picture from Dreamtime
Since when did big business decide what laws should be enacted, and since when did money interests dictate what people should and shouldn’t do? That’s how it is now, on that level, right out in the open.
We know it’s always been this way behind the scenes, but now there’s simply no hiding it, not even attempts at masking it.
Big business is now working to dissuade Missouri voters from passing legislation that would allow religious freedom protections to its citizens. Wait a minute. Didn’t people already have have religious freedom? Aren’t people in America supposed to be free to practice their religion and act according to their religious beliefs? Why all of a sudden do people need protection to exercise their religious beliefs and rights?
Oops. Maybe something is wrong here!
The changing of the definition of marriage has upset the proverbial apple cart. It has caused what some people refer to as freedom in one realm to deny freedom in other realms. With proper forethought this probably could have been worked out. Instead it has allowed the PCP, Political Correctness Police, license to mess with the institutions we once deemed sacred.
This is progress, so they would have us believe, but really it’s mishegas. Yes, it’s meshugah. Or, if you don’t know what those words mean, it’s mixed up, crazy. Next stop is throuples, something written about here earlier, three-parent families. Throuples, the next thing in marriage, is on the road to polygamy, and all that is okay except what they did was whimsically change definitions of institutions without consent or consensus and without ever considering the ramifications of their actions.
Upsetting our sensibilities is one thing. Our paying for what they’re doing is a different issue. How many parents in a marriage will be able to get Social Security benefits? What about my horse? I want to be married to two women and a horse, and I’ve said this here before too when talking about throuples. Nothing kinky or strange. Just because it’s my right and would make me happy. Can my horse get my benefits if I kick the bucket? Maybe on the day I feel like a horse is when I should marry my horse. That’s what the progressives say: if I identify as a horse, I am one. Ergo, I can marry one.
The progressives have done it this time, and they have no clue as to what they’ve done. The same big businesses that are pressuring in Missouri, and other states, do big business throughout the world in countries where women are veiled and practically enslaved. So who are these hypocritical businesses kidding? And what’s their real game here?
Oh! We know. Next they’ll want to tell us that if we feel like a girl on any given day we can go into the girls’ bathroom, or locker room, or the showers in the locker room. That’s the progressives’ way of breaking down the genders. Why would they want to do this? That is the salient question and you can bet your horseshoes it has to do with power. A good bet is that in this case it’s from their playbook: create chaos and use the chaos to regulate, hence grab power. Here’s an idea! Any school district in the country that doesn’t comply with the Lack-Of-Justice Department’s open-to-anyone bathroom policy should be denied Federal funds. In our anti-bully policy world, that’s the way to get what you want and set the no-bullying example.
We are in the midst of insanity and idiocy. It would all be hilarious if it weren’t so dangerous to the very freedoms and foundations this country was founded upon.
The snow stopped falling completely by three in the afternoon. Around noon it had started to taper off. Their acid started coming on about then. Murph noticed things were getting slightly distorted, simple things like when he reached for the Bambu he misjudged where they were, and when he pulled a paper from the pack, the paper seemed to be extraordinarily long. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally managed to get some pot into the paper, but his fingers were clumsy and it almost fell. The paper turned golden and did wavy lines in his hand. “Look at the paper dance,” he said out loud. He was tremendously pleased with the dancing yellow paper and wholly engrossed in watching it. Then he saw some of the weed looking at him, laughing at him, so he rolled those little buggers up in the paper and licked the edge to seal it.
“Not your best piece of work,” Annabelle said. She took the what-looked-like-it-was-his-first-ever-joint-rolled and lit it. It smoked, but it was loose and it popped once. Murph said he’d roll another one when they finished it, and he did though Annabelle left him. It seemed like it took every ounce of concentration he could raise up.
“I need some wine,” he said. He went into the kitchen and he found Annabelle there. She’d already poured two glasses from the white wine she had in her frig. They were saving the last bottle Murph had brought for the night when they we’re coming down.
Annabelle was eating a brownie. Standing there in the kitchen Annabelle was eating a hash brownie, smoking a joint and drinking wine, all at once. Then as soon as they were finished smoking the joint, she pulled out two Quaaludes from Murph’s pills which were now all together in the one pill bottle he’d brought. She swallowed them down with a big sip of wine. Murph watched her, then he took a Quaalude for himself.
The full eerie buzz of the acid was upon him. He felt frenetic in a sense, like he was electrically charged and there was charge all around him. He was familiar with the sensation, the physicalness of the acid, and he was also familiar with the sensation that all his brain cells were alive and alert but also droopy-drowsy high. He felt as if he could follow everything and anything all at once. He put some Moody Blues on the stereo and sat down to listen to them. He sat watching the living room wall dissolve into trickles of caramel and chocolate like it was a modern art canvas.
He had just put his feet up on the coffee table when Annabelle danced in completely naked except for her rubber snow boots. She had made up her face with dark eye makeup and much more than thick red lipstick. To Murph she looked like a circus clown and he clapped happily. She danced for him, not lasciviously at all, just to the music. Beyond her was the liquid canvas-wall dripping caramel and chocolate.
“Snow angels,” Annabelle called out and she ran out the front door.
“Shoot,” Murph said. He got up and went after her, found her flat on her back in the snow waving her arms. He pulled her up and led her inside.
“Party pooper.”
“Put some clothes on and I’ll go out with you.”
“Let’s shave my pubes,” Annabelle said.
“You crazy? Not in this condition.”
“Let’s shave your pubes,” she said.
“Let’s get you dried off and dressed and listen to the music.”
“Let’s take a shower.”
Annabelle ran to the bathroom, turned on the water and stepped into the tub boots and all. Reluctantly, Murph went after her. When he was finally undressed, he stepped into the tub. Annabelle had her razor in her hand and had soaped herself there. Murph watched her shave, give herself a baldy. He laughed. He thought it hilarious when her lips there spoke to him. “Enter here,” they said. “Yeah right,” Murph said. “It can talk, you know,” Annabelle said. “If you only knew what it could say.”
Murph dressed while Annabelle lingered in the bathroom. Back in the living room, he rolled another doobie and waited. When Annabelle came out, after what seemed like a good amount of time, she was still naked. She had painted a target on her privates with an arrow leading to the goodies.
“You like?”
“I like.”
“Snow angels,” Annabelle said. She got up, flew out the door and threw herself in the snow to make a snow angel.
Note: The State of Massachusetts is soon voting on whether or not to legalize Marijuana. Marijuana is a gateway drug and should not be legalized. Decriminalized yes. Used medicinally, yes. Annabelle and Murph are depictions of real people with real experiences. They illustrate clearly why the drug should not be legalized. In AA they say: man takes a drink, drink takes a drink, drink takes the man. Need anymore be said?
No sunshine. More snow. And more snow and more cold. By the time they woke, past eleven, fifteen inches had fallen and the university had cancelled all classes. Annabelle got herself up first. She went to pee and brush her teeth then she came back to the bedroom and put on baggy jeans, no panties, and a t-shirt, no bra.
“Get your ass up and roll a big fat doobie,” she said.
“Ay ay Captain,” Murph said.
“Captain this,” Annabelle said flipping him off.
“Sit on this,” Murph said grabbing his crotch.
“Roll me a good joint, give me a tab, pour me some wine and I just might.”
“What you got to eat?” Murph asked.
Annabelle wiggled her thighs and smiled seductively. “Scrambled eggs and toast,” she said.
“I’m starving.”
“Me too.”
Murph got himself up. He did what Annabelle had done, peed, brushed his teeth and threw on his jeans. Then he went to the living room and rolled a fat joint. He met Annabelle in the kitchen. They got high, sat at the kitchen table and ate their breakfast. Annabelle even made coffee.
“You mean what you said about the girl downstairs?” he asked.
“Absolutely. The skinny one. The one without the boyfriend.”
“She felt me up once when we were getting high. I’d just gotten home and their door was open and they invited me in to smoke with them. She was only wearing panties and a t-shirt and she sat herself right next to me. So we were doing hash and I was already blitzed, I mean wasted. The other one’s leaning over opposite me, flashing titties, and then she leans the other way and bends all the way down so I can see everything she’s got cause she didn’t have any panties. I think they were planning to have their way with me. Next thing I know, the one you like has got her hand all over my privates.”
“What’d you do?”
“I told ’em I had to go. Your girlfriend offered to go with me, but I said another time. Damn hippies.”
“You’re a hippie.
“Oh,” Murph said. “Anyway, the one’s boyfriend came home.”
Murph was poor back then. He was on a work-study program and he had little spending money to speak of. His apartment showed his poverty, though then it could have been written off as Bohemian. It was furnished with ratty old furniture. The rooms were big and it was the top floor of a two-family house that had a backyard. The people downstairs were hippies so there was always free dope and the two girls who lived there ran around skimpily clad, sometimes topless. College life. Hippie chicks. Free love.
Breakfast done, Annabelle walked over to where Murph had left his pills and picked out two acid tabs. “Come here, baby,” she said. She put a tab on the tip of her tongue and kissed him long and deep, passing him the tab which he quickly swallowed. He did the same and Annabelle swallowed hers.
“Bonsai,” she said.
“F… it,” Murph said.
Annabelle put on some Beatles and they drank wine while waiting for the acid to come on.
“Look at the green,” Murph said, joking. He was referring to the time he’d sat tripping for eight hours in Jack’s bathtub staring at the green walls.
“You were so messed up,” Annabelle said.
“It was great.”
“Let’s take some ludes too and see where we go,” Annabelle said.
“You only die once,” Murph said.
Note: The State of Massachusetts is soon voting on whether or not to legalize Marijuana. Marijuana is a gateway drug and should not be legalized. Decriminalized yes. Used medicinally, yes. Annabelle and Murph are depictions of real people with real experiences. They illustrate clearly why the drug should not be legalized. In AA they say: man takes a drink, drink takes a drink, drink takes the man. Need anymore be said?
Murph woke to the sound of chopping, or that’s what he thought at first. He put on his underwear and jeans and walked into the kitchen where the sound was coming from, the only room that had light. Annabelle stood by the table wearing a man’s shirt and nothing else that Murph could see. She was chopping up and down with a fork into a bowl.
“Want some tuna fish?” Annabelle asked. “I woke up hungry and so here I am.” She was squishing the tuna, readying it for the mayonnaise.
Murph poured them both a glass of wine. He went to the living room and returned with his pot and the Bambu rolling papers. Annabelle was still mixing in the mayo when he lit the joint. They smoked it all the way down. Murph sipped wine. Annabelle made the sandwiches. They ate them standing side by side leaning against the counter.
“I’m going back to sleep,” Annabelle said.
“Me too.”
“Did you see it’s still snowing?”
“I’m not going to school tomorrow. I’m sleeping in and then I’m tripping.”
“Not without me. We can go out and play in the snow.”
“Tomorrow night we’ll take more Quaaludes and finish that last bottle of wine. Then we’ll smoke till we fall off to dreamland.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Annabelle said.
They lay in bed huddled close. At first they were both laying on their backs. Murph stared into the darkness. He couldn’t see what Annabelle was doing, but he could hear her breathing. After awhile she asked him how he started into drugs and why. Murph told the story of a thirteen year old boy who lost his mother unexpectedly and how not even six months later he was hanging out with a group of friends that got blasted on beer every Friday night. He went on about how this group didn’t really care about him, didn’t even know him except for one guy who was a friend who was friends with the others who brought him along. He went because they always had beer.
Then he talked about his best friend, Bobby. Bobby introduced him to pot and he was off to the races. As far as Murph knew, or felt anyway, Bobby was the only person who cared about him. Bobby was the one who accepted him just as he was, who didn’t judge him. He and Bobby had a lot of experiences, were inseparable. So he first smoked pot with Bobby, then he always smoked pot with Bobby . Next came codeine they got from the local pharmacy in the form of Romilar cough syrup. By eighteen, when he went away to school, he was a pothead and then he became a garbage head. Garbage head–if it’d make you high, he’d take it. He tripped for the first time with Bobby too.
Annabelle turned on her side so Murph could spoon her. Murph turned too and for a moment they lay there just enjoying the feel of each other. Then Murph asked Annabelle how she started into drugs. She told him pot. A boy turned her on when she was fourteen so he could screw her. “It’s a gateway drug,” she said. “Opened my gate. And here we are, you and me, cutting school for at least two days and staying high.”
“Great, ain’t it?”
“Just peachy,” Annabelle said.
Note: The State of Massachusetts is soon voting on whether or not to legalize Marijuana. Marijuana is a gateway drug and should not be legalized. Decriminalized yes. Used medicinally, yes. Annabelle and Murph, depictions of real people with real experiences, illustrate this clearly. In AA they say: man takes a drink, drink takes a drink, drink takes the man. Need anymore be said?
They took more Quaaludes and started the second bottle of wine as they smoked the joint. It was quality weed Murph had bought from Doc, his regular supplier. Doc was about forty. He was crackhead skinny though crack hadn’t come on the scene yet and was still many years away. He had a beard, long like Moses but more scraggly, and he was missing teeth. He could have passed for a homeless person. They called him Doc because he made his own LSD and personally took it too, like he did with all the drugs he sold, so all his customers felt assured the drugs they were buying were okay to take. Rumor was that he had been a pharmacist and had lost his license. Murph and his friend Bobby had bought Romilar with codeine from Katz, the owner and pharmacist at the drug store where they grew up. Murph had taken codeine right after he’d started smoking pot. He already was getting drunk on beer regularly so within a few short years he’d progressed from pot to codeine to ups and downs and the hallucinogens.
Murph and Annabelle and all their friends knew about bad trips and bad drugs. Murph would learn about them firsthand when his wife had a bad trip after they took acid at home and MDA at a party. The MDA was in a bowl on the dining room table so people at the party could simply walk up to it, take what they wanted of it and snort it directly into themselves. His wife freaked out and while she was freaking out he was having one of the best trips of his life.
“What do you want to do?” Annabelle asked.
“I’m not going out in that snow. It’s getting blizzard like.”
Annabelle turned on the TV. Cable TV at that time wasn’t even a thought. Color TV had only been around for about twenty years and like Murph, who’d been given a TV by his neighbor from home, Annabelle had a small, portable black and white. She found cartoons and left it on with no sound so they could continue listening to music.
“I’m not going to school tomorrow,” Annabelle said.
“I was hoping you’d say that. I brought some acid. It’s good stuff.”
“Great.”
Annabelle got up and went to the bedroom. She came back with a comforter, sat real close to Murph and covered them both up.
“You ever screwed that girl downstairs from you?” she asked.
“I’m thinking about it.”
“I wouldn’t mind the three of us fooling around together. She’s cute.”
“You think so?”
“You don’t?”
“She’s all right,” Murph said. “What you got to eat?”
Annabelle made goo-goo eyes at Murph and wiggled her thighs.
Murph let himself in since the door was open. He shook the snow from his hat and brushed it off his coat, a WWII army coat with the Big Red One insignia on each sleeve. Annabelle had the heat blasting and despite the cold Columbus winter, generally a barren, desolate time with brisk winds and near-zero temperatures, her apartment was like the tropics.
Murph never knew which Annabelle he would find. One time she’d be a hippy chick dressed in a flannel shirt, baggy jeans and engineer boots. Another time she’d be a babe in heels and stockings and a body-snuggling dress leaving nothing to the imagination. Today he found her in the kitchen wearing only an apron and high heels. She was bending over at the opened oven and since the stereo was blasting out Led Zeppelin, she apparently hadn’t heard him. He stood enjoying the view, watching her doing what she was doing totally uninhibited by thinking she was alone. He admired her shapely legs and perfect butt. Annabelle was skinny and shapely, model quality.
“Mmm,” Murph finally said.
Annabelle stood up and turned, closing the oven door in the process.
“Pervert,” she said. “How long have you been there?”
“Enough to see your all.”
“Like the view?”
“Best ever.”
“You better say that,” she said. “I’m baking brownies with hash. What’d you bring?”
“Red wine, Quaaludes and pot.”
“Staying the night?”
“You crazy? You’ll need a tow truck to get me out of here.”
“Good,” Annabelle said.
They remained in the kitchen while the brownies finished. Murph rolled a joint from his bag of weed and they smoked it all the way down to a tiny roach. Then he opened the first of three bottles of wine he’d brought and poured full glasses for them both. Before they sipped the wine, Murph took two pills from his pocket. He handed Annabelle one and together they swallowed the pills with a big sip of wine.
“Goddamn I feel good,” Murph said.
“I am so messed up,” Annabelle said. She stepped over to Murph and kissed him. “The brownies are ready,” she said. That was her way of telling Murph to watch, which he did. Again she bent over by the oven. This time she made sure he could see her all and she wiggled for him, but just slightly.
In the living room they sat on the couch. Annabelle put on some Stones, they both took off their shoes and put up their feet up on the coffee table. Murph’s feet were still covered by the thermal socks he’d worn inside his boots. Annabelle’s were bare. She asked Murph if he liked her red toes and she wiggled them for him. She giggled then put one foot on Murph’s privates. She tucked the apron in her lap almost modestly and closed her eyes. Murph closed his too and they sat listening to the music. When Annabelle’ s nipples stiffened and she got goose bumps because she was chilly, she got up and fetched Murph’s coat. Sitting up against Murph, she wrapped her whole self into that coat and invited Murph’s hand in with her.
They were presuming that because Trump has not released his taxes he had some “bombshell” in them that he doesn’t want us to see. Mitt Romney, of all people, was the one to bring up this issue and bombshell was his word. (Remember what Harry Reid did to Romney with taxes?) Do you think Romney did it because he has an agenda or because he is part of the Republican establishment that is dreadfully afraid of Donald Trump? Maybe both? Do you think selecting the word bombshell was a strategic choice?
That’s all a good bet. But the real question which needs answering is why the Republican establishment is so fearful of Trump’s being the candidate.
Frankly, it is all a bit appalling. Trump is Trump, and whatever anyone thinks, he will do what he does. He can afford to. Rubio showed himself to be a loser by entering the mêlée as he did. Cruz showed his colors by the blatant lies his campaign put out. Neither Cruz nor Rubio are winners. Their insistence that Trump got 200 million from his father and their wining about it show this. Regardless of the amount, having the money doesn’t make one a winner. What one does with the money determines whether or not one is a winner.
Trump is a successful businessman who has probably used all the tools of his trade, from bankruptcy court to hiring illegals, though he probably has not done that hiring personally. All of his business practices will be game for his opposition. Businessmen would call the use of the techniques acumen. Politicians, who made the laws, call it dirty pool. Somewhere in here is why Trump is so dangerous to the Republican establishment and thus why Romney chose the word presume. Cruz and Rubio were quick to pick up on it and of course they were using the tricks of their trade, what politicians do. Politicians use words (like presume) to cast false impressions, and since most of them are lawyers they are pros at it, pros at making things look like they want them to look rather than presenting them as they are. Cruz and Rubio and those politicians like them—everyone can name at least a few—slither their ways through our society in their leadership positions, pretending they are righteous and ethical beings. It could make one nauseous.
Romney chose the word presume to lend credence to what he was saying when actually he was making an allegation. An allegation would have sounded wrong but presuming seems ever-so-thoughtful, as if he actually knows something.
The sum of all this, of our politicians, is disgusting. The reason the Republican establishment sicced their dog Romney on Trump was because Trump alone has the ability to undermine their status quo and their imperial, near-royal lives. Trump alone can, by virtue of having been on the receiving-favors side of the laws and tax codes protecting the rich, illuminate that which our politicians hypocritically eschew yet enthusiastically enjoy.
Presume? Who really knows anything? Remember though that in Shakespeare the truths come from the mouths of the clowns and jesters. Those who would presume anything about Trump ought beware.
Don’t forget to pick up a copy of I See My Light here: I See My Light
It’s been reported that last year was the hottest year on earth by far, and the implication was that global warming is alive and well and a real concern. Of course we should all be shaking in our boots and make sure to subscribe to the president’s notion that climate change (aka global warming) is our greatest concern.
For the record, the earth has been around for about 4 billion years and our record keeping has been going on for 100 years. For all intents and purposes, our record keeping’s percentage to the earth’s age is so miniscule as to hardly be noticeable. The actual number is 0.000000025%. It seems almost meaningless and surely in the scope of all time it is relatively insignificant.
Okay. Clearly and by far the consensus of scientists agree that global warming is an issue. However climate change seems a misnomer since we’ve had periods of climate change throughout time, so we’re really talking about mankind’s effect on the earth’s atmosphere, to wit, the idea that we are destroying the ozone layer, the effect of which is that the planet is getting hotter. Looked at this way, it actually seems sensible and real, and if it is both sensible and real then it is something we should look at and do something about.
But somewhere in the interests of balance and overall sensibility, we need to look at the issue in the context of everything else that is going on. Thus, interpretation of the data becomes critical and herein is the rub.
To begin, a large portion of the scientists and organizations conducting the scientific work are government funded around the world, not just so in the United States. Consequently, their paychecks are dependent upon their interpretation of the data assuming the data is correctly collected and the scientific methodology is honest and bonafide.
Second, there are so many variables involved that we cannot possibly understand in real terms the actual effects of what we are doing that is causing the global warming. Prior to record keeping we cannot determine the exact natures of the different periods of climate or the reasons for them. Outer space is unpredictable and how it has affected the earth, how it affects it now and how it will affect it in the future are unknowns despite the predictions we make based upon what we believe we actually do know. And even then, assuming we know a lot, which in the scope of things we really don’t, science changes, finds new things, disproves older things and previously thought ideas.
Third is us, humankind, and we are more unpredictable than other species since we can think and communicate and have that opposable thumb. That’s right. Those features we have which have allowed us, a smaller, weaker and more fragile species than many others, to control and rule our planet, make us most unpredictable, most dangerous, and most destructive, so a good bet is that we would destroy ourselves with our arrogance and our weapons long before the effects of our industrialization destroy the earth.
Perhaps our hubris is the biggest issue we face at the moment. Obama is clearly egocentric. Trump is clearly egocentric. The Clintons, both of them, are egocentric. Congress and government leaders—you name them—are arrogant and narcissistic and consequently our hubris is more dangerous to the earth than anything we could do to it through our industrialization. Of greater concern is our destroying our planet with nuclear weapons.
Take a look at the forces out there. Who knows what science will do? Who knows what the earth will do in and of itself in relation to all that is out there? Who really knows the true meaning of the scientific data we have collected in the mere 100 years we’ve been collecting it? Who knows its true meaning in relation to the future and the possibilities of the future?
To say climate change is our greatest problem is about as misguided as you can get and it would be a laughable statement if the consequences of it being stated as such by our leaders weren’t so dangerous. Making climate change the priority simply obfuscates the more real and immediate priorities.
We all need to take a step back and we all need to take a look around and we all need to get back to what we can do to make our world a better place. Dealing with our climate is only a small part of that and not by any means a first priority.
We all have different life experiences and in America this is both a blessing and a curse. We celebrate who we are, our cultures and our heritages. That’s the blessing. But with such diversity, with such a heterogeneous population, governing this country is a challenge, putting it mildly, more like a nightmare in reality. But so it goes.
Although by the very nature of our population we are not all the same, our leaders would have us believe we all need the same things. In this regard, they would have us believe we all need to go to college. Our leaders have spent a lot of time and money perpetrating and sustaining this narrative, yet it is a myth, a false narrative, one driven in large part by the economic interests of the education industry, and if you don’t believe it’s an industry, check out the dollar-numbers. The revenues of higher education alone exceeded four hundred billion dollars last year. Of course then the education industry has a powerful and wealthy lobby, and whether you like Trump or not, he continually reminds us of how lobbies push for and get things done with our politicians.
Another part of the we-all-need-college myth is that we all are capable of going to college and we all want to go. The second part of that assertion is easily belied by simply asking around. If you are actually in schools, you know the kids who simply can’t wait to be done with it. They’ll tell you straight up. As for the first part of the assertion, that everyone is capable of going to college, that simply is not true although it is the politically correct statement, the right thing to say to parents if you’re a school district leader or if you’re a politician seeking election or reelection. But because it is said does not make it any less of a silly myth perpetuated for the individual and collective interests of those saying it. A simple look at IQs and college fail-out rates will provide a more accurate and realistic picture of who is capable of what.
That last statement is not meant to demean or belittle anyone. With more than thirty years as an educator, one thing I have learned and repeatedly seen is that all kids excel at something and generally their personal interests lean toward what they are good at. My best friend, whom I’ve always used as the example, is a case in point. He could have gone to college. His parents could easily have afforded to send him. He could have “gotten in” since his grades weren’t that bad. But he simply had no interest despite the fact that his sister went to college and set a good example for him to do so and most of his friends went too, including me. What he did have was a great ear, fantastic eye-hand coordination and a keen sense of music, all of which, combined with his personal proclivities, led him to want to be a recording engineer.
As a recording engineer, all his life he’s made a better salary than me, even than me as a teacher at maximum salary with a Doctoral degree. Rather than go to college, he started as an apprentice in a recording studio and went for what he wanted.
That’s the whole point. Many of the myths perpetrated and perpetuated on us are detrimental to us. The reality of education is that career training and apprenticeships are equally viable means to making a living here and so we do not all need college, are not all meant for college, and should not all go to college. What our educators and politicians owe our kids, each and every one of them, is to provide them with the realm of choices and then provide them with the course of training they desire completely leading to career readiness and job opportunity where applicable.
We live in a BS Nation. Thinking that we should pay for all kids to go to college—look at Hillary and Bernie—is just more of the BS. If you want the proof, look at the collapse of the socialist nations when they run out of other people’s money (OPM), which is the sure end result of socialism. Then look at the Swiss Bank Accounts and other offshore accounts of the leaders of those countries.
Don’t forget to pick up a copy of I See My Light, my new novel, here: I See My Light
Most everything around us is BS. Murph had thought this and that led him to his understanding of how we all, each of us in our own ways, are on this quest for meaning in our lives and how we end up trying to make sense of what’s going on around us.
Such thoughts led him to the supposition that lots of people understand early on how so much of what’s around them is BS and how some of them come to a different bottom line. His friend Bobby was like that.
“Meaning?” Bobby said. It’s liberating to understand there is no meaning, that what they’re throwing at us is their BS purposefully designed to keep us at a certain level while they cop all the wealth.”
Al Gore was Bobby’s favorite example. “Al Gore, need I say more? He who dies with the most wins,” Bobby said.
“Think about it,” he had told Murph. “Since putz-brain Al lost in 2000 we’ve lived his pity-party. Climate change, yeah, okay. We’re affecting the ozone layer and the earth and the earth’s atmosphere. I admit that. But who funds the research? Government. And who benefits from the climate change laws and rules? Government. And what happens to scientists and organizations that are government funded when they disagree with what the government wants to hear? They lose their funding. So how reliable is the research?
“How old is the earth? Four and a half billion years. How long have we been keeping records? Since about 1915. Really since about 1750, only between then and 1915 it was in the form of personal journals and stuff they’ve recovered. So what do we really know? And how much of what we think we know is predicated on researchers maintaining funding? Ever do the math? It doesn’t even register because it’s too miniscule. That’s 100 divided by 4.5 billion.
“I did the math,” Bobby said. “I can’t even understand the result on the calculator. That’s how minuscule it is. They’re selling us a bill of goods, Murph.”
Bobby had smiled and laughed. “I don’t even want to pay taxes anymore. The other Al don’t pay. Most of our money is wasted or stolen. I don’t want to pay for illegals’ medical coverage or their education or for their legal costs to fight to stay in this country. Imagine, we have to pay for their legal aid lawyers so they can fight to stay here when they came here illegally to start with.
“And don’t get me started on bathrooms. I want my grandchildren going into bathrooms with just biological males in the male one and just biological females in the other. What is this ‘identify’ BS? This morning I woke up and I didn’t have enough money in my pocket to buy a cup of coffee. I felt poor and I identified with being poor. I shouldn’t have to pay taxes because I identify with being poor and therefore I’m poor.
“Need I say more?” Bobby asked.
Writer's play 