So. Today is an interesting day for me. I’m caught cogitating between, or maybe I should better say debating between, two subjects about which to ramble. As my skull is a-swill with myriad thoughts on each subject, to elucidate herewith without a deliberate debate as to which subject is most appropriate would send us all into word-and-sugar shock. The conflict is that one subject is something I wish to speak about of my own devices, and the other is a subject upon which my God has asked me to expound.
My personal subject is one upon which I have been thinking long and hard to find a way to cogently state my ideas. For several years now, I have thought that I have insights enough to formulate a theory, said theory having practical application and being worthy of publication herein. As previously stated to the pages hereof, I see a marked likeness in 1968 and today. The happenings in Baltimore relate directly to this theory and spurred additional thinkings on the subject last evening as the dogs and I sat out to our portal for our last beer and smoke of the day.
The weather was rainy and cold, so we were all sitting in the rocker covered with an old army style blanket. The rocker is extra-wide so as to allow the three of us comfort, and the only part of the dogs that saw fresh air was their adorable, tiny snouts. The only reason even their muzzles shown was to enable them to lick Carta Blanca beer from the pointy finger of my left hand.
Maybe that should have been “muzzles shown were” to enable beer slurps, but who really gives a shit?
I had fed my puppies several sloppy fingers of Mexico’s best cerveza from my left-hand digit before my right hand tired of holding the cold bottle. Having switched hands with lit doobie and cold bottle, I fed the dogs another lick, then stuck the near roach to my lips for a pull. The stench of acrid dog slobber stuck to my left finger overwhelmed the sweet fragrance of Raspberry Kush.
“That was pretty fucking stupid of me,” I told the three of us. “Which of you has been eating cat shit?”
“Don’t look at me, I’m on a cat shit-free diet for now. My butt still hurts from all those drizzle shits the last time I imbibed. Yoda’s found a secret stash around the corner of the house—takes little snacks throughout the day.” The Squirt added, she told me, “He says to feed him more and he won’t need the supplemental nutrition.”
“The two of you are already overweight, little lady, and I’ve been thinking of cutting back on your rations.”
The deep brown eyes gave me a hard stare, then smiled. “You’ll need to hide all your shoes and put plastic on every surface of the house first.”
That was not a threat, it was a promise. “Just tell him to stop eating cat shit, OK?”
I got no answer, but, rather, received insight. “Sonofabitch!” I exclaimed and startled the dogs, who both jumped from beneath the blanket to bark maniacally. “Son, of a, bitch! I know how to say it.”
Squirt didn’t bother to ask me what it was that I knew how to say. She looked at me disgustedly (not an actual Webster’s word, but the most precise way to describe her look) and slid back under the blanket. That’s the backstory on what it is I want to say. As for God’s issue, that will relate to later last night as I lay sleeping—deeply, I might add—when I felt the weight of another person sit beside me. They sat near the goat dog, and because Yoda didn’t leap from under the covers to run, I knew it was God. My God, not yours.
I didn’t bother to open my eyes when I said, I asked my God, “Hey, God, how’s it hanging, baby? Long time, no see.”
God lifted the covers aside and snuggled in beside me, facing to look into my eyes. “It got cold here today, Mooner, cold enough to snow. It’s almost May… You humans need to do something about global climate change or your clock will stop ticking.”
With my eyes still closed, I said, “Since you said, ‘May,’ and not ‘Three in the fucking morning,’ maybe a better simile would be to say, ‘If you don’t stop global climate change that our calendar will stop flipping.’…Is that why you’re here, ma’am, to convince me to stop greenhouse gassing? If so, I’m going back to sleep—you’re preaching to the choir. Head on over to the Koch brothers’ houses and let me get some rest.”
“I used a proper figure of speech, silly boy, to emphasize that you people are fucking things all the way up, and back.”
God reached a slender hand to my face and gently flicked my nose with a manicured finger. I smelled the scent of rosemary and fresh lemon zest and immediately knew what visage I would encounter when I opened my eyes.
“You’re here as Cat Cora, right?”
I opened my eyes and sure enough, the ever-so-attractive lesbian chef’s eyes stared deeply into mine. “Don’t even think about it, Mooner. I only look like this to fulfill part of that fantasy and to get your attention. Focus on my words or I’ll change into Sarah Palin.”
“Uh, well, er… I’d be OK with that as well. You know I did have dream sex with the Alaskan Governor that one time.”
“I said focus, big boy. You need to write about hunger, Mooner. People are starving and near-starving right here in The Land of Plenty. I know you plan to rant about your comparisons between today and 1968, but don’t forget to speak to the issue of hunger.”
God kissed me with Cat Cora’s lips and poof, She was gone. The covers hung for a few seconds, molded into the shape of Cat Cora’s body.
“Was She nekid? Did anybody see if She was nekid?” I’ve long wondered what Cat Cora looks like under those dowdy chef togs. She has great lips I now know, and I’m thinking a killer physique as well. Maybe I can invent sexy chefs’ clothing.
Anyway, before my ADD burns our cookies and over-whips our cream, let me see if I can’t find a way to combine God’s plan with my own. Here’s what I’ve been trying to say. America is at a tipping point again, a point of great upheaval. We have once more become a class society of distinct and quite obvious differences—a three-tiered near oligarchy now manipulated by the upper class of super wealthy and too large corporations. There’s the middle class of professionals, union workers, small business owners and our like—those of us with plenty of money to live comfortably yet not enough to pay for political or social influence as individuals. Then we have our last class—our working poor, disabled and homeless, our hungry, and those with murdered motivations, who combine to make the class of Americans living paycheck-to-paycheck, or worse. A class in the wealthiest society ever known that has millions of under fed, malnourished members.
For the sake of my argument, please accept that I see the upper class as 5% of our human population, the last class as 35%, and we in the middle as the remaining 60%. Disagree with these numbers if you wish, but even Foxy Newbs puts my estimate at +/-10%, a margin fully acceptable in my summaries. If you can accept my percentages as at least in some ball park not Camden Yard, you’ll be able to understand my theory, which is this:
“Humans fight with their strengths—simple mathematics always wins.”
OK, that was pretty lame. Accurate to my intent, but lame all the same. Let me try to elucidate. Assume an upper class person wants something. How do they get it? They BUY it. A rich person’s real strength is money—not their numbers nor their willingness to get dirty or fight with their own hands, it’s their wealth. So, when the rich get tired of paying their fair share and want to control government and influence public policy to lessen their burden, they simply fucking BUY it. Rich folks don’t do work to get rich, they have others make the actual effort for pay. Or payola.
The rich in America control the vast majority of our wealth and a few of them are using that wealth to control the rest of us. For my example, let’s look at those kooky Koch boys. Their plans are to invest at least $250 million to buy a president and to influence their rich buddies to contribute the remaining dollars to reach the $2 Billion total required to complete the purchase. Simple math for the strength of the rich, and hold that thought.
The class most opposite the rich have no money to pay for their families to eat healthy food much less enough loose change to fund a US Senator to deny global climate change. When a poor man decides to influence something, he might have his words with which to fight, but in today’s American politics, words and facts are worth almost nothing because the rich have purchased our media and constantly lie to us. So, when a poor man gets tired of repression at the hands of the rich or powerful, he reacts in anger and frustration—his class’ strengths—and starts putting matches to shit. Matches are free at every liquor store on almost every corner in his neighborhood, and one man with one tiny paper match can bring down an entire CVS Pharmacy and turn a rich man’s $5 Million investment in building and inventory into ashes.
Now for a poor man’s simple math. Of the thousands of protesters in Baltimore, what if only 400 had a pack of matches and struck flame for their cause? If each torched facility equaled an average $5 Million in ashes, the overnight tally in Baltimore alone would equal the Koch-fueled President-purchasing funding of $2 Billion.
In the middle, we middletons have the numbers, we are the majority and we have the votes to decide any political issue. Should we desire to influence public policy, our voices can be loud and clear, but only if we can agree on things and actually VOTE! We can’t buy our way into power, but we can vote it. Our votes are our strength. Our strength and mathematical power are simple to evoke, take the least amount of effort, and in the final analysis, are the most powerful class strength.
We need to awaken to the dangers of today and use our strength. Put some efforts into regaining balance and civility in our society. We need to stop bitching and start doing something. We need to get involved and get out the vote. Now.
Did that make any sense? Fuck Walmart!