Trump’s Military Parade Isn’t Fascist. It’s Older and Much Worse.

(Originally posted at Gods & Radicals)

…These aren’t the cowboys of the West, Rhyd. These are those same rough people, true, but ours have been grafted onto a feudal order. Standards are everything, hierarchy sacred. Killings down here arise from pissing contests, bar-fights, or marital promises; they kill for honor, to save face, to hold onto whatever place they can in a doomed and rotten society, the same one that promises them legions of black and brown waitresses, cashiers, janitors, and punching bags…

They are primed and ready to go wherever the finger points. And if skin color is the uniform of the enemy?

So be it.

Where will it go, Rhyd? North Korea? Iran? Perhaps the apocalyptic war with China we’ve all dreamed of? Or will the finger point firmly at our own chests?

Maybe there is a degree of revenge in all this. In the 1960’s the South was a backwards wilderness, the laughing stock of the country. How things change. Our cities are growing, our churches dominate the continent, we ARE the Republican Party. We run this shit even when we aren’t in office. The South’s aversion to both minimum-wage standards and unions, born from the right of the wealthy to treat people like property, is official national policy. If your children go to public school it is we who write their textbooks. Southern ideas are so wedded to what is “American” now you can see confederate flags in Michigan, Nevada, and even Maine.

The United States is their property, the descendants of these settlers, don’t you see? It’s history repeating itself. They’ve colonized the United States, made it theirs, violently pushed out anything that wasn’t their own. This parade is one part NASCAR victory lap and another part consecration ritual for the bloodshed ahead: a mass-produced version of Alabama stretching from coast to coast, soldiers with affected or natural southern drawls fresh from Iraq running security checks on “commies” and “illegals,” itching for a chance to prove their honor by machine-gunning a protest or becoming “doorkickers” in black neighborhoods. No education, no future beyond the whims of a landed gentry living in clean mansions away from poisoned air and cancer-laden food, a trailer-park version of Israel wrapped in eagles and mountain dew. They’ll see themselves as heroes, saviors, champions in a war to put everything “right” as Jesus so joyfully intended… and this time the vile “darkness” in the way of their barbaric and cruel “values” are us.

Read more here…

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UPDATE: The Liberal Desire for Gun Control is Going to Get Us Killed

(Pictured: propaganda from the Atomwaffen Division, the heavily armed Nazi cell responsible for multiple murders. Also pictured: the kind of people liberals think can be “debated.”)

Edit: It has been revealed that The Republic of Florida, eager for new members, lied about the membership of Nikolas Cruz. The thrust of the article, dealing primarily with gun control, still stands and the article has been edited to reflect new details. Witnesses still describe the shooter as someone who “‘had a penchant for wearing patriotic shirts that ‘seemed really extreme, like hating on’ Islam…The suspected gunman would also deride Muslims as ‘terrorists and bombers.’…’I’ve seen him wear a Trump hat.'”

***

“The position of the Black Panther Party was that black people live in communities occupied by police forces that are armed and dangerous and represent the frontline of forces keeping us oppressed. We did not promote guns, but rather, the right to defend ourselves against a state that was oppressing us—with guns. There were innumerable incidents in which police agents kicked in our doors or shot our brothers and sisters in what we called red-light trials, where the policeman was the judge, the jury and the executioner. We called for an immediate end to this brutality, and advocated for our right to self-defense. Today, the brutal police murders of Sean Bell in New York and Oscar Grant in Oakland are just two examples of how little has changed. The gun-control discussion could result in policies that further criminalize and target black people.
– Elaine Brown, Black Panther Party member

The workers must be armed and organized. The whole proletariat must be armed at once with muskets, rifles, cannon and ammunition, and the revival of the old-style citizens’ militia, directed against the workers, must be opposed. Where the formation of this militia cannot be prevented, the workers must try to organize themselves independently as a proletarian guard, with elected leaders and with their own elected general staff; they must try to place themselves not under the orders of the state authority but of the revolutionary local councils set up by the workers. Where the workers are employed by the state, they must arm and organize themselves into special corps with elected leaders, or as a part of the proletarian guard. Under no pretext should arms and ammunition be surrendered; any attempt to disarm the workers must be frustrated, by force if necessary.
– Karl Marx, Address of the Central Committee to the Communist League.

On February 14th a nineteen year old named Nikolas Cruz, who “had a penchant for wearing patriotic shirts that ‘seemed really extreme, like hating on’ Islam”, walked into a school and killed 19 people. Liberals, ever the champions of justice, immediately cried for guns to be taken away from poor people.

The leader of The Republic of Florida, Jereb Jordan, first told the media Cruz was one of the people he had trained, only to detract that story and blame the “jew media.”  The RoF calls for the creation of a “white ethno-state” by use of mass genocide and is heavily influenced by SIEGE, which is Atomwaffen Division’s core text that advocates violent white revolution.

Here’s a nice little video they made:

Even without official training Cruz was still quite known around campus for his right-leaning views and his preference for wearing a Trump hat, joining the long list of people planning to kill us, armed to the teeth, training day and night for a war they intend to start as soon as possible. Since 1995 killers with white supremacist ideologies have been responsible for the death of seventy-seven victims.

What’s the liberal response?

It is to take guns away from socialists, anarchists, and anyone darker than a piece of wonder-bread. To make sure the cops have all the guns.

Never mind the fact that almost half of those convicted for gun control violations are black and a quarter are Hispanic, while spree killings are overwhelmingly white offenders. Because of mandatory minimums for gun violation, the average convicted gun offender—usually someone who never hurt anyone with the weapon—rots in prison for longer than the average convicted rapist. Never mind “gun control” was the main thrust behind New York City’s Stop-and-Frisk program, which in 2011 ensnared young black men more times than there are young black men in the city, and targets minorities by a ratio of nine to one.

They don’t care about that.

They jump on the television and wonder why the police couldn’t have kidnapped the shooter before he turned violent.

They demand the police, that same institution proudly maintaining the ideology of its slave-catcher ancestors, do a better job of spying on potential threats.

They are incensed at the idea that someone not divinely ordained by the State could even wield the potential of violent force.

They rail and whine and moan that the same tools they are totally fine with cops and invading soldiers having might be in the hands of…well anybody.

No, the Liberal is all to happy with death, imprisonment, and all manner of violence provided of course their lives remain the same.

The idea that they are not cared for, that they are susceptible to the same danger the inner cities and the third world goes through on a daily basis is unthinkable. It tells them something is wrong when their own lives are so nice.

They can never admit the real systems behind such tragedies, that society itself is breaking down; that we live under a system that dehumanizes and destroys our souls, propelling our violence onto the same institutions and lives we deem responsible for it; the totally unmet needs of a populace denied even the most basic of healthcare; the rising threat of a disenfranchised wave of youths with nothing to live for and a gigantic fucking swastika looming in their brain.

Liberals will do EVERYTHING in their power to not talk about that, because to change any of it they’ll need to change the same things that make them comfortable.

Capitalism.
America.
An ever increasingly technological society that reduces human beings to a series of numbers.

You can’t reason with these people. They don’t want to hear facts. You can show them that “gun control” is a made-up word devised by literal klansman to keep minorities unarmed. You can point out any measure of “gun control” must be meted out by a central authority, one who determines who is and who isn’t a threat, making the case it will be the very Republicans and racists they claim to despise running the show. You can even show them the exciting world of homemade firearms, plainly displaying “gun control” would only make guns marginally more expensive and practically ensuring only the committedly illegal will have them.

They don’t care. But I can sure as shit tell you who they WILL listen to:

“Broward County Sheriff Scott Israel called for giving law enforcement more power to detain people who make ‘graphic threats or post disturbing material online.’ He would like the authority to bring them involuntarily to mental health professionals to be examined.”

WHO determines what is “threatening?” The American government? We’ve already seen who they think are a “threat:” YPG news outlets, Communists, Anarchists, and anybody with black skin.

Seriously, are we talking about handing this kind of power over to the SAME MOTHERFUCKERS WHO WERE HELPING FASCISTS AND ARRESTING ANTI-FASCISTS?

“The records, which also showed officers expressing sympathy with white supremacists and trying to protect a neo-Nazi organizer’s identity, were included in a court briefing from three anti-fascist activists who were charged with feloniesafter protesting at a Sacramento rally

Officers also worked with TWP member Derik Punneo to try to identify anti-fascist activists, recordings revealed. Officers interviewed Punneo in jail after he was arrested for an unrelated domestic violence charge. Audio recordings captured investigators saying they brought photos to show him, hoping he could help them identify anti-fascist activists.

The officers said, ‘We’re pretty much going after them,’ and assured him: ‘We’re looking at you as a victim.'”

And don’t get me started with the “radicals” still suffering from a liberal hang-over! How foolish to assert these killings are merely “white” and “male,” never asking just WHY such a trend exists!

Could it be, as capitalism continues to decay, the same people afforded the top of the pyramid are falling in living standards and, grown bitter, are looking for any avenue to get even? The United States Army Special Command and John Hopkins Applied Physics Labratory seem to think so.

In Human Factors Considerations of Undergrounds and Insurgencies, the literal textbook American Special Forces use to understand and destroy revolutions, reads the following:

Slogans posing such violence as inherently “white” or “male”(concepts we ourselves say are social creations) do little to solve the underlying forces that drive this demographic into violence(Capitalism) and only further radicalize a significant portion of the population into the waiting arms of the fascists.

The enemy should be clear enough: a brutal system falling apart. It’s soldiers are clear as well: fascists fighting over the crumbs of capitalism and the pigs that hope to hold the system aloft. Gun control stops nothing save for the momentary anxiety of the wealthy.

This is not a peaceful nation contemplating reform. This is not fucking Switzerland. This is a barbarous den of competing ideologies in a slow motion civil war and looking to win. The State, the Cops, and the Fascists are all uniting to KILL US and the liberals won’t lose a wink of sleep over it.

Against such a powerful enemy it is imperative that each comrade arm themselves as best they can. We are all we can count on for any chance at survival. Liberal gun reform, with its blanket desire to render the working class unarmed, is actively putting our lives and the lives of the ones we love in danger.

NEVER FORGET THAT.
Under no pretext should arms and ammunition be surrendered; any attempt to disarm the workers must be stopped, by force if necessary.

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The XFL is Coming Back. Can We Destroy America Now?

(Originally posted at Gods & Radicals)

“Who does vote for these dishonest shitheads? Who among us can be happy and proud of having all this innocent blood on our hands? Who are these swine? These flag-sucking half-wits who get fleeced and fooled by stupid little rich kids like George Bush?” – Hunter S. Thompson

“The kings of the mines, of the coalfields, and of gold would be wrong to worry. Their serfs’ resignation consecrates their authority. They no longer need to claim that their power is be based on divine right, that decorative joke: their sovereignty is legitimated by popular consent….

Teach the people! What else is needed? His poverty has taught him nothing…The worker’s neck is used to the harness.” – Zo d’Axa 

“Less than one year has passed since I first stood at this podium, in this majestic chamber, to speak on behalf of the American People—and to address their concerns, their hopes, and their dreams. That night, our new Administration had already taken swift action. A new tide of optimism was already sweeping across our land.”- President Donald Trump, First State of the Union Address

I knew this place would end up being in an article the minute I walked in.

It was a sports bar masquerading as a barbecue joint, a sterilized and clean franchise playing country music and pretending to be “old timey.” Around me were trucker hats, gruff laughs, and a FPL crew that didn’t know what to make of my Hawaiian shirt and combat boots. Above the almost exclusively white patrons twelve different television screens were buzzing, black athlete after black athlete running, jumping, and scoring. The commentators analyze them like champion horses, comparing stats and debating abilities. The patrons nod in approval, as if they too have a stake in this collective property.

When these same football players began to protest the state-sanctioned slaughter of black folks, some thought perhaps America had reached a precipice, that perhaps the “salt-of the earth” might be moved towards a greater consciousness. After all, these athletes were the ones Americans cheered for every week, the same soldiers of sport whose uniforms they wore for good luck during every game. Here, surely here, in a silent protest that screamed for the murder of innocents to end, the American people could be reached, forced to stare at something they denied every chance they could.

Instead the American people, the revolutionary subject held so holy by leftist theorists, simply changed the channel and created a new league where black players were denied the freedom to speak.

Grabbing a seat, my wife and grandfather in tow, I went over the details in my head. The WWE CEO and chairman Vince McMahon had announced that the XFL (short for “Xtreme Football League”) would be returning in 2020, nearly two decades after the NFL alternative went out of business after just one miserable season. This rebooted version of the league will feature eight teams, each with 40-man rosters, and some very interesting rules.

For one McMahon has promised a “faster” and “easier to understand” game, assuring his slack-jawed and troglodyte audience it will be a game adapted for their mental fortitude. Of peculiar interest was one league rule that was in place before any teams had been announced or players even hired:

All athletes, in a sport where 68% of the players were black, will be forced to stand for the national anthem, taking from them one of the most effective ways they’ve been able to have their voices heard. 

McMahon’s reasoning is that the XFL revival “will have nothing to do with politics or social issues,” that he doesn’t think fans want to deal with things of a political nature while watching football. “They just want good football.” Of course forcing someone to do something, to silence their ability to draw attention to the literal murder of human beings by state-sanctioned killers, is absolutely political in nature. It’s the ruling politics, the capitalist and racist ethos we revere as distinctly American.

When you have all the power and all the money it’s very easy to forget all these things exist due to a very real political order, one you alone benefit from. To the average football fan a cop brutally beating a teenager isn’t “political” because the kid is probably guilty and shouldn’t have resisted. Ghettos are just “magically” poor for no apparent reason, and crack certainly wasn’t sold to inner city youths to fund illegal wars. Layer upon layer of racism, of capitalist exploitation, has been transferred to the idea of how the world works; each finely tuned piece appears as natural as hurricanes in fall or gators fucking in the summer.

But while McMahon can pretend his league is “free” from politics, his fans aren’t even bothering with the camouflage…

(Read the rest here)

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Solecast: w/ Dr. Bones on Insurrection, Egoism, & Taking Back The World

“In this episode of the Solecast I talk with Dr. Bones.  Dr. Bones is an anarchist / egoist-communist, an occultist, and gonzo journalist.  He writes often for Gods and Radicals and is creator of The Conjure House.  He recently launched a new radical news talk show called “The Guillotine” with Revolutionary Left Radio and recently dropped a book called “Curse Your Boss, Hex The State, Take Back The World.”  

In this interview we discuss:

His approach to writing & gonzo journalism
Max Stirner & Egoism
The tensions between nihilism, insurrection and building capacity
Psychology of mass media &  psychological warfare 
His new podcast(w/ Rev Left Radio), The Guillotine
What we can learn from other non traditional leftist traditions
The precarity of modern life and where things are heading”

Give it a listen here!

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Getting Our Ass Beat in the Age of Saturn

(Originally posted at Gods & Radicals)

withyermind

“Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and you weep alone.”
― Ella Wheeler Wilcox

“What denies you is an illusion… A curse put upon you by the heartless… You knew from the very beginning… And yet, you cowered in fear… Will you die as you are told…? Who will you obey…? Cursed words spat out by a seething illusion? Or the truth within your own soul? Contract… I am thou, thou art I… The forbidden wisdom has been revealed. No mysteries… No illusions shall deceive you any longer.” –Persona 5

It’s 5am as the darkness pervades, and with it the unwelcome chill of death. Ice is building up on palm fronds. Manatees have hidden deep within the springs. Streets are empty of raccoons, possums, and all manner of nightlife. It is so cold iguanas are literally falling out of trees and turtles are washing up dead. Only the frosted beams of souls off to work exist to light the way, comfortable in warm cars.

On the sidewalk shuffles a shadow, bundled up in a trenchcoat and black hat, struggling to stay warm. He holds a small beat up radio in one ungloved hand, the only companion for a long and arduous journey. Under the flickering street lights you can see his eyes are tired, tear ducts swollen yet undisturbed. He watches the cars go by, very aware he is in another world; he smells the dogshit, the open sewers, while they cannot. He appears like a ghost, flicking into reality with each vehicle passing by.

He’s on his way to pick up his car from a parking lot. He has chosen to do so at 5am and with the temps at 30 degrees in the hopes it won’t light on fire and kill him when he attempts to drive it home. The car is toast, the engine victim to a failure the mechanic “never seen before.”

“The amount of pressure must have been incredible” he had said, shaking his bearded head to note the horror, “normally you gotta hammer the freeze plug in. We figured okay, maybe a radiator leak or something, but that bitch was GONE. Your fluid drained out and the engine overheated. Not only that but ya heads blew.”  He pauses for a moment, as if to hammer home just how much he cares. “I’m sorry to tell you this but at this kind of mileage you’re going to need a whole new engine.”

“And how much would that cost?”

“About $4,500 dollars.”

The jeep cost $3,000. It sounds like bullshit. Has to be. I laughed because all I could do was laugh.

The laugh of rent increases, firings, or deadly diseases caught at emergency rooms when you have no insurance; the chuckle you get when you watch dreams die. To be poor is to know it well, to carry it in your pocket. It usually grows like a callous right over your heart to match the ones on your hands.

And my hands were calloused.

Christmas brought news about my mother-in-law’s disability case. My wife has cared for her mother since she was sixteen, her high school years spent in apartments with no electricity and having to beg for sanitary necessities. Her mother didn’t work. She did at one time but the PTSD of having her husband kick her down the stairs and beat her within an inch of her life makes crowds impossible. Since we started dating, almost ten years, we’ve payed every bill and effectively spent the same amount of money supporting her as if we had a child. My wife has lost her entire childhood. She’s never woken up to an empty house, never sang a song simply to herself; she’s spent every waking moment worrying about someone in the other room. If that thump on the floor was someone hanging themselves or a cat knocking something over. You can see it in the darting of the eyes, the restless and frustrated sighs.

The hope was both parties might have what they call a normal life.

The judge’s decision came in an envelope that was beaten to shit. Her mother would get enough from the State to pay the light bill, some food, and that was about it. She couldn’t afford to live on her own. My wife and I had planned and imagined what life might be like, just the two of us. Holding the letter, hands shaking, it became suddenly clear those dreams would never, ever happen.

My wife cried for three days, inconsolable, her one chance at her own life gone forever. She worries we’ll never have children now. How can we afford it? She cries and cries and all I can do is hide my own anger and rage.

The two weekends later, dazed out of her wits on anti-psychotic meds, my mother in law walked into the bathroom and proceeded to eject half a gallon of liquid shit in the closet. On our clothes. She then passed out on the floor, hitting her head. We had planned to spend that Saturday night out with a friends, the same as any other twenty-something couple does. We instead spent it cleaning her off, mopping and scrubbing the floor, gagging and retching from the smell. Out of towels at one point, my wife decided to use an old t-shirt.

Life is good it says, with a big smiley covered in human feces.

She can’t help but laugh. “The irony is not lost on me.”

After adjusting we dreamed new dreams: maybe take the plunge into debt and get a house. After all, we’d never be on our own so me might as well own something that was ours. Apply for that first-time home owner’s loan. Paint it how we wanted, plant those banana trees I had read about, stop paying rent and at least craft a warm place for us to die. We had a new city picked out and were set to start hunting Thursday morning. Somewhere calm and peaceful farther down south, away from the highways and tourists. I made plans for turning the Florida Room into a writer’s den and hoped to find something next to a forest; she began picking themes to direct our painting and decorating. We could make it work. Our lives may not be the ones we wanted but we would make it work.

My wife lost her job on the 3rd. The car was pronounced dead the same day. Crossing the street, clouds of breath escaping from my collar, I laugh even now. A freak accident. By Wednesday that week every step forward for the year previous had been undone. Every dream, every hope, ripped away. My insides felt as cold as the air scraping against my throat, hurt in ways they don’t make words for.

The lot is open, and I walk over to the jeep, allowing my fingers to trail along the door of a nearby luxury vehicle. I attempt to scrape the ice off my windshield but succeed in only wiping free a small hole about the size of my palm. This will be my only visual for about two miles at fifty-five miles per hour, a desperate race to get home before the engine starts shooting out flames. There’s no coolant and the damn thing wouldn’t hold any even if I had some.  As I adjust my seat I reach into my pocket, pulling out a small flask of Sailor Jerry’s. Three sips, 93 proof each, enough to warm my stomach and agitate the blood. One last ride, windows down, and loose enough to enjoy it.

What have I got to fucking lose?

Read more here….

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Survive the Fascist Apocalypse with This ONE WEIRD TRICK

(Originally posted at Gods & Radicals)

withyermind

“The members of the great criminal gangs have mutual relations that are strongly marked with communism. If they represent a survival from a prior age, we can also consider them as the precursors of a better age in the future. In all cities they know where to address themselves so they’ll be received and hidden. Up to a certain point they show themselves to be generous and prodigal towards those of their milieu. If they consider the rich as their natural enemies, as a legitimate prey – a point of view quite difficult to contradict – a large number of them are animated by the spirit of Robin Hood; when it comes to the poor many thieves show themselves to have a good heart.” – Edward Carpenter, Civilization, its Cause and Cure

“The difference between the student radicals and the Hells Angels is that the students are rebelling against the past, while the Angels are fighting the future.” – Hunter S. Thompson, Hells Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga

She walks through crumbling streets and decaying buildings, neon lights reflected in dirty puddles made dark by ash. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and the smell of yet another wildfire runs across her nose. The street fills with a shadow and she ducks into a doorway. Above her a drone projects ads onto the dim and dirty clouds.

“\(◎o◎)/!マブダチ! Sell plasma & organs for BTC/$$$! Contact Versa Labs today! (*^▽^*)”

“Service. Trust. Belonging. Don’t you want a life off-world? Indentured Employment Awaits… scan this ad for immediate referral…”

“PACIFICATION OFFICERS ON CANAL STREET. RECORDING IS A CRIME. OBSTRUCTION IS A CRIME. LETHAL FORCE WILL BE INITIATED.”

The last projection summons up a hail of gunfire from some distant location. The drone goes down and she can hear cheers.

She waits though she doesn’t know why. She’s safe. The cops don’t come out here, the few businesses all know who runs these streets. The drone is just an adtek, and though it can record conversations it’s highly unlikely to do so. The sheer fact it came out here must mean it was wildly off course. Magnetic wave? Solar storm? Perhaps it was piloted? She thinks for a minute perhaps the air feels different, but her AppleBR locket faithfully reads the air is just as dirty here as anywhere else. What’s different? What’s changed?

As she continues on she begins to notice the posters. Recruitment, statements of importance, warnings to enemies to leave or face the consequences. Homemade solar panels and ragtag assortments of Oniwire spread out like spider webs. She knows they put them up, because the Safe Zones have to have special permission to mess with the network. All at a cost. Here she’s not so sure if they pay anything…

A few eyes stare out at her, surprisingly calm. They’re well fed and for a moment she’s embarrassed of her sullen cheeks. They know why she’s here. The checkpoints she passed earlier told her they’d alert the territory so she could pass by freely. She’d proven she was clear after a month-long investigation. Now here she was, ready to join the revolution.

Ready to fight. Ready to live. Ready to escape the endless nothingness promised to her by the crumbling governments of the orbiting stations where Google, Tesla, and Amazon all lived. She was free, finally, and she would make the world pay dearly for her slavery.

She sees a familiar face, the contact she’d run into at King Bao. An elfen little thing with green hair, tall boots, and a rifle slung around her back that looked as natural as the bangs hanging across her face. A far cry from the little mouse she’d first noticed singing “sunglasses at nite” on top of a bar counter.

A flag hangs above the doorway she stands in… what is it?

Is there a swastika on it? Red and black triangles? The skull and crossbones of an Egoist Union?

Are the people there all white? Multiracial? Do nooses hang from lampposts or do fruit trees grow over prisons? Is the territory an ethno-enclave, a node in an international union, or the nearest front in a riot that runs across continents? Do the people worship the God of No God or do full moons bring chants and sacrifice, ancient beings summoned from depths and dimensions we can barely fathom?

The conditions for all those things to be possible are on their way. They are manifesting as we speak. Which possibility becomes reality will be decided by who wins.

Because we are in a very special time.

And it is either the greatest of gifts or the bleakest of curses.

It’s All Over But the Crying

moshed_2017-11-12_21.10.39

The American government knows it’s on its last legs. From deeming the dystopian cities of the future “ungovernable” to the super rich buying bunkers and private armies everybody seems very aware that all is not well in “the land of the free.”

Everyone outside a small fetish scene consisting of Rachel Maddow and blue donkeys is well aware there never was a recovery after the Great Recession94% of net job growth in the past decade was in the “alternative work category” and defined as “generally unsteady, without a fixed paycheck and with virtually no benefits.” Over 60% was due to the rise of independent contractors, freelancers and contract company workers.” In other words, nearly all of the 10 million jobs created between 2005 and 2015 were not traditional nine-to-five employment. Our economy has been completely restructured, as if by design, resulting in a captive population living on the edge and willing to undergo any hardship to stay alive.

This new serf-dom is still too little too late. We have reached a tipping point where technology is now destroying more jobs than it creates.

“In fact, some 47% of present jobs in the US could be computerized in the next 10 to 20 years, according to an Oxford University study published in 2013.

‘When people no longer receive the money from wages they need to support their families, it is hard to know what they will do, but in the past and in other countries this has been thought of as a situation ripe for a revolution,’ Wallach said.

Wallach would later add that this “dire response” can be avoided through “welfare reforms or job subsidies” and “redistributing some of the capital growth.”

Which of course is exactly the OPPOSITE of what the US is doing.

Trump’s tax plan is not yet law, but only has one more vote in both the House and Senate on what’s called “the conference report.” Since the House and Senate passed different versions of it, Republicans have to merge them into one version which is then voted on by both.

We aren’t sure what the final thing will look like, but if it bares any resemblance to what it does now the American people are FUCKED.

It has massive tax cuts to the rich and corporations, drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Reserve, along with $1 trillion ADDED to the deficit which will force deep cuts to Medicaid, Medicare, and Social Security in the not too distant future.

But perhaps most shocking of all is the total elimination of the estate tax, better known as the tax on inheritances. With its absence the United States would become the most heavily armed enclave for the wealthy in the world, a mountain-dew soaked version of Brazil where the majority live in absolute poverty while the upper crust hide trillions in houses, land, and shell corporations.

Essentially every dollar that goes up to the bourgeoisie will never be coming back down again.

If revolution was a mere possibility before it’s practically guaranteed now. The only question is whose revolution will it be?

Read more here…

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New Year’s Day

New Year’s Day and the people are lining up at Macy’s. Eight on one entrance, six on another, 5 on yet another. Every entrance surrounded like a SWAT team ready to kill an innocent person. Waiting for the doors to open. Waiting to buy things.

New Year’s Day and the machine rolls on. Any half-way decent country, in the wake of a national holiday, might declare a national day of rest. Of recovery. But the machine rooooooooolls on.

As it rolls on we must awaken to fulfill our roles for the machine. Up at 5am. Late. Running to work across wet grass. Opening boxes. Stocking shelves.

“How many pallets we got coming in?” The truck driver won’t answer. He asks again. “How many we got coming in?”
“Eighteen.”
“E-eighteen? Son of a BITCH.” Eyes above dark bags, half-sunken and half-asleep buck at the load. “And we don’t have more people?”
“This is all we got.”

So it goes.

The night before  Kim Jung Un warns the President of the United States that a “nuclear button” was always resting on his desk, ready to strike North America at any moment. Top US officials say a nuclear war with North Korea is “closer than ever” and that they cannot see any diplomatic solution to the crisis. That it could have popped off last night.

New Year’s Eve. In the middle of our drunken revelries, totally unaware, our lives could have been wiped off the face of the fucking planet and nobody would’ve been the wiser; the officers in every hotel along 7th Avenue, leading to 42nd Street in Manhattan, placed specifically for rooftop or hotel room shooters would be powerless to save us. They tried I suppose. Umbrellas, backpacks and duffel bags were prohibited. But the raging hot oblivion would still have reduced us to ashes.

And we’d have no say in it.

Our material safety, our security, our very existences are in the hands of people who we have no influence over, who we don’t know, and who can decide whether we live or die on a whim. Internationally there is a gigantic game of chicken being waged between two assholes and we are completely dependent on them.

Our lives aren’t our own.

Even with the threat of radioactive fire peeling the atoms from our bones the machine goes on. The stores must open up. The trucks keep coming in, the boxes MUST be opened. Put on the shelf. So that other people might buy them with money they’ve earned from the machine.

We aren’t in control of our lives. We aren’t even in control of our own deaths. Shuttled around from place to place.

“When the time comes,” I say to my co-worker, “when someone comes in and shoots us all you have to promise me something.”

She looks puzzled. “And what’s that?”

“Please don’t let me die in my uniform. Take my workshirt off and let me bleed out in my undershirt. Tell my wife I love her. Drag me out of the building if you can and let me die near a palmetto rather than on this shitty-ass floor.”

She laughs, thinks I’m kidding. She gets serious. “As long as you promise to do the same for me.”

I saw a bag of cereal today, a quick meal for the worker on his way to the machine. It was nothing more than popcorn sweetened and sold for $2.24 a bag. Corn, a type of grass. Funny isn’t? The same diet we feed to domesticated animals sold to weary eyes and hungry faces. Grass. Millions of people running around and doing as their told, herded from pen to pen; waiting blankly, munching contentedly, as one shepard argues with another.

Line up. Don’t want to miss a sale. Forget the lives of all those people far away our leaders plan on killing.

Amazing. If North Korea were ever to strike the United States with any kind of nuclear weapon…what’s to gain exactly? The United States would wage a war of extermination. There may very well not be any kind of Korea left. The United States wouldn’t bat an eye and not a single person outside that Macy’s would give a shit. The most abject and naked brutality could be indiscriminately hoisted upon an entire population and these motherfuckers wouldn’t lose a single wink of sleep.

I stand here, stealing my owner’s time, wondering if the North Koreans don’t feel the same; that even if they died, even if everything they loved got wiped off the fucking map, would they at least be vaporized contentedly knowing they had inflicted some measure of pain on us? That they’d hurt us?

What kind of world is this where all we can hope for is some modicum of revenge? Where the only thing that counts as victory are small droplets of blood drawn by a hand only vaguely associated with you? Whose actions spelled your own death?

What kind of world are we living in? That we’ve created? What kind of existence is this?

The television and internet are ablaze with images of other people like us, humans who think and feel. We parade their corpses around like elephant tusks. We play show after show filled with mugshots and chained bodies on grey plantations as a threat to those on the outside. Follow the rules, don’t make a ruckus, and you’ll be alright.

Unless of course you aren’t. Unless of course those same rules send your entire family into a nuclear hellscape, unless of course you watch the flesh peel off small children, eyeballs dangling down their cheeks because their still attached to optic nerves. Unless of course the smell of vomit and piss and shit and rotting corpses fills every place you once thought beautiful.

But today’s a holiday, so we don’t worry, leaving such thoughts to the voices of the horrified. It’s New Years Day and the people are lining up at Macy’s.

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Meet the Hellbeast that Owns Your Future

(Originally posted at Gods & Radicals)

trumpflagThere we were, standing on the edge of everything.

We were about a mile and a half from the asphalt of State Highway 192, a long and winding stretch of road originally built in 1918 and running to what was then bunch of orange groves called Kissimmee. Much has changed since then, the fishers and farmers gone; now a life is made by hawking theme park tickets or designing death machines for Harris and Northrop-Grumman.

Huddled, herded, people everywhere in a rush to hurry up and wait. Going nowhere in particular, really doing nothing, no time to be anything but what the clock demanded.

Our camp might have well existed on another planet, miles and miles of nothing but marshland and pine trees fencing us in like fort walls from that deary world. Given a temporary reprieve of “progress” this territory was as wild today as it appeared to the Ais and the Jaega who were all wiped out over 250 years ago. In these untouched places you can still get a sense of what Florida is really about, what lies beneath all the concrete and neon signs. For now anyway. The hotels march ever inward, the suburbs continue to grow, and one day perhaps not a single orange grove will be left in a state that was known for them. That or we’ll drown.

But as long as these places remain so too will all the weirdness associated with them. It is said by the country folk that traverse these waters and forests many an odd beast still stalks and swims the hinterlands just like this, things that don’t quite fit the mold of “modern living:” Skunk Ape, two-headed birds, super hogs that stood as tall as a grown man’s shoulder and could rip his guts out in less than a second, all rumored to lie just beyond the edge of my fire.

I wasn’t worried. I doubt they were as deadly or dangerous as the beast I’d been tracking.
The one that was waiting at the pavement and would not leave me alone.

I could feel its eyes on me, even now, as I threw another palm frond on to the burning coffee branches and patted the .357 resting snugly in my pocket. Twilight was approaching and above the pine trees I could still hear the whisper of the highway and the anonymous souls traversing it. I tried to focus on anything at that point: the sound of the wind running through the pines, the hum of dragonflies and the treading of nearby deer. I thought about joining my wife in the camping hammock, resting under the blue tarp and swaying in the breeze. Out here so much of the what was “important” drifted away.

But every time I tried to lose myself, drifting into Things As They Were, the… thing… would make a noise, snapping my head back to the road where I could make out its hairy shadow. Yes, it was out there, prowling and sniffing at the trail head where our jeep was parked, buzzing like a hive of angry bees.

“Look.” I regained focus to find my wife now out of our hanging home and pointing to the edge where tree met sky. “All that light pollution. That’s coming from town.” I stood, brushing the dirt onto my pants and nervously popped in a toothpick.

“Really? This far? That’s… Jesus, what? 20 miles?”

“No wonder you can never see the stars.” I nodded, torn away from thoughts of doom to marvel at the symbol we’d become. Behind us was nothing but inky darkness, the jungle and pines now claimed by bobcats, mosquitos, and bull gators; in front of us the mechanized world of human society, its masks, roles, and social engineering. Here we were, creatures torn between two poles of evolution, making camp between the atavistic shadows of animal instinct and the bee-hive techhell of light and sophistication.

“The border,” I whispered, “that’s all I want; the frontier between the two.”

“Hm? What’d you say babe?”

“N-nothing. Nothing.” My gaze once again drawn towards the highway. From a distance I could pick up the sound of metallic teeth gnawing on the tires of my jeep, a dull grind I had heard echo in schools and prisons.

I patted the revolver, wishing I had packed silver bullets, but even then I knew I stood no chance. I made my peace with my ancestors and made a promise to go down defiant till the end.

Things that Bite

The world is much more savage than Sunday school would lead you to believe. It is filled with killers, liars, hustlers, pimps, and that’s just the folks that make the laws. Beyond the seeing eye, invisible save for the sensitives, lie the swarms and packs of negative entities.

Legends abound as to what and why these creatures are. No one can say for sure, though the magical record shows human beings have been cleansing, warding, and blessing everything in an attempt to keep them at bay. For better or worse they are a simple fact of life and, if shades questioned under full moons are to be believed, they might even hound beyond the grave.

These creatures range from hostile gluttons who hunger for suffering to mere bundles of blind motivations, but through it all the breed can be immediately recognized for its parasitic existence. The living must suffer for them to live.

The blessed can sense these creatures when a thought unlike their own takes up residence in the aura while the doomed seem oblivious to the constant sound of burrowing and munching.

“I had no idea what came over me,” says one woman. “I just kept thinking god wanted me to kill my son until finally I had to do it.”

“The house, it was always the house,” says another, “whenever we went inside we just felt sad and depressed. I kept drinking and smoking and crying but I couldn’t shake it. I knew I had to die.”

Stock and trade for the average Conjurer is chasing out evil spirits or breaking their bones; fevered words stained with Rue Water and sage smoke increase the spiritual heat until nothing negative can remain. Old school practitioners used to pop red pepper, cayenne, and sulfur in a glowing cast iron skillet to really lay the heat on thick, carrying the pan and its toxic plumes of smoke from room to room until no spirit or person could stand it any longer. You can’t kill the things of course, only chase them away and build fences to keep them out.

But how can you ward against the future?

Weird shakings had been reported near the Gods & Radicals Astral Office and as chief correspondent of the Cataclysmic Affairs section it was my job to lead an inquiry into what the fuck was going on. Reports were sketchy, rushed and hazy: some new creature had been seen grappling with the probability clouds that bring manifestation to The Ten Billion Things, a sure sign that whatever it was would soon rewrite our own plane of existence. It was big, ugly, and overwhelmingly negative; witnesses reported it had tentacles in almost every home in America and was soaking small children in ectoplasm. As the resident Hoodooman my assignment was to track the beast for a bit, to study its maneuvers and habits in the hope that it might better be killed. On the advice of my editors I made a living will in case I died during the course of my investigation.

If I die, the legally-binding scrap of napkin began, in the journalistic service of Gods & Radicals, or barring that in some low-down Reporter of Fortune capacity that walks the fine line between investigation and criminal activity, I desire that my body be left near enough to the Everglades to be feasted upon by the wild critters therein. My bones however, stripped and cleaned, are to be kept and passed to my kin and comrades as tools for summoning. My skull and hands, mask and jacket, are to be incased in some secret shrine where those seeking necromantic aid might petition favor and spectral assistance to insurrectionary activities with Sailor Jerry’s, bullets, and alligator jerky. Also please riot.

Legally secure I set out to track a creature that had no name, could change shapes, and would no doubt eviscerate what most of humanity thought “the future” was going to look like.

What I found was ghastly, horrid, and made me seriously question the idea of bringing kids into the world…

Read more here…

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Tripping Balls and Learning to Work with The Patron Saint of Criminals

(Originally posted at Gods & Radicals)

trumpflag

“The revolutionary knows that in the very depths of his being, not only in words but also in deeds, he has broken all the bonds which tie him to the social order and the civilized world with all its laws, moralities, and customs, and with all its generally accepted conventions. He is their implacable enemy, and if he continues to live with them it is only in order to destroy them more speedily.” – Sergey Genadievich Nechayev, Catechism of a Revolutionary

“The State’s behavior is violence, and it calls its violence ‘law’; that of the individual, ‘crime’… .only by crime does he overcome the State’s violence when he thinks that the State is not above him, but he is above the State.” – Max Stirner, The Ego and Its Own

“The illegalist milieu also illuminates a singular aspect of utopia, specifically that when the anarchist society is realized it will not be as a result of some esoteric will-to-liberty, or a Freudian erotic demiurge, nor as the result and sum of a labored economic equation, rather utopia will arise as a function of necessity, as banal as breakfast and as certain as summer heat.” – Paul Z. Simons, “Illegalism: Why Pay for a Revolution on the Installment Plan… When You Can Steal One?”

I am heaving now, clumsily reaching for a bucket as vomit flies out of my mouth at high speeds. All my wife can do is look on in horror, my eyes moving wildly as small whimpers creep from my disjointed jaw.

The drugs. Something is wrong with the drugs.

Sweat is not supposed to be dripping from my head. My legs and arms keep curling and I’m losing muscle control. I try to go back in my head, try to recall exactly what I took but I can’t. Everything is going black. My kidneys feel like they’re on fire. In between vomiting I can feel my body seizing and shaking, as my soul screams to be released from the pain lighting up my nerves. Blood is pouring from my mouth. A hallucination? I gasp for air, waves of pure dread emanating from my aura.

My wife scoots closer and grips my hand. She is saying something. I can’t make out the words. I can barely recognize her face. My hearing has stopped. Now I’m shaking. Something has gone wrong, very wrong.

All this for a simple question: “Who is Jesus Malverde?”

¡Que Malverde es Milagroso!

Turpentine_workers_in_Florida(Court Case Work with Jesus Malverde)

Who is Jesus Malverde?

Much like any question regarding Anarchism, Communism, or if a revolver is a valid choice for everyday carry, the answers depend on who you ask.

To cops he’s a symbol of criminal activity, his image “suspicious” enough to cause your car to be searched; to the Catholic Church he’s a foreign and pagan invader, a “narco saint” dressing up murder and drug-dealing in the guise of religion; to the working class of Mexico he is a hero, a loving soul that blesses border crossings, protects from corrupt police, and ensures the faithful never starve.

Perhaps he is all these things and more. My own dealings with the Saint seemed to suggest as such. I had been introduced to Jesus Malverde through a Conjure Woman by the name of Mama Micki. She had worked with him for many years, petitioning him for help with her job and gambling, and after reading a few articles of mine knew we’d be a good fit. “I thought you would be interested in Jesus Malverde because he was more interested in helping people than supporting an unjust system,” she told me. “He robbed the rich and gave to the poor.”

Well, I thought, who better for an Anarchist advocating violence, theft, and violence than a Saint who knew that route all too well?

The results were incredible.

My first act was simple enough: printing out two images of him, taping them to two white novena candles, offering water and tequila and asking for a sign he’d be interested in helping me. A taxi driver recognized me on a walk that day out of the blue and gave me a free ride. Keeping this simple set up that ran me about $10 I asked his aid for a hopeless court case I had fallen victim to, one where “guilt” was a very grey term.

I can remember that petition, paying fervently and promising that if Malverde aided me I’d build him a permanent altar in my home and send money to a children’s charity in Mexico. I watched in amazement as I felt a vaguely human shape sit upfrom the altar, say the word’s “okay, let’s go,” throw on a mask and disappear to the East.

Not only did Malverde make the whole thing go my way he made sure my insurance rates miraculously never went up. He brought me total victory and in return all he asked was that I make a donation to the poor.

This was a power the Weird Left had to know, a champion of the oppressed. Who better for the magical Anarchist to have as a patron than someone who gives fuck-all about the law and instead focuses on what’s right?

According to the legend Jesus Malverde was born in Culiacán, Sinoloa in the late 1800’s. Like the majority of the proletariat of Mexico he was destined to a life of starvation and poverty like his working-class parents, and by all accounts he lived a normal life. That changed when his parents died due to malnutrition in a land of plenty. Jesus, incensed and determined not to suffer the same fate, decided to make a change.

He became a criminal.

Jesus began robbing carriages at gunpoint, quickly gaining notoriety for his bravery and cunning in liberating the wealthy from their ill-gotten gains. As his exploits became renowned Jesus upgraded his methods, learning to pick locks, plan raids, and become a master of stealth; he became a burglar, ran a gang, and gathered intelligence to ensure every job supplied him with greater and greater loot.

Jesus Malverde never kept his prizes and instead shared them among the poor. Clothes, jewelry, and priceless antiques were fenced to buy medicine, cancel debts, and even bury the dead. No one went hungry and to the people all over the state of Sinaloa Jesus became known as “The Angel of the Poor” or “The Generous Bandit.”

The wealthy were afraid. Through guile, strength, and sheer guts he lifted the peasantry out of squalor. He exploits were dangerous enough, and quickly becoming the stuff of legend. The governor of Sinaloa, Francisco Cañedo, had even had his home broken into by the bandit. What if word spread farther across Mexico and imitators no doubt followed? Something had to be done.

Malverde was eventually betrayed by a member of his gang for a 10,000 peso reward. On May 3rd 1909 he was sentenced to death by hanging, and it is said his final words were “do not forget my people.”

Governor Cañedo, wanting to warn those of the gang who survived and intimidate the peasantry, demanded Malverde’s corpse be left to rot on a mesquite tree and promised a swift death to any who cut him down.

For a nation of Catholics this was a particularly cruel punishment, and implied Malverde would never know peace in the afterlife. And maybe it worked. Three days after Malverde died the betrayer was caught and murdered. Governor Cañedo died 33 days later.

The police intended to keep Malverde in torment, even with the Governor dead. The threat of execution still loomed. Gang members and peasants, in an attempt to right the state’s wrong, began to toss stones at the corpse’s feet whenever they passed it, eventually covering the body up and building a makeshift tomb.

It was from this tomb Malverde would perform his first miracle. A man was traveling near the body one night with mules who were loaded down with gold, a very uncommon thing for a “law-abiding citizen.” The mules ran off and took the man’s fortune with it. In total desperation, and quite possibly fearing reprisal for his bad luck, the man prayed for Malverde’s aid from beyond the grave.

Quickly, even as the man finished his prayer, the donkey’s returned as if lead by an unseen hand. The man cut down the corpse in gratitude and buried it in a secret place, a place still unknown to this day. The stones remained as a monument and word quickly spread:

Jesus Malverde had not forgotten his people. A Saint had been born.

The Responsible Thing to Do

Turpentine_workers_in_Florida(Source: GRNlive)

So the history was intriguing: murder, robbery, and a steadfast dedication to the exploited. Yes, this was my fucking man! The people had to know! But how to tell them?

The Weird Left deserved more than a mere listicle. I wanted to really get to know my new patron, a Saint both my wife and I had grown to love, while at the same time making him available to the masses; a sort of keenly subjective assault on altered reality in search of the gnosis of Jesus Malverde, the unutterable fullness behind the image, not just who he is or what he’s about but what he means.

If he’d been alive I’d have bought him a stream of drinks, recorded our conversation, and mused deeply on its implications.

This avenue was unavailable due to Malverde being dead, so I figured I’d do what any responsible journalist would: load up on hallucinogens and fervently call to the Saint beyond the veil, praying direct knowledge permeate my being on a cellular level.

And after that?

whatever happens happens on Tumblr

As of this writing my kidneys still hurt and the vomit won’t wash out of the carpet. Perhaps I should have made a better statement of intent.

Read the rest here….

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“She Is An American Worker And Her Life is Not Her Own”

(Originally posted at Gods & Radicals)

I talked to her because I knew her experience was shared by many, including myself, and would unfortunately continue to be shared long after the both of us were dead and buried.

You’ve probably seen Tara Johnson before. She’s a young black woman in her early 30’s, always smiling, and eager to help customers at the grocery store she works at. Since 2001 she’s helped maintain the store’s “friendly” image, a cheerful employee who gets up every day before the sun does, like a machine. Behind her smile lies a hidden story, one that seeps out in the tired way she walks or the exasperated way she speaks.

She is an American worker and her life is not her own.

“4 to 2’oclock. 4 am to 2pm, let’s say that.” That’s Tara’s everyday schedule, a week she describes as “extremely rough.” When she gets home she either passes out due to exhaustion or lingers on to pick up her girlfriend’s daughter and do homework.

Like most Americans, Tara spends the majority of her time in service to someone else. Americans work longer hours than anyone else in the world: 137 more hours per year than Japanese workers, 260 more hours per year than British workers, and 499 more hours per year than French workers, all without any of the usual benefits the working class is allotted elsewhere; totally alien concepts like setting the maximum length of the work week, the global average of 20 paid vacation days, or even a parental leave benefit seem more like fairy tales than a possible political priority. Tara’s girlfriend still can’t afford healthcare, why waste the time and tears imagining a vacation?

Most people in the United States can’t imagine anything beyond work, a full 85.8 percent of males and 66.5 percent of females in America putting in more than 40 hours per week. Many do so across multiple jobs, barring them from overtime pay and leaving little time for anything beyond the bottom rungs of Maslow’s pyramid. Tara’s girlfriend works about the same hours she does, scrubbing apartments on top of cooking, cleaning, and raising a child. “She definitely got two jobs,”says Tara. “No doubt.”

Even with all this work, all this time devoted to anything other than themselves, half of non-retired adults (49%) said they were not confident they’d be financially secure enough to retire.

“A lot more people working similar hours and struggling,” she said.  “I can easily count out 10 right now, and that’s me not even thinking about it. Majority have kids.” She describes the life of the average American as one where you “do enough so you can pay ya’ bills and then die.”

Numbers do little to capture this reality. Facts and figures can’t accurately portray the sadness that drips from the faces I see, the shoulders perpetually bowed and wearied. I watch young people at the height of their health spend lightless days inside buildings, running from one workplace to the next all just to break even.

Scarcely fifty years ago Tara might have owned her own house, participated in a political organization, or even studied necromancy and how to awaken the Dead. Her life would have been far from ideal, especially as a woman of color, but certain benefits like time would have at least been around. Rough jobs with long hours have always existed, but they usually pay better because they’ve never been the norm.

Today even time has become a luxury under the American workload; “living” means little when you’re too tired to get off the couch. Tara and her girlfriend struggle to carry out a normal relationship, to make time for one another as a couple and as individuals.

She sees the problem everywhere. “Everybody’s too tired to do anything nowadays.” She’s crouched on the floor, opening boxes. “Work so many damn hours. Plus if you have children.”

20171019_081333

“Do you have any time to do anything for yourself?” I asked her. She paused for a while, greeting a customer as they walked by.

“Not at all. Maybe… maybe take a shower.” she says. “Watch a few tv channels, that’s it. Sleep, go home, go to work.” Once a month, if she’s very lucky, she tries to play basketball, a sport she once loved as a child, “but who has time for that?” Tara looks at me with eyes that ache, resignation pouring off her body. “Now you gotta pay bills so you gotta work.”

For nearly two-thirds of the U.S. labor force this is the only world they’ll ever know.

And by the gods, I’m one of them….

(Read the rest here)

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