‘Tis The Season To Be Stripped Bare

Lady Liberty At Christmas, 2010 C.E.

Texas can be a nutty place, especially this time of year.  Rushing people whirling and spinning, stepping around, over and through one another where before an air of southern gentility prevailed.  Politeness might once again prevail, but not until the headlong masses have secured their place among the lucky fifty percent who will find this year’s festivities close enough to par to call it a wonderful day. 

Strange that so much effort goes into a single day, once per year, that holds as much promise for “success” or “failure” as any other day at any other time.  Stranger still is the fact this one special day has nothing whatsoever to do with its stated purpose, decreed by Emperor Constantine as the birthday of Jesus of Nazareth, but instead replaces a pagan holiday celebrating the Winter solstice.  Almost no one in Texas realizes this fact and those who do refrain from being impolite enough to confront collective insanity with the arid cool of immutable truth.

Facts never seem to bother the old guard of the Old South, and, if they do, can be replaced with slants more accommodating and perceptions as familiar as sweet iced tea.  “Disruptive of work rhythm,” one manager of a local salt mine proclaimed, forgetting almost entirely multiple decades of human resources research into the management of white collar professionals.  “You need to shut up and just do your job,” the captain turned manager insisted, “and allow other people to do their’s.”  Precisely what that job was and its relationship to everyone else’s would be left to another time, a moment where the decline of America’s regard for the collective intelligence of its labor pool would more closely match the scope of work to be performed.  Swing low, sweet chariot, and carry us back to a time, twenty years ago, when the prospects for our white collar professions were positive and our political affiliations completely unrelated to our upward mobility.  A time, in other words, when the old guard of the Old South was in no position to dictate how many facts we would overlook telling our children, nor how low our academic standards would fall for those children relative to those of their parents.

“Our work is crucial to the warfighter,” a noun replacing another proclaimed, “and the work we do here is in service to these honored professionals.”  Sentiments appropriate to another time, long since passed, replace the reality of children crammed into bulletproof vests blowing toddlers into red mist and getting blown into pieces, themselves, hardly identifiable by those left behind at home.  The Old South values the work of these children turned volunteers turned soldiers turned warfighters turned inside out and upside down, rejecting as rubbish those mere veterans who would rather color a wall with their own brains than  live another moment under threat of a memory of who and what they had actually become to themselves.  Almost without exception, the one exception being the grifters of Wall Street, “honored professionals” become the victims to be identified in a whisper on a slow news day, if at all.

Facts look a lot like numbers, but a lot of numbers do not indicate the presence of any facts.  One plus one equals two, according to conventional wisdom, but sometimes it equals ten.  Those who fully understand this fact are to be alienated, isolated and kept away from the levers of any political or military power.  If any should cross the Rubicon of this unstated and unstatable standard, they will do so only after being debauched, debased and degraded in such a way that even the most advanced recording devices will be unable to capture the depth of the collective shame and horror should the contents of the recording ever see the light of day.  Hidden behind the poll numbers of every media-created superstar lays the fact that no one in a position to speak truth to real power will ever again be granted the credibility with which to be heard and understood.  One information origin from which only diametrically opposed messages must come, forever keeping the audience confused, divided and unable to agree on a unified platform of relevant facts.  If anyone bothers to ask, send them a spreadsheet loaded with numbers and polysyllabic labels; if they persist, just start yelling.  Coherence does not count as much as the appearance of dominance.

In just this manner the old guard of the Old South hopes and preys on those who would forget that it is the God of their understanding that must, by Sabbath, choose both time and place where their six-fold fruit yields but one fold fruition.  This would be the same Old South made fat by a yuletide of free labor, a sacrifice costing only the free people of Africa their heathen freedom, deemed to be of little value when compared to the freedom of pale-faced psychopaths in possession of more gunpowder than forebrain.  Loyalty should be coupled with the source of one’s next meal so that truth becomes a matter of an adequate diet, rather than simple facts.

It is this psychopathy that unifies Old South with Old North, Dixie with Dallas and the debonair with the despicable.  For as certain a fact as the prejudicial racism of the Old South, just as certain was and is the willingness of the Old North to betray mother, father, sister and/or brother for the grain to survive a truth as cold as a northern Winter.  Slave owners of the Old South have their analog in the benevolent dictators of the Old North; as quickly as a Yankee betrays his sentiments for thirty pieces of silver, a Confederate will betray his fellows because a “plantation’s” beloved authority grants him, or her, the conscience with which to do so.  The Old South may be ruled by heartfelt superstition and the Old North by facts made relevant to circumstance, but, over time, the two have become the same.  Yankee and Confederate murdered one another in droves on a field of battle because of a mistake in timing, but neither party ever bothered to notice who or what was in control of the timing before the shooting commenced.

It was Nathan Mayer Rothschild disguised as Santa Claus – Saint Nicholaus by another name.

So as you scurry about to guarantee your family’s place in a treasured, if dubious, memory, remember that you do so for the Bank of England, and all bankers, that they and their fetid spawn might go on ruling this Earth with the results you see in the grimace of every frustrated parent’s face and every McChild’s disappointed glare – as the local sheriff escorts yet another family from a home that will remain empty well into the New Year.

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