the earth, opportunistic casino owner-operator-pigs can manipulate the gullible sheeple.

To flesh out this looming human tragedy: According to our Bureau of Labor Statistics (as of February 2021) that targeted for coercion audience involves anywhere from 600,000 to 1,000,000 on the pandemic dole, down on their luck Michiganders.

In other words, the very people who can least afford to lose whatever few bucks they may still have are gambling and losing whatever few bucks they may still have.

So, what happens when the monthly mortgage or rent / auto loan / utility bills all come due? When the fridge and cupboard are bare? When the in tatters kiddies need new threads? I can only imagine the brewing and erupting marital discord / domestic violence / family infighting when all of these unfortunate souls’ next “wardrobe” change involves the one-size-fits all, shabby street life.

One thing worse than the gambling, itself: Ever since, Whitmer’s* chain of “Hard Knocks” Casinos have collectively thrown open their virtual front door, their parasitic bosses have been shoveling in their untold wealth to fuel media saturation buys; i.e., to unleash advertising campaigns that leave no media streams and airwaves unpolluted; no nanosecond of each day untapped; inclusive of sunrise Sunday time slots.

*Since she OK’d ‘em she now (metaphorically) owns ’em, too!

My God, how disturbed does a person have to be to wake up, whip out his device and start wagering on a Sunday morn? Hell, why not stuff that dough into a house of worship’s collection plate, instead?

In a past post I spoke very highly of our guv. Guess I spoke too soon, huh?

So, WTF would it take to get these gambling hell holes to give it all a rest? A REST? Hmm, how about ARREST?

NOPE, since all they do breaks no laws, that ain’t gonna happen! That means avoidance of their insufferable, ceaseless ad blitzkriegs will necessitate shutting down my TV’s antenna/amplifier and PC’s router/modem.

Hmm… to me, that sounds like a Sure Bet!

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Y a www XSive Xistence is UnYs

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Here’s why an online excessive existence is unwise:

Let’s say that we’re overly dependent on:

  • Streamed reportage to stay abreast of current events
  • Streamed music, movies and TV to amuse / entertain
  • Social networks to act as our digital photo repositories
  • E-commerce to purchase goods and peddle our wares
  • E-banking / E-bill paying to manage all of our finances

Now, let’s say that, someday, some devil-may-care electorate permits a cultist to rise to power; perhaps some narcissistic, fascistic, morbidly obese, bleach blonde, tousled hairdo’d dude with troweled on orange, clown make-up?

To keep it all real, what would stop that asshat from staging a coup d’état? Hey, it’s been tried before!

The top priority of any till-death-do-us-part type tyrant would be to sever all communication. And what could be easier than his throwing the Internet Kill Switch

The net effects of a net-less nation / world being:

  • Molded-over fake news; molded to flatter that Fascist bastard
  • A dispirited, disconsolate, alienated from loved ones populace
  • Consumers unable to secure life’s essential products/services
  • Entrepreneurs discovering their E-businesses shuttered tight
  • Frozen assets and the consequent inability to pay off creditors

There you have it folks. The unfed minds and bodies; unpaid mortgage/rent and energy bills would, quite literally, leave the huddled, miserable masses out in the cold.

In other words…

To abandon our in-print books, periodicals, newspapers, cardboard covered photo albums, in person theatrical performances / concerts, as well as brick and mortar businesses, could quite easily herald the demise of any robust, full-bodied healthy and happy society.

Exactly how far beyond that it could go, would depend, for the most part, upon the degree of the mercurial tyrant’s zealousness / doggedness.

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Live Like There’s No Tomorrow?

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The (so far) understatement of this (or, perhaps, any past) millennium, is how the pandemic has laid bare the fragility of economies, worldwide; so much so that we’re now witnessing corporations’ desperate attempts to fire up consumerism.

Case in point, are the home improvement / home furnishing industries’ advertising campaigns, which can only come across as tone deaf and off-putting; well, at least to those of us who are unemployed / underemployed or living on fixed incomes; in particular, to mortgagors and renters who are struggling to make their monthly payments.

I mean, why would anyone even remotely consider rushing off to the store to purchase… oh… say… a dining room table, today, when there might NEITHER be a roof over NOR food to serve upon that table, tomorrow?

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Undue Concerns To Undo?

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So, are my concerns regarding a recent incident reasonable or unruly? Would such surviving, strong sentiments subside, eventually, all on their own? If not, should I attempt to subdue them via free expression? Perhaps my distilling everything down to a white screened, black font would prove cathartic? Well, here I am.

Let’s see what happens…

It all began this past Saturday, approximately an hour prior to nightfall. While gradually drifting off to the land of nod, the sound of an approaching jet, flying at a lower than normal altitude, abruptly sent me round tripping it back to reality.

However, I had no sooner opened my eyes than the decibels had already diminished, dramatically. Perhaps I had only dreamt this? Whatever the case, now fully awakened by this unconventional alarm clock, I opted to awaken my laptop, too (to apply polish to a rough draft).

Well, after approximately ten minutes had flown on by, the jet’s roar returned; thereby proving its first occurrence no dream. Seeing how, typically, there’s not a whole lot of air traffic over-hood, I immediately suspected that its pilot had opted to go the holding pattern route to confront something, shall we say, out of the blue?

This time around, I stepped out onto my front porch for an upward look-see; all to no avail. Seeing how the cloud deck was nearly “eclipsing” the sliver phased moon, I hadn’t actually expected to perceive much more than that aircraft’s, once again, fading decibels.

As it all unfolded, this plane, eventually, returned for a third and fourth flyover. And not once, during my two subsequent ventures outdoors, did I ever catch even one glimpse of it.

There are multifaceted reasons why this entire event kept my thoughts flying off to truly dark places.

  • It had been the timing aspect, itself! After all, this past Saturday was the 20th anniversary of 9/11; when [1] Osama bin Laden’s homicidal, suicidal “flight crews” had commandeered four commercial airliners, [2] terrorized and brutalized passengers and the flight crews, [3] stomped bin Laden’s grotesque, gargantuan footprints all over NYC, DC and PA and [4] went on to forever turn upside-down our entire world. I could not help but wonder if some passenger(s) had opted for a 9/11 reboot?
  • My mind kept on “screening” vivid recollections of my 2004 harrowing flight home; when a widespread, severe, early spring, thunderstorm’s 128kph / 80mph winds had necessitated the total shut down of our destination’s airport. The accompanying turbulence, above, wound up tossing our flight attendants about and, we wound up in a holding pattern that dragged on so long, that the pilot had to reconfigure a flight path that’d land us at an airport’s “gas station” several states away.
  • We are talking about my brush with death, here. Had our captain, instead, risked hotdogging a landing under such wild and woolly weather conditions, the tragic end of our flight would’ve become the 11 o’clock newscasts’ lead story, nationwide; would’ve fueled the disaster film screenplay writers’ imaginations; kept their typing fingers flying across their keyboards. Had lightning strike(s) fried the plane’s electrical systems and/or struck the engines, we’d have all wound up no less dead than the 9/11 airborne victims.
  • I also could not avoid factoring in the present day reportage re air rage; i.e., where we discover the mentally challenged Trumpers / domestic terrorists rearing their ugly heads; flying off the handle for absolutely no reason; getting handcuffed/duct taped to their seats. I wondered, anew, if such an uprising was going down?

I spent the rest of my Saturday evening working on that rough draft, but, inevitably, succumbed to fatigue long before the 11 o’clock news.

Upon my awakening Sunday morning, I immediately tuned my FM radio into NPR’s Weekend Edition, where, thankfully, there were no reports of any air-related incidents or accidents.

And while I could and did take solace in that, there could never be any feel good moment associated with the lessons that Tuesday, September 11, 2001 had so dramatically taught anyone in possession of a fully functioning brain connected to wide open ears.

While the governmental types can pat themselves on the back for toughening up airport / airplane security, they’ve yet to dig deep down to the root of what’s been fueling terrorism; be it organized or lone wolf; be it of foreign or domestic origin.

Post 9/11, our “leaders” have done little more than apply a band-aid (if even that) to the gaping, festering wound of poverty! It’s their abject failure to honest to God help the people overcome joblessness, homelessness and hopelessness. When folks, besieged by discontent and desperation, believe they’ve got nothing left to lose, that renders their minds totally susceptible to suggestion.

And God help us all were any of the impoverished to ever be within earshot of some disciple of Osama bin Laden or Donald J. Trump incarnate.

Well, folks, it’d appear that my distilling everything down to a white screened, black font did prove cathartic and much more, too, that is, if my anti-poverty message will ever be taken to heart. The betterment of our global society depends on such enlightenment.

Once the WordPress runway and www send my (fortunately non-subdued) sentiments aloft, let’s hope they’ll wind up in holding patterns above all nations, where the “sovereigns” are in desperate need of learning such a fundamental truth.

Let’s see what happens…

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The Enemy of My Enemy is My Friend?

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Of late, my homeland’s propaganda ministers, in their never ending quest for untold wealth and interminable power, have been hammering away; “rationalizing” their subversive, self-serving, burn down democracy agenda; contorting it to conform to this simplistic ideological one-liner…

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

Gabriel Manigault • 1884

Once we plug their peculiar particulars into that above ideological equation, the following, most problematic state of affairs surfaces.

The Real America and (by extension) President Joe Biden become their “enemy”. As for that “friend”, that, regrettably, involves, none other than the ruthless, inhumane top dogs who make up Afghanistan’s newly reinstalled oppressive regime.

My gawd, these un-American pundits have actually been assaulting the airwaves and polluting the streams to (verbally) ejaculate their undying praise and admiration for the Taliban, and in the same breath, trash talk Biden.

Indeed, we discover propaganda ministers reviling liberty, justice, racial harmony, feminism, gender parity, the LGBTQ community, the aged and infirm, environmentalism, etc., as much as (if not more than) the Taliban does. Whether or not they’d acknowledge each other, these ♥newlyweds♥ / ♥honeymooners♥ have entered into an ideological marriage made in Hell. What a shame America’s traitors don’t emigrate to Afghanistan to (politically speaking) ♥consummate♥ their marriage / set up permanent housekeeping.

After all, be it ideological or physiological, doth not ♥screwing♥, at some point, come into play?

Now, let’s contrast all that drama to what the Real America and Real Americans actually stand for. Deep within our collective consciousness resides an eternal passion to preserve, protect and defend our Founding Fathers best intentions; to nurture and proliferate their vision of America; until ol’ Sol dies; to then, “set sail” across the vast heavens ISO a new home world to start anew.

Alas, at this pivotal moment in American History, the propagandists’ victims appear to be too far gone to ever experience what the Real America is all about. Instead, they’ll think whatever the propaganda minister monsters tell them to think.

Worse yet, the way they’ve been told to think has also radicalized and weaponized too damned many of these patsies; so much so, that, if ever given the opportunity to fly under the TSA agents’ “radar” (at the drop of a red MAGA hat) they’d even pull off a bin Laden to hijack and kamikaze commercial aircraft into iconic architecture.

Seeing how rampaging throngs had almost made Donald J. Trump’s January 6th insurrection / fascist overthrow of democracy a “done deal”, they’ve amply demonstrated the contemptible, treasonous acts they’re capable of.

Statistically speaking, the 2020 census reports that 331,449,281 people now reside within America. Factoring in the 2020 election results, which indicate 74,222,958 voters had sucked up to Donny, that means approximately 22 percent (or 1 out of 5) of all who mosey ’round America are his strange… very strange… bedfellows.

With the propagandists’ “toolbox” fully stocked with Stockholm Syndrome, too, it’d appear that the honeymoon is far from over for a hefty chunk of those brainwashed, enamored, politically horny toadies; not to mention the scads of the non-voter zombies, who also pledge allegiance to him; plant metaphorical anti-American ♥kisses♥ on his fascist fanny.

That makes the enemy of each enemy (propagandist) anyone who, generally, can identify effects’ root causes, specifically, think independently in pro-democracy terms, and, promptly tell disinformation’s spewers to F off.

And seeing how propagandists are ubiquitous, most any reader who dwells outside the U.S., should find much or all of this sad story relatable.

Naturally, if your own homeland’s leaders / lawmakers have been behaving in an evolved, consistent manner, consider yourself damned fortunate. You do have my kudos and congrats for a job well done.

There’s much America could learn from you.

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8 Line Poem Deconstructs 9/11

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“During the September 11 attacks in 2001, 2,977 people were killed, 19 hijackers committed murder–suicide, and more than 6,000 others were injured. The immediate deaths included 265 on the four planes (including the terrorists), 2,606 in the World Trade Center and in the surrounding area, and 125 at the Pentagon.”

Google Search • Saturday, September 11, 2021

On this 20th Anniversary of 9/11, every one of us needs to take a few moments to pay our respects to the nearly 3,000 innocent victims and their surviving families and friends; imagine the stunned horror of the 246 terrorized airline passengers / flight crews, who wound up earning their “wings”; once the wings of all four commandeered aircraft were no longer of any earthly use to anyone. We must also ensure that all who had dwelt and labored within the vicinity of each ground zero’s toxicity receive, at no cost to them, the best health care available; throughout their remaining time on Earth.

The worst tragedy of all, here, is how American Intel had amply forewarned then prez George W. Bush. As everything had all eventually panned out, he’d been afforded the luxury of five weeks advanced notice, in which time he could’ve done his very best to ground Osama bin Laden’s hijackers. Alas, “very best” rarely, if ever can truthfully describe Dubya’s demeanor.

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Dubya’s silver spoon birthright; was defect inborn!
As a lifelong empty suit, no glad rags could adorn!
Both raw power / prestige, were his form of porn!
Ergo, he flipped off his duties, in the oath he had sworn!

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When august alerts flashed; he dared red lights with scorn!
No anti-hijacking tactics! No plot thwarting thorn!
No alerts to the masses! No loud honking horn!
He gave Bin Laden the green light, on That Tuesday morn!

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