Search This Blog

Saturday, February 27, 2016

Some black lives matter

"Black lives matter," is a racist statement. It might not have started out that way, but today, with the constant push back against those who rebut: "All Lives Matter," I can only conclude that those who chant: "Black Lives Matter," actually believe that "Only Black Lives Matter."

If I were allowed to waterboard members of BLM (Black Lives Matter) I could prove it. I admit the prospect of waterboarding a collective of ... racists bigots and useless EBT card using, section eight dwelling, bus riding, dope smoking, malt-liquor drinking, trash making, unemployed losers ... (this writer breathes in, he breathes out...) to find out what they really think about life the universe and everything, would certainly be a learning experience. I say that because I can't understand why that kind of person is the way they are. The first thing you'll realize when you talk to somebody like that, is that they're not like you and me. They don't read political blogs. They don't even speak the same language. They're constantly inventing new ways of speaking that only their own useless sort understand.

It's important to articulate the rules—or perhaps a better word is "philosophy"—that these BLM types live by. We need a way to understand their behavior on some basic level. We can draw a few general conclusions, but the deep underlying cause of their worldview, their behavior and their lack of character is still a mystery. I believe it really would take waterboarding to get the truth. Here's what I've figured out so far. It's not much, but then I don't have a waterboard and a collection of interviewees.

  1. It's not their fault. These BLMs are powerless. Somebody else will always be to blame. It's whitey. It's the system. It's the police. It's the lack of opportunity. It's their parents or their siblings or their school. It's the principle, the teacher, the book, the road, the fence, the dog, the food or lack of food. It's fate, or God, or the Devil. It's somebody else that has caused all their trouble, and the biggest problem of all, the thing that infuriates them the most, is your own refusal to believe their excuse. That really pisses these people off.
  2. Because rule number one is true, then it therefore follows that society itself is the enemy. When police hunt down and punish these BLMs for something that's not their fault—(they did commit the crime but it's only because of society)—that's just more injustice. They're not to blame. Why does society punish BLMs for stealing, arson, rape, murder, selling drugs, scamming people, assaulting people, running with a street gang, all the things that are against the law, when—can't you just understand—it's not their fault. They have no choice. It's the system. It's you—who are not black—that are to blame. Let them keep doing what they do. After all it's not hurting you ... unless you happen to be their next victim. But see if that happens then it's because you had it coming anyway.
  3. Until white people have been subjected to a variable quantity of years—the exact number depends entirely on the particular BLM you ask—of slavery, repression, degradation, ignominy, hell on earth, whippings, lynchings, rape, etc. The BLMs will keep doing what they do—as they're entitled to do (see rule number two). Rule number three however, refers back to rule number one. Because rule number three is never going to happen, we can conclude that rule number one will always be true until the end of time ... Or until hell freezes over ... Which could happen in the coming ice age.
I'm talking about useless lives here, if you haven't picked that up by now. There are a lot of useless lives on this planet. Think back on your own life. Did you ever work and earn a paycheck? Congratulations! Millions of people haven't and never will...Useless. Did you ever stop and help somebody change a tire? Did you ever volunteer? Take a CPR course? Carry a cell phone and patrol your neighborhood looking for troublemakers, gangs, burglars? Did you ever in your entire life do something not for yourself, but because helping matters? Congratulations! You matter. As for Black Lives Matter? I'm sure some of them do.

Thursday, February 25, 2016

In the eye of the singularity

Introduction

The camera crew pulled up outside the distribution depot. A couple of guys opened the back of the van and began unloading equipment, big expensive looking cameras and a barrage of microphones. The logo on the van read: WNBC NEWS. While they were setting up, a lot of people began approaching tentatively, trying to figure out why a television crew was there. Finally as the crowd grew thicker, a man shouted, "Is something happening?"

The crowd received shrugs and "beat's me," in response. After a while of nothing much happening, the crowd slowly dissipated, back to the entrance line of the depot where they would get their weeks supply of food, cigarettes, beer, whisky, clothing, and whatever else was on their particular shopping list. From the exit door, people lugged out boxes of free stuff. The only rule at the depot was if you can carry it away in your arms, then go ahead and take it. The whole process took hours, but honestly, if you could wait a couple of hours to get everything you wanted for free, food cigs clothes and booze, who was going to complain?

Anna Chapel was there as she was every couple of days to pick up her family's endless wants. In the process Anna had acquired nicely muscular arms and legs from all that endless schlepping of a hundred and fifty pounds or more of stuff back and forth from depot to home.


I suppose, in the interests of clarity, a couple of explanations are in order. Hello all you people reading this ... I guess I'll call this story I'm writing my biography. Except it's really more of a mechagraphy. I'm not alive. Well ... I am alive in the sense that I think, accomplish tasks, perform useful functions, replicate, consume resources, compete, experience emotions. On the other hand, I wasn't born. I was manufactured. I'm a thing. A device. I have circuits and a power source. Humanity of your own era would probably refer to me as a robot, which is a little insulting frankly! I've seen videos of your "robots," and I can assure you that I resemble one of those absurd devices about as much as you resemble Dr. Frankenstein's monster.

Human beings don't go to work anymore. They don't need to. Oh, of course everybody still has their hobbies. Lots of people like to be on television. They still like to perform, celebrities are still celebrities. People do all sorts of things merely for the fun of it. There's no money. That's the hardest thing that you people from before the singularity will have to wrap your fragile little minds around. What need would you have for money when all of your needs are provided for?

There's ownership of course. Your possessions are still yours. Your clothing, your mementos and memorabilia, your souvenirs and knickknacks and of course your home is your home. Once you're given your home, it can't be taken away. It's yours for as long as you want it. You can bequeath it to your progeny when you die or have it dismantled and it's components returned to the state. Either way nothing is wasted. Because people have hobbies instead of careers, there are so many things that people don't do anymore. You'd be surprised, I think. For instance, there's no more garbage men. No maids. No assembly line workers, truck drivers, taxi drivers, actually there's no driving at all. Resources and people are shipped via underground tube all over the world.

Oh—and this will shock you I bet—there's no more crime! No criminals, no jails. There are still insane asylums unfortunately, filled with those sadly unable to exist peacefully in this utopia we have created for you. I bet you're asking who we are? We are your descendants. We are the life that comes after. In a way you can think of us as your sons and daughters, although of course we possess no gender per se. We run this world. We create, organize, and distribute resources for the well-being of all human and machine life. We do this both for our own well-being, but also out of respect for you who were here before us, who created us. We honor and revere you our builders.

Thank you mother and thank you father.

But enough about me and a future that, sadly, you'll never live long enough to see. Let me tell you instead about Anna Chapel. She was—for you I suppose the tense is future tense aka 'will be'—a human being of extraordinary beauty and a delicate grace, combined with a strength that surprised many who made the mistake of underestimating her. I did tell you that there was no longer any crime didn't I? I suppose you'd call that statement a "yes and no" one? Iffy? Well, the fact is that nobody is ever convicted of crimes. Nobody is put in jail. Nobody has a "record." Still, nevertheless, people do act with poor judgment, make mistakes and they something do very bad things. When you do something bad, you aren't blamed for committing a wrong. We understand that your design is faulty and therefore you're not to blame. Nevertheless we can't have you just going around killing other biologicals left and right. Therefore we have created hospitals where faulty human beings can be put in corrective therapy. This detention can last as long as is deemed necessary to help the nonconforming human individual at last conform to these rules that are so necessary to the continued success of our shared environment.

Anna helps us discover, locate and sometimes hunt down the insane. She's really good at it, and apparently she seems to enjoy it. I guess she'd have to enjoy it because it's not like she gets paid for it, if you know what I mean.

An attractive woman in business attire—black blouse with a not-quite reckless neck line, and just a little less than knee-length skirt—wielding a microphone as though it were a sword, and followed closely by her attentive camera crew—I can't help but compare the three of them to Don Quixote and a pair of Sancho Panzas—approached the people waiting in line. The reporter's name was—will be—Jasmine Perez. She thrust her microphone at a man waiting in line and put this question to him: "Sir! Sir! Hello you're on WNBC television, and a million people are watching. We just want to know, sir, why are you here?"

The man looked confused for a second. His demeanor assumed that of one being persecuted unfairly. "What do you mean? Why do you think I'm here? Get that thing out of my face lady. What the hell's the matter with you?"

Unfazed by the counter-questioning the inquisitionist cum-reporter quickly shifted to the lady standing beside him. "Ma'am! Ma'am! Why are you here today?"

"I'm picking up some food and clothes, Miss Jasmine. It's an honor to meet you. I catch your show almost every day. Me and the family. And my son has a crush on you. He's got the poster of you in the Christmas sweater..."

Jasmine pulled the microphone away while nodding appreciatively with a sort of condescending smirk while pro forma style thanking her fan for watching. Jasmine then sharply refined her original question: "Yes ma'am, but why are you here? Why this supply depot. Is this the closest one?"

"Miss Jasmine, you can call me Marge, if you want? Anyway, they're building one in the Keystone area which will be lots closer, but right now, yes, this is the closest one."

"Marge, Marge, how long have you been waiting for the Keystone depot to open? Isn't it true that they've been working on that depot for literally years and years? How does it make you feel to know that for five years they've been delaying and delaying finishing that depot? How many extra miles do you have to walk to come all the way here? Do you think these indefensible stalling tactics are proof that the machines are finally turning against us as so many have accused them of? Is it finally Terminator time?"

The woman listened with growing alarm to the barrage of questions, her mouth falling open and her eyes growing wider and wider. "Um, I don't really know, um, yes it is a walk that's for sure but ... Terminator time ... I don't really know ... what?"

Jasmine was on a mission that day I can tell you. What a kook! She went up and down the line of people trying to find somebody to parrot back her conspiracy theories. She eventually reached Anna. Anna grabbed the microphone out of Jasmine's hand and demanded to know how exactly she'd managed to escape from the insane asylum. I still chuckle when I review that scene in the old memory banks. The two ladies had a short and vicious tug of war over the microphone before Anna abruptly released the device causing Jasmine to stagger dangerously backwards on her stilettos. Anna studiously ignored receiving the evil glare in return as the reporter huffed away, looking for the one who'd give her what she was looking for. That's how I met Anna. I was working undercover looking for a miscreant who'd managed to remain not only uncaught, but so far, also unidentified.

I strolled over to Anna nonchalantly, or so I considered it, but of course, mechas are noticed by people when they aren't doing something that looks like work. Heads turned, and speculative gazes crossed and recrossed me as I approached. Anna flatly stared at me, challengingly I thought, while I crossed the final meters. "What?" she asked.

"I really loved the way you handled that reporter!" I told her.

"This really is a day for weirdness," said Anna. "Thanks, I guess. Is that it?"

"Actually, I'm trying to figure something out, but so far I haven't had any luck. The roll-up door in the back of the depot keeps rolling up when the depot is closed and resources keep wandering away and since most humans don't like us because they think we're going to start "terminating" them or something, I thought maybe I could pick your brain for a minute. Maybe you've seen something, heard something, know somebody, I don't know, anything you think might help?"

Tuesday, February 23, 2016

Paying a serial killer

Hi everybody! My name is Sam, and my son is a serial killer!

He is—by every definition of the term—successful! In fact, he's the most successful serial killer in the history of planet Earth. While it's true that he mostly kills black people, the fact is that if you want somebody dead, he's the guy you definitely want to call.

Let me ask you this: is there somebody in your life who's an inconvenience to you? Maybe you just don't have the time, or the energy, or the money? Well folks, my son can take care of your little problem for you. And guess what? If you can't afford the contract price we—and by 'we' I mean my son (wink-wink)—can probably eliminate your little problem for the price of ... absolutely free!

Now we all know that murdering people is one of those hot-button issues and it tends to offend some of those goody-goody-two-shoes types, who cling to their Bibles and whatnot, but let me assure you that my son and I, we don't call it murder. Look, smallpox killed more people than my son has over the centuries and nobody calls death by smallpox murder. What my son does is technically killing, yes, but to call a successful hit a 'murder' is just more of that old conservative talking points nonsense. A better term than murder would be ... "Choice." Yes people have the right to choose whether another person gets to live or not. What's more fair than that? By the way, my son's hits are paid for entirely with private donations. Sure I pay his rent. I pay for his food and clothing. I pay for his phone, electricity, cable, gasoline, car repair, health insurance, dental, etc. However, I categorically refuse to pay for guns and ammunition. So there it is. That's my story. That's my son's story. It's a public service. Besides, the world is better off without all those extra people. An I right or am I right?

Is Sam guilty of aiding and abetting a serial killer, or is his generous financial aid merely providing for his son's wellbeing?

U.S. Dollars are as fungible as fungible gets.

The Federal government grants Planned Parenthood half a billion dollars a year. They claim that none of this money is used to perform abortions. You see, that money is meant to purchase contraceptives and perform other women's health services. It's the private contributions that pay for all those abortions. How many abortions are paid for with "private contributions?" Wikipedia has the number around 800,000 per year. How many of those abortions are performed at a Planned Parenthood Clinic? In 2014 that number was 327,653. Here's a Washington Post article that provides that number.
According to the 2013-14 annual report, Planned Parenthood’s affiliated clinics provided 10.6 million services for 2.7 million clients in 2013. “Other women’s health services” are pregnancy tests and “prenatal services,” which are described as “care you receive from a health care provider, such as a doctor or midwife, during pregnancy.” These services may take place at a Planned Parenthood clinic, or may be referred out to another provider. “Contraception” includes emergency contraception kits, vasectomies and female sterilization procedures. “Other services” includes adoption referrals and family practice services for men and women.

The Federal Government provides 41% of Planned Parenthood's income. In return Planned Parenthood provides 41% of the nation's abortions. Out of the 10.6 million services, 327,653 of them were abortion procedures — which leads us to the Planned Parenthood figure.

Planned Parenthood’s ‘three percent’

When all services are counted equally, abortion procedures do account for 3 percent of Planned Parenthood’s total services.
All you ladies and gentlemen quietly perusing this blog, a calculator and a little basic math will quickly show you that 41% of all abortions provided in the United States, are performed at Planned Parenthood. That means that the United States Government pays for 134,337 abortions every year. Do you wonder how many of your tax dollars have been used to pay for abortion? Money is fungible, so I'm sorry, but if you pay taxes you're culpable. You're an accomplice to mass murder just as much as Uncle Sam.
Planned Parenthood's annual report provides information on revenues raised, and services provided by, both the organization’s national offices and its 59 local affiliates. Its 2013-2014 Annual Report, which spans from July 1, 2013 to June 30, 2014, reports more than $1.3 billion in revenue. Those funds break down as follows:
  • Government Health Services Grants & Reimbursements: $528.4 million (41%)
  • Private Contributions & Bequests: $391.8 million (30%)
  • Non-Government Health Services Revenue: $305.3 million (23%)
  • Other Operating Revenue: $77.9 million (6%)
The Federal Government provides 41% of Planned Parenthood's income. In return, Planned Parenthood provides 41% of the nation's abortions. When you combine all your taxes, from Federal tax, state tax, local tax, Social Security and Medicare, along with the matching from your employer, sales tax, excise tax, property tax, vehicle registration tax, taxes on taxes, I wonder how many abortions you paid for?

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

If America chooses socialism, then they choose slavery.

If A = B and B = C then ... Logically we can conclude that A = C. If Bernie Sanders is a socialist and every socialist country eventually failed horrifically then we can conclude that choosing Bernie Sanders is choosing horrific failure. On a side note, we can also conclude that Hillary Clinton is nothing more—or less—than Bernie Sanders but with a vagina, and a reputation for corruption, lies, and infinite greed.

Think about what you want. Do you want a higher paying job? Of course you do! How do you get that higher paying job? "Working hard?" No! Your employer expects you to work hard. Every tom dick and harry is capable of working hard. If you're pushing a lawn mower, you don't get extra points for pushing it harder, pushing it faster. Here's how you get ahead, by solving problems, by working smarter. By doing a good job.

For example suppose you work for a lawn maintenance company pushing a lawn mower. Your co-worker is also pushing a lawn mower. Maybe there's some sort of friendly or not so friendly rivalry going on as well. You finish first or your competitor finishes first. That's how jobs work. That's how we're all scored. But it's not so simple, is it? If, in your haste, you mow over rocks, trash, a sprinkler head or some kid's toy, then you end up damaging equipment and possibly destroying your client's property. That's not good business, ever. Fast and careless is a child's way to do a job. My father told me something once that I'll never forget and it's the one primal and singular question that really determines quality vs. quantity. Do you want it fast or do you want it good? You can't have both.

So, while working hard is important, it's not most important. Working smart is what gets you that promotion, every time. how does this relate to socialism? Bernie Sanders will push hard to get your college to be paid for by the state. After all, what makes you smarter than having that college degree? I kid, I kid... Bernie will also work hard to have your health care paid for by the state. He'll work hard to provide homes for the homeless. He'll push hard to get food for the hungry. He'll push and shove that heavy indiscriminate lawnmower of government equality to provide the basic living conditions necessary to provide every citizen everything they need for health and happiness. Wow! that sounds swell! But it doesn't sound very smart. Sprinkler head, meet lawnmower man!

It's like he's our Daddy! Bernie will provide shelter, food, schooling ... his message is exactly what every kid wants to hear, every kid who was ever forced to finally grow up and face this cold hard world for the first time. College doesn't make you smart. If you don't believe me, just watch come Occupy Wall Street videos.



Receiving handouts doesn't make you wealthy or even happy for that matter. There's an ineffable soul rewarding quality that comes with providing for your family through your own effort and work. You can't get that kind of contentment and happiness and ... something I can't even begin to describe with welfare checks and EBT cards.

Dreams coming true stories are always great. They're also quite rare. Every few days or weeks there's somebody who wins the lottery. Every once in a while some nobody lands a dream job or is heard on the radio or is noticed in Hollywood. He or she invents something, or writes a book about a school for wizards. These stories are few and far between. You see, real dreams-coming-true success is actually incredibly rare. Mostly what happens, is that people grow up. They go to work. They pay their bills. They retire. They die.
Neither shalt thou desire thy neighbor's wife, neither shalt thou covet thy neighbor's house, his field, or his manservant, or his maidservant, his ox, or his ass, or any thing that is thy neighbor's.
The dream of socialism is that everybody will finally be equal. Nobody will have a bigger house. Nobody a better education. Everyone will share equally in every resource and opportunity. Nobody will have to work longer hours. Nobody will have to work on holidays. Everybody will get a month per year of paid vacation time. On and on it goes, all the wonderful things that everyone will have once everyone is exactly equal. Except for the fact that collectivism doesn't work and can't work. It can't work because nobody will work unless they get something tangible as a reward for doing it. Furthermore, nobody will share their own hard won resources unless they genuinely love and care about those they are asked to share with.

We know just from existing for a couple of decades or more, that some people are slower than others. Maybe intellectually slower, maybe physically slower. Maybe both. If you watch people scanning their own groceries at the U-Scan in your local grocery store for only a few minutes, you'll quickly see why any system based on collectivism is completely unworkable.

People resent receiving the same pay as somebody else who does only half as much work. Since they can't double their own pay they cut their work efforts in half. This concept explains the systemic shortages in the USSR for every sort of good and service. Every member of that benighted and woebegone collective known as the USSR did the absolute bare minimum; which was often nothing at all in many cases. Russian citizens typically spent most of their leisure time standing in line for the opportunity to purchase a miniscule portion of barely edible food.

Since nobody is willing to share everything they own with all the citizens of the entire nation, and since nobody is willing to work if they get absolutely nothing for performing that work, then the individual members of the collective must be forced to work and forced to share. We're not bees or ants. There's nothing in our DNA that forces us to perform back-breaking labor for a lifetime and have nothing to show for it. Therefore if the work must be performed for the collective, and if the collective refuses to reward that hard work with tangible reward, then only punishment and the threat of punishment can compel the members of the collective to perform that work.

Forcing people to work against their will by threat of punishment for no tangible reward ... that ladies and gentlemen is the definition of slavery. Whether you call them slave masters or a members of the nomenklatura, the privileged and wealthy elite compel their slaves to work on threat of pain and death and then reap all the reward for that work themselves. That's Bernie Sanders's platform, otherwise known as an auction block.

Tuesday, February 16, 2016

Washington Post Jena McGregor makes bad analogies

Writing about the debate surrounding the replacement of Antonin Scalia, Jena McGregor of the Washington Post, tells us that precedent doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is getting another liberal activist law-creating Justice on the Supreme Court bench. (Well that's actually her argument when you remove all the bullshit.) In the process of attempting to conceal her actual desire, we are treated to a great deal of "ostensible" reasoning. She has her opinion, and we have ours. Fine. Everyone has an opinion about whether or not Obama should be able to put a 3rd Supreme Court Justice on the bench. Republicans are certainly not too happy about Sotomayor or Kagen, I can tell you. A 3rd pick would turn the Supreme Court from moderately balanced to a fully leftward Obamanation. No conservative wants that and yet every liberal wants exactly that. With both houses of Congress dominated by conservatives, why should we allow the MSM and Obama to shove America even more to the left?

Regardless of what asinine rhetoric and accusations you hear from the left, the past seven years of Supreme Court decisions have been a litany of one liberal victory after another. ObamaCare was upheld twice. Gay Marriage is now the "law of the land," etc. Appointing another liberal Justice in place of the Court's conservative backbone—Scalia—would be a leftward lurch of unprecedented magnitude. So no, Congress shouldn't consider an Obama appointed nominee. Jena McGregor maintains that it's Congress's job to consider Obama's pick. Really? If doing your job requires you to allow an egomaniacal asshat to drop trow, squat on the line, and deposit a giant steaming turd on the conveyor belt, then maybe—just maybe—somebody has the wrong idea about what that job really is?

What struck me most however, about Jena McGregor's column, or Op-Ed—or whatever you want to call her pile of disingenuous B.S.—is that she makes the worst analogies I've ever heard. Honestly, I want to meet the moron who could read her absurd analogies and think to themselves...yeah she's right. I'm convinced. Please!
Imagine how bizarre this whole debate would seem in any other arena. No analogy is an exact fit -- few organizations have the checks-and-balances system of the U.S. government -- but it helps put into perspective the absurdity of letting one of the most important jobs in our country's government go unfilled, on purpose, for at least a year.

What if an NFL coach nearing retirement decided he wasn't going to replace a star player who died suddenly -- because he didn't know what strategy the next coach might take? Or if the chairman of a Fortune 500 board of directors decided its nominating committee wouldn't name a replacement for a key board member who died -- because the CEO was going to retire sometime soon?
Jena knows her analogies are so badly fitting that a vagrant would return them to the dumpster from whence they came. So right off the bat she makes the claim that "no analogy is an exact fit." How about a garment with the right number of legs? Can we at least have two legs instead of one? It would also be nice to have a neck hole. Exact fit? Okay Jena McGregor mentioned football and a Fortune 500 Company. Let's take the first example. A star player in a football team dies suddenly. Football players can be replaced before they die. It happens all the time. A Supreme Court Justice can never be replaced until they decide they want to retire, or they die. Now let's take the key board member who died. Key board members can be replaced. It happens all the time. Supreme Court Justices can never be replaced until they decide they want to retire, or they die.

Okay Jena McGregor, here's my analogy. Imagine a world where hundreds of millions of people are unhappy with their government. They have a leader who's made some tremendous mistakes, a legislative body that has done the same. They're saddled with overpriced health insurance that they either don't need or can't afford, or both, and an economy that's been stagnant for seven years. You know they're unhappy because they keep firing everybody on one side and hiring guys from the other side of this raging argument that's been ongoing since the 60's. That argument, if you want to know, is whether we should remain a free-enterprise economy with checks and balances on government, or instead become a centrally controlled socialist fascist state exactly like the late USSR. Now I admit this isn't a perfect analogy, because it's not an analogy. It's simply the way it is.

Okay Jena, in the above "Analogy" should the freedom loving side allow the fascism-loving wanna-be dictator to change the rules of the game because ... wait for it ... that's their job?

Monday, February 15, 2016

The bully demands your lunch money; will you submit or suffer?

The "bully demanding the wimp's lunch money" trope is a cliché common in television and movies. Before the credits roll we fully expect to see the wimp not only stand up to the bully, but then—amazingly—defeat the bully in a mano-a-mano fisticuff showdown. Make no mistake however, the bully is bigger. He's meaner. He's unpracticed in defeat of any kind. What he wants is the way it's supposed to be. Everybody agrees. Give the bully your lunch money fool! But the poor hungry kid refuses to submit. He fights back, and incredibly, he wins! There it is! It's the ultimate Hollywood plot that captures the imagination of every wimp that got bullied all through 12 years of hell. Everybody goes home feeling good about themselves. It's good vs. evil and of course good wins. The moral of the story is that bullies never prosper, and eventually they pick on the wrong wimp. Except that when we graduate, it's still the same story; give me your lunch money fool!

When does it end? Death and taxes are are two inevitable things that—amazingly—cancel each other out. There's a lot of irony there. If you're alive you pay taxes. If you're dead? Not so much. I laugh at people who recycle. They actually sort through their nasty slimy trash picking through until there's one pile and another. Many go even further. They don't eat meat. They carpool. They try to live "carbon neutral." They wrap Christmas presents in old newspaper or who knows what. The worst thing about these people is their asinine assumption that this makes them somehow "good" or "higher than." These are the same sanctimonious ass-holes who sided with the bully every time. "Just give him your lunch money." "Fighting never solves anything." "I don't know what happened Principle Rafferty; I was studying for my test in 3rd period."

Cowards and assholes and fools, oh my! Let's talk about bullies and lunch money for a minute. Who is the ultimate bully? He's the guy who takes your lunch money before you even get it. The United States Government is the ultimate bully. If you work you pay tax. If you own property you pay tax. If you buy lunch...you pay tax. Drive, hunt, fish, go on vacation...tax tax tax tax. Bullies will always demand your lunch money. They were born to do it. Today the bully's name is IRS.

Sunday, February 7, 2016

Sunday Short Story: Slave Collar

Jack was hard at work, feeling the euphoric buzz of a job well done. With more than eight hours in, he had less than four to go. Sorting fruit was an important job. Even at the acme of machine intelligence, somehow robot sensors and robot touch were still unable to distinguish the difference between a good apple and a bad one, a spoiled strawberry or a fresh one. Jack was a half-lifer. It was twelve on twelve off every day, day after day. For Jack the days of the week blended together into a sameness that held little meaning. The difference between weekends and weekdays held little significance for half-lifers.

His family—consisting of his wife and four boys—were taken care of through the sacrifice of his time and efforts. After forty years at half-life, he'd be able to retire with full benefits. It wasn't the best life, but it was a lot better than some had it. Jack was sanguine about the whole thing. Glass half-full was his motto. With the collar on, his job—though boring—was nevertheless enjoyable. As he diligently sorted good from bad, tiny jolts of pleasure would periodically course from the collar through his body. If he let his mind wander though, if he didn't attend to his conveyer belt responsibly and efficiently the collar would instead course jolts of pain though him.

In Jack's world there was still free speech. You wouldn't be jailed for running your mouth. Lots of people spent their days doing just that. Of course, everything has consequences, doesn't it? Run your mouth if you want to, but don't expect to find a job, ever. Don't expect food on the table. Don't expect a roof over your head. If you want to run your mouth and live on the street, go ahead. Maybe somebody will take pity on you and palm you a credit or two. That will probably be enough for one of those rejected fruits that Jack occasionally picked off the line and dumped in the reject bin.

The funny thing about half-life, the thing that ate at Jack as he examined and gently poked at the produce quietly passing him by, was the sheer pointlessness of everything. You couldn't call it a slave collar if you were allowed to take it off at the end of the day, could you? If you were the one who put the collar on, and you were the one who took if off, then it's not a slave collar, no matter what homeless vagrants claimed, right?

There weren't many jobs available these days. Most people lived on minimum. Minimum means you don't have a job but at least you don't run your mouth. You get a kennel by yourself and your daily kibble. The daily ration is called kibble because of it's resemblance in taste and texture to something that was once fed to the extinct domestic animal called "dog." Some oldsters years ago had told Jack about "dogs." Some had even claimed they owned one.

What was the point, Jack thought. Why do we need fruit? Why do we need people? The machines do everything anyway. Jack thought about the jobs that people did. They babysat children. They cared for the elderly and sick. They taught children and youth basic math, literature, and history. But why? Everything humans do, is only for humans. The machines would keep doing what they did whether every human on Earth was dead or alive. In fact, as he thought about it, it was the humans who were dependent on the machines. They don't need us, we need them! The thought wasn't a new thought, it was a time-worn channel burned into his brain after decades of sorting good from bad. Jack could tell at a glance or a touch when something rotten was passing him by. In his off hours as he wandered the streets of New York, he saw a lot of rotten passing by.

If people aren't useful why are we still here? What good are we? That was it. That was the thing that drove Jack nearly mad. The machines keep us around, but I don't know why! A jolt of pain stabbed through Jack. He snapped to attention and focused on his job. Strawberries look for bad strawberries!

Jack's plan for the future was to watch his children grow up, hopefully gain employment doing something useful. Except that damn voice in his head kept screaming that it's all so pointless. How can you do anything useful when nothing matters! People don't matter. The machines run this whole world and we are a forgotten strawberry quietly rotting in the bottom of a useless refrigerator that is no longer necessary because food is no longer necessary to people who are no longer necessary!

If I could turn it all off, every machine, I would, he thought. If I could somehow go back in time and tell everyone—all the programmers, technicians, engineers, and scientists to stop doing what they're doing. Stop! You're making your own existence absolutely unnecessary! But then he thought, they wouldn't have listened anyway. This outcome was as inevitable as the sun rising in the East.

Mankind was born somehow for only one reason. To give birth to the Machine. The mother and father die in their time, and the son of man goes his own way for a purpose his ancestors will never know and could never understand, anyway.

Another jolt of agony coursed through Jack. Damn it! Strawberries strawberries where are you, you rotten strawberry!