28 June 2011

The Industry Of The Future

Floods Could Trigger Fukushima Disaster At Calhoun

Minuteman III Nuclear Missile Silos Are In Flood's Path

Wildfire Threatens Los Alamos Nuclear Lab

Aging US Reactors Were Designed To Last Only 40 Years

Al Qaeda doesn't need to smuggle in any dirty bombs. . .AmerICKa has bOOby-trapped itself with scores of them. . .the handwriting is on the wall. . .it's only a matter of time. . .or nature.

Circus sideshows are the Industry of the Future. . .a new generation of freaks is about to be born.

15 June 2011

Christine

“Oh God, is that me?”

She was looking at her mugshot. Christine.

“I look my age! I look forty-five!”

That’s enough to set her off crying, again. Seeing the picture of herself. It’s the top page of her booking paperwork, right there on the fingerprint machine, staring at her as I roll her prints. More evidence of her ruin. I have to say something to keep her reasonably calm. I need about five more minutes to finish printing her.

“You don’t look forty-five.”

She half-laughs, half-sobs.

“Thanks, sweetie,” she says, wiping snot from her nose.

I wasn’t lying. She doesn’t look forty-five. She looks fifty, at least. She’s had too many drinks over the years. Too many hours in too many bars. And then, too many beds. She looks pretty ragged.

“I can’t believe they give me domestic! ME!”

Here she goes, again. Wailing about her domestic assault charge.

“How could they of give me domestic?!?! LOOK!”

She points at the dying bruises on her upper arms.

“He’s been grabbing me and punching me for years! And I get a domestic?!?!”

4.2% tears spill out of her eyes.

I roll her right index finger over the glass. A little beep from the machine, then print flashes on the monitor.

“All I did was knock over his flat screen! And they give me domestic?!?!”

“Did you knock it over on him?”

“NO!”

I see some of the Corrections Officers watching, rolling their eyes, laughing. It’s great sport, from afar. The inmates, though, aren’t interested. Somebody’s got to really put on a show to get them to look away from the televisions, even though right now it’s only infomercials. There have been maniacs throwing fits, earning a shower of pepper spray, and the inmates will just sit there coughing, eyes still glued to the TVs.

“Well, maybe the prosecutor will drop the domestic in the morning,” I say, tossing Christine a bone to chew on.

“Think so?”

”Anything’s possible.”

“Just because he called. Over his precious flat screen. And they give me DOMESTIC?!?! I called on him a half-a-dozen times. You can look it up. I ain’t lying! He’s been here over and over. And LOOK!”

She points at the bruises, again. Some of them are yellow, like egg stains, like bits of old runny yolks on her arms.

“Well, whatever happens at court, just take care of it, and then maybe you ought to move on.”

“I ought to,” she says without much enthusiasm.

I roll her ring finger.

She starts weeping, again.

“Why can’t I meet no one good?”

I roll her little finger. Her fingers are long and slender, just like her body. She’s kept the weight off, except for a little beer belly. No doubt she drinks more than she eats. Her body is still decent, but her looks are gone. Her skin has been chewed up by liquor and worry. Imagine a more tattered Faye Dunaway in Barfly.

“I’m forty-five years old,” she says softly. “Forty-five years old. I went my whole life and never met no one good.”

It’s time to do her left hand.

“Forty-five. Forty-five. Forty-five. All those years! Gone!”

She sighs, wipes her nose.

I place her left hand on the glass.

“Yeah, the time passes,” I say. “Life is but a vapor.”

“Ain’t that a nice thought?” she huffs.

Ha. She doesn’t know the half of it. I’ve done fifty years, and I’m just realizing I need to get out of the world.

I press my left hand on top of hers, hold her wrist with my right hand, and then slowly pull her hand down the scanner glass.

Sometimes, with some of the females, the ones who cry and the sad, quiet, damaged ones, doing the palm and finger roll can be kind of an intimate thing.

“Why can’t I ever meet no one good?” she sobs.

Her twin themes: time and a good man. Too much drink in her system, and now she broods over time and men. And cries for herself.

I just have to get the individual prints of her left hand fingers, and then I’m done with her.

“They give me DOMESTIC?!?!” she wails. “ME?!?! LOOK!”

Again, the bruises. Time, shitty men and bruises. And outrage over her charge. All chasing around in her mind.

God had to put me in this jail. It’s from this jail I see the absolute worthlessness of human nature, and the absolute lack of faith.

“Just try to stay calm, ma’am. They may toss the domestic in the morning. And even if they don’t, you’ll get a PR bond and be out of here by lunchtime.”

“But I’ll still have to go through the courts! ME! A domestic!”

“It’ll be all right.”

“You really think so?”

I nod.

This empty reassurance is enough to calm her for a moment.

I roll her left thumb across the glass.

“I never have met no good man,” she sniffles.

I’ve been trying not say it, but now I do:

“A Good Man is Hard to Find.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“You ever read it?”

“Huh?”

A Good Man is Hard to Find. It’s a famous short story. By Flannery O’Connor.”

She shakes her head.

“I never have read a lot of stories.”

No. No, probably not.

There were certain women who were drawn to Jesus. It’s tempting to think they were like this one here, this one ironically named Christine. Women prone to poor choices and oft ill-used. Women who went through the gutter looking for a good man, trying one after another, and then Jesus appeared, and they wept, finally finding the One. They wept, and never ceased washing His feet with their tears. But all we know, say, of Mary Magdalene, is Christ drove seven demons from her. Neither Magdalene, nor any of the other *Jesus women* mentioned in the gospels, give the impression of having been drunken tramps.

But now, as I roll Christine’s left little finger, and finish with her, I wonder if maybe she has seven demons? Demons of alcohol, lust, vanity. . .anger. . .and. . .uh. . .?

Or maybe she is just a drunken tramp, by choice and *bad luck.*

Well, anyway. . .

“All right, ma’am. We’re done here. You can take your seat, again.”

“Now I just sit out here till court?”

“Yeah, that’s about it.”

“I can’t believe they give me domestic!”

She’s crying again as she walks back to her seat.

I try to imagine Christine about thirty years ago, when she was around seventeen. Before her own personal original sin. The sin that has worn her down over the years. The sin that has marked her face. I bet she could have been a Homecoming Queen--if she wasn’t a tramp, already. In any event, she must have been a very pretty girl at seventeen, whether wholesome or flat on her back. One way or the other, she would have been too popular for me.

Now look at us. Both of us in jail. Closer to the grave than to the womb. These concrete blocks walling us in. The gray paint. The fluorescent lights, always on. The artificial haze of the underground. What time is it? Fluorescent o’clock. It’s always fluorescent o’clock in here. What day is it? What season? We’re outside of time, now.

Christine sits there, showing her bruises to a fat woman (retail fraud). Look at them. Look at all of them. These inmates. They haven’t had enough of the world, yet. That’s why they’re in here. And they can’t wait to get back to the world. Can’t wait for another dose of it. The world.

I’m grateful to God to have worked a year in here. It’s now crystal clear everybody in the world is on the wrong path.

The only difference between the people in jail and the people on the outside is clumsiness. These people, the inmates, are klutzes. They stumble more, they crash into things and draw attention to themselves. Losers. But they’re just caricatures of the so-called *successful.* They view life the same as the rest, including the Sunday morning pew-warmers. They think there is something to get out of this world. . .but there’s nothing to get out of the world. . .except their souls.

07 June 2011

Déjà Vu Iran, Black Swan, The Ghost Writer, Jim Tressel

Scanning the headlines on Drudge Report today, it's déjà vu all over again:

REPORT: Iran can produce nuke within 2 MONTHS. . .

Are you SHITTING me, I thought? Not this, again!

I wondered:

How many times have I read this SAME EXACT STORY in the last five years???

How many times have the sheeple been warned/frightened the muslim bogeymen are about to go nuclear? That the islam bomb is *just around the corner?*

Then I stopped wondering, and I asked myself have I really been reading this SAME EXACT STORY for five years, or does it just seem like I have? I did a Google search--and I must admit I was wrong. I haven’t been reading the SAME EXACT STORY for five years. I’ve been reading the SAME EXACT STORY for

25 YEARS!!!

[documented here]

Ha ha ha.

Ridiculous.

The Iran/nuke bomb story is a sterling example of long-term propaganda, disinformation and brainwashing. This story has been told for nearly an entire generation, now. A psyops program of witting and unwitting conspirators, culled from so-called *think tanks,* *intelligence agencies,* *government spo(o)kespersons,* *ivory tower policy wonks,* *retired military analysts,* Media blowhards, etc., etc. All combining to craft a crescent shaped nuclear cloud which the Military Media Complex floats over USrael. . .

Listen:

Iran nuclear bomb has been *just a few months away* for twenty-five years. . .and USrael has been contemplating a *preemptive* attack for twenty-five years because Iran nuclear bomb is nearing the *point of no return.*

But Iran hasn’t built the bomb, and USrael hasn’t attacked. . .

So I wonder, what is the point of the Military Media Complex’ long-running Iran nuclear bomb propaganda campaign?

Is it possible, after twenty-five years of pushing the same feary tale, USrael doesn’t really care if Iran goes nuclear?

In fact, the only reasonable conclusion one can draw is USrael actually WANTS Iran to go nuclear. . .

The point of the Military Media Complex’ twenty-five year propaganda campaign is to terrify the sheeple with a demonized other. The Military Media Complex needs a *terrifying* enemy to justify its staggering looting of the national treasure.

For nearly a generation now, the Military Media Complex has presented the so-called *Middle East*as a monolithic muslim monster, when in reality it is a grape leaf stuffed with a bewildering mix of tribes, clans, religions and races. And the Military Media Complex has presented a nuclear Iran (as it did the *Weapons of Mass Destruction* Iraq) as the latest scare story to frighten the sheeple into accepting the Military Media Complex’ Middle East virtual reality: the so-called *Middle East* as a vast desert swarming with barbaric sand niggers desperate to beg, borrow or steal *nuclear secrets,* and in a fever to nuke God’s chosen Western people so it can restore the so-called *Caliphate.*

And if the Iranians actually manage to cobble together a nuclear bomb or two, so much the better!! Imagine the terror the Military Media Complex will conjure should the day ever arrive when Iran (or some other member of the so-called *Middle East*) announces it has the bomb.

With such a *real* threat, the Military Media Complex will validate its long demonization of the other, and will be able to perpetually justify all its military adventurism. The so-called *West* will humbly again accept the lead of USrael, and will never again be *caught with its guard down.* The Military Media Complex will never be in danger of being dismantled, for an islam bomb will throw the shadow of *holocaust* over the West. . .and the terrified sheeple will give their very last pennies for *defense.*

If the Iranian leadership possessed any wisdom, they would pull the Persian rug out from under USrael by stating their intention, in light of the Japanese nuclear catastrophe, to abandon their nuclear energy program, and then invite Western inspectors to verify the process. Thus, the Iranians could write a surprise ending to one of the Military Media Complex’ most widely read stories from its anthology of propaganda. The other repents? Hard to scare anybody with that ending. . .

But the Iranians will not do this, for they are unknowing accomplices to their own slander. . .for the sinister hand behind the New Order of the Ages controls all the governments of the world, and all are patsies, and all are in the process of being brought together to that final line in the sand. . .

A couple other totally unrelated *things:*

I finally got around to watching Black Swan. Unfortunately, it did not live up to the critics' hype. It’s a mildly entertaining amusement--and nothing more. Well-made, very watchable, but when it’s over, there’s nothing that will stay with you, nothing that will stimulate any thought, unless you want to masturbate to Natalie Portman fantasies.

Speaking of Ms. Portman, she delivers a surprisingly strong performance. Portman has been the most wooden of actresses since her enchanting debut in The Professional, but here she manages to seem human playing Nina, a sheltered, repressed, emotionally retarded adult girl. . .in other words, Natalie Portman plays herself in Black Swan (or the self she has appeared to be in all her movies since The Professional).

As for Black Swan the movie, it can be briefly and accurately described as the chick flick version of Fight Club, with Natalie Portman playing the Tyler Durden of prima ballerinas.

I also saw the critically acclaimed The Ghost Writer, made by the celebrated child molester Roman Polanski. . .and it was even more disappointing than Black Swan.

The Ghost Writer is an empty suit of a movie, with its dumb storyline pulled from the headlines of the left wing UK papers. The bland movie *star* Ewan McGregor plays a ghost writer hired to punch up the memoirs of a Tony Blair-like former Prime Minister in the middle of a war crimes inquiry. The movie’s big twist is the ghost writer discovers the Tony Blair-like character isn’t really such a bad fellow, he’s just a chump who has been manipulated by his wife, a Cherie Blair changeling in service of the CIA.

The Ghost Writer is a stupid, shallow flick, with its idiotic plot literally driven by a BMW’s GPS system. I have no idea why so many critics would praise this garbage. . .

Lastly, there is the long-anticipated demise of Jim Tressel, who needlessly and carelessly cheated during his glorious ten year run as the head football coach at Ohio State.

There were countless accusations over the years of shady dealings between Ohio State *booster* businessmen and Buckeye football players, but the NCAA always looked the other way. Mr. Tressel was finally undone by one small, dumb lie. Tressel had become so accustomed to having his dirt swept under the rug by the Ohio State administration, he no longer even bothered with appearances. . .and when his lie became public, he couldn’t even make the insincere-but-de rigeuer- half-assed apology that would have likely saved him.

The ironic thing is Tressel, I believe, would have had the exact same record without the cheating. I believe Tressel cheated for the same reason obsessive-compulsives wash their hands dozens of times--just to be sure. I don't think any of Tressel's dirty players would have left Ohio State had he asked them to refrain from all the free car deals, bogus summer jobs, autograph fees, etc. Tressel tolerated all the dirty deals, even though rationally he should have known the players wouldn't have left OSU, just to be sure he would win. . .

But that is neither here, nor there. I comment on Tressel because he is a self-proclaimed *Christian,* and I find him to be an outstanding representative of the contemporary AmerICKan church.

If Tressel is a Christian, all his works are wood, hay and stubble. Tressel himself will be saved (if he is a Christian), yet so as by fire. . .

Tressel, a Christian who practices the way of the world, is therefore a perfect proof of the Apostle Paul’s maxim:

A little leaven leaveneth the whole lump. . .

Tressel, if he is a Christian, is, at best, a severely compromised Christian, a worldly Christian, and thus a fitting figurehead for the kind of Christian our Lord Jesus Christ would see two thousand years down the road when He asked:

Nevertheless when the Son of man cometh, shall He find faith on the earth?