There Is No Civilization, There is No Wild. There Is Only You and Me.

(Originally posted at Gods & Radicals)

Editor’s Note: As fans of Dr. Bones on twitter and facebook might know our resident Conjurer was recently blown out of his mind on what Gods & Radicals can only assume to be highly illegal substances. This draft was sent to us with almost an hour and a half of audio, several hand drawn images, and a series of photographs in what we assume to be Dr. Bones…well, we aren’t exactly sure what’s going on but have serious doubts the alligator skulls were ethically sourced. Gods & Radicals in no way endorses buying high-powered hallucinogens off the Dark Web and patently refuses Bones’ calls to “send him $400 to help get some things going down here. If the rednecks get a taste of this stuff they’ll be shitting rainbows and communism for generations.”

The following text is presented as we received it in the hopes that readers will be able to make sense of it. Those inclined to help Dr. Bones further his drug habit and firearms purchases should consider buying his book.


As of this writing I have been out of my mind on acid bought off the Dark Web for the better part of 24 hours. My house is covered in drawings, still-burning incense, and every mirror appears to be dotted with the words “YOU ARE TAICHI” written in what I presume to be blood. Texts from Stirner are scattered about everywhere and people on twitter are asking me how they can join The Ancient and Medicinal Order of the Hyena.

Chuang-Tzu said “The torch of chaos and doubt, this is what the Sage steers by.” If this is true I have totally transcended the motherfucking wheel.

I need beer to take the edge off, desperately trying to explain to my wife what was going on.

“What the hell was that,” she says mixing 3 shots of espresso into my morning coffee, “you were up till 4am talking about creating some…some lodge or something? You practically destroyed the house! And why did you keep waking me up to tell me you were a Japanese artist?”

“I don’t know! Sweet jesus I don’t even know what the hell I took. I got it off some old Korean guy I work with. One minute he’s showing my some tai-chi moves, the iron bar and all that, and the next think you know he’s asking me if I want any acid!”

“How much did this cost?” She laughs shaking her head. “How do you even meet these people?”

“The cost?” I move on to my second beer. “Nothing. He just gave it to me.”


“Gave. Said he bought a shitload of it off the Dark Web with bitcoin. Gives it to wizard types he comes across. The sigils I was seeing…I…my god.” I grabbed my wife now, my eyes practically bloodshot. “I can’t begin to describe what this means for my magical practice. I have new glyphs for candles, new prayers to sing. Wait until my next-oh…and uh…speaking of…” She pushes me away, half laughing and half bewildered.

“You have to mail out one package and send that lady in Michigan an order for her candle.”

“Ah, good-good. The lady who had the evil eye on her wedding. Any readings?”

“One. And you were supposed to deliver it 4 hours ago.” The coffee is gone and I move on to my third beer, finally beginning to get back to some sense of normalcy.

“Well,” I cough, “seeing as how I’ve blown the day I think I need to mediate on my sins. We should probably go to a church.”

Load the car up, bottled water and rum. 55 miles an hour past blue flags and neo-confederates packing heat, drivers staring like sharks out of the windows; hungry, ignorant fools who actually hold their inbreeding in pride.

They needed to be punished.

I roll down my window and draw the attention of a nearby motorist.

“S’cuze me, sir. Is that a ‘blue lives matter’ sticker on your bumper?” He looks confused, like a wounded animal, his old Chevy chugging along some half-rabid pitbull.

“Yah,” he says spitting out tobacco, “and wuz of it?”

“Oh good.” I can feel my wife’s hand desperately trying to grab my shoulder, pull me back in the window, but there won’t be any of that. “I was trying to figure out who to tell to FUCK OFF!” Rubber screeches as the light shifts into green, a cloud of smoke pouring from the tires and filling the windshield. Turn the radio station up, that’s the ticket, if Marc Antony comes on it’s a sign from the gods I should draw on this miserable cockersucker and fill him with lead.

Did I say that out loud? Or did I write it? Judging from the terror in my eyes and the speed I’m driving I’m going to say this is really happening.

Turkey Creek Nature Sanctuary. Get out of the jeep, two more pulls from the driving juice hidden in the dash box. Go out to the kayak launch. Rain, who put all this rain here?

Breathe. Breathe. Calm and steady. I mutter words of power liberated from a Thelemic chat room many moons ago.

“I have a body but I am not my body.
I have a mind but I am not my mind.
I have desires but I am not my desires.
I have thoughts but I am not my thoughts.”

Everything cools around me, silencing the storm raging in all my nerves. Slipping once again into a meditative state I focus on the power that envelopes and flows through all things. Slowly everything begins to melt away: cars, worries, states, and borders all disappear. Some greater shard from the Godhead lights up in my chest and I’m swirling in wisdom and pure gnosis. In this small place, as the heavens bore life-giving water to a drought stricken land, everything was at once made holy; the river itself, slow and constant, becomes a symbol of that power forever lurking in the background, a greater icon worthy of worship unfashionable by human hands. Long ago a shrine might have been built in such a place, a person in touch with Spirit pulled to take residence and protect it. A place like that might heal the sick, start a cult, and in a few hundred years be the subject of many an anthropological study with romantic overtones.

And here it was, at a nature preserve, surrounded by cookie cutter homes and low-end nail salons….

Read more here.

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Egoist-Communism: What It Is and What It Isn’t

“Throw away holiness and wisdom, and people will be a hundred times happier. Throw away morality and justice, and people will do the right thing. Throw away industry and profit, and there won’t be any thieves.” – Tao te Ching, Chapter 19

Across my career I have been something of a strange beast, few and far between quite knowing what to make of me: the gonzo-aficionados love my prose but are confused by offerings left at the crossroads and endless references to Stirner; the Anarchists and Insurrectionists love my theories but are perplexed by my trafficking in spirits and identification as a journalist; the Occult crowd adores my sorcerous inclinations yet seems puzzled by my near-addict level of political consumption entwined with my nihilistic desire to destroy society.

What kind of wizard would I be if I could be explained easily, much less my political inclinations? Still, as sure as wildfire season will choke the skyline of many a Florida town this summer the need to explain oneself will arise.

Take the recent email I received:

“I’m an egoist as well, I’d also identify as a post-leftist. I’d say that part of leaving the left behind is leaving behind communism as well. I agree with Wolfi Landstreicher’s critiques of it mostly.

I see communism as an ideological spooky political program. You have works like “The ‘Right’ to be Greedy” and “The ‘Right’ to be Lazy” but I feel personally trying to combine anti-work sentiments with an idea that is at its core an economic way of production is a little strange. And when most people think communism, they aren’t thinking about it in the way the “The Right to be Greedy” folks were, most people would attribute lofty spooky ideals with communism like capital J “Justice and capital H “Humanity.” Sacrifice for the good of all!…

What are your thoughts?

I find it interesting to that you address yourself as an egoist-communist but not as an anarchist in particular. Just found it odd you went straight for the communist label but I can’t really find in your about me where you explicitly say you’re an anarchist.”

In-between labored attempts at meditation and Qigong to heal my damaged liver, I penned a response I figured was strong enough to become an article and with it perhaps a definition of a politics few have heard of.

Firstly I am an Egoist, and call myself one even before an Anarchist. For me Egoism surpasses Anarchism, takes it as a standing point and goes a step further: no hierarchy is above me, however it might dress itself up. This includes the State of course but also the very concept of Law; this includes Capitalism but also the very notions of right and wrong normally lobbed against it as criticisms. All things are indeed nothing to me, all relations exist at my behest. Society is nothing more than a big idea, a game of pretend that’s taken itself far too seriously and I do not intend to live my life on this planet beholden to it.

Sorcerers and witches usually live in this space, forever outside the rules and customs of the Waking World. Take a heroic dose of mushrooms, douse yourself in Black Arts Oil, then spend the night at your local cemetery and you’ll see why. This existence is one among many, and once you learn that most of human politicking ends up looking like a cruel joke.

I am imprisoned. So are you. I aim not to make our prison “a better place” but advocate its entire destruction. I in no way intend to make the whip on my back “the people’s whip” or put it in new hands. I do so without any religious belief that my own burning world is a sure thing on the horizon. I fight, I loathe, I spit venom at a world that seeks to destroy me because it is who I am. The way this system harms others only further incites my rage, the shame of vulgar slavery that surrounds them filling me with righteous fury. I am following me, my own inclinations; my own song that only I can sing.

So why the Communist bit?

As Novatore said “because we — violent cerebralists and passional sentimentalists at the same time — understand and know that revolution is a necessity of the silent sorrow that suffers at the bottom and a need of the free spirits who suffer in the heights.” I cannot be free as long as I am owned by Capital and I cannot truly enjoy myself while the screams of the enslaved ring in my ear. I want freedom for me and for you, that we might enjoy it together. When I’m speaking about Communism I’m talking about the original definition: a classless, stateless sense of being. This rules out any “transition” period.

If workers remain workers,  producing in separate enterprises, dependent on their relation to that workplace for their subsistence, and exchanging with other enterprises, then whether that exchange is self-organised by the workers or given central direction by a “workers’ state” means very little: the capitalist content remains, and sooner or later the distinct role or function of the capitalist will reassert itself.

Markets of any kind mean money, however the Left may try to dress it up. Because of its ease to measure, currencies will always becomes the sole measure of value(how much you did today, how much this thing is worth) so all things end up being measured by this stick: an apple is no longer a treasured gift from the garden, a being unto itself, but a commodity; the family dog isn’t your best friend, but simple “property” with a monetary value.

Thus we have a world not of individuals but of human resources.

Stirner even points out “Restless acquisition does not let us take breath, take a calm enjoyment. We do not get the comfort of our possessions… Hence it is at any rate helpful that we come to an agreement about human labours that they may not, as under competition, claim all our time and toil.”

So, what’s an Egoist to do?

Co-operation is a need of human existence but it doesn’t need to divide us into classes. We can procure what we require and what we desire without focusing on buying and selling. Such Unions of Individuals working together so that each may benefit more closely follow Stirner’s definition of a “sword with which you sharpen and increase your natural force” rather than anything the Soviets put out, and roam even closer to Nietzsche’s concepts of “unions:”

“My idea is that every specific body strives to become master over all space and to extend its force (–its will to power:) and to thrust back all that resists its extension. But it continually encounters similar efforts on the part of other bodies and ends by coming to an arrangement (“union”) with those of them that are sufficiently related to it: thus they then conspire together for power.”

I am looking to conspire with others for power so that I am free to pursue my desires, desires Stirner pointed out will always be neglected when Capitalism reins supreme:

“What is most useful is open to argument. And now, sure enough, it turns out… that in competition, not everyone finds his profit, his desired ‘private advantage,’ his value, his actual interest.”

When I speak of Communism I’m not talking about the surrendering of property to some spooky and religious “Us” that dictates our behavior. I’m talking about the goal of communization: existence without exchange, money, commodities, etc. I’m talking about the working class itself ceasing to exist as the working class. This is Communism by the people involved with it for their benefit, a system the Pirates of old utilized:

“Pirate ships operated on a ‘No Prey, No Pay’ basis, but when a vessel was captured the booty was divided up by a share system. This sort of share system was common in mediaeval shipping, but had been phased out as shipping became a capitalist enterprise and sailors wage labourers. It still existed in privateering and whaling but pirates developed it into its most egalitarian form – there were no shares for owners or investors or merchants, there was no elaborate hierarchy of wage differentiation – everyone got an equal share of the booty and the captain usually only 1 or 1 1/2 share.”

This has nothing to do with “humanity” or what’s right. I simply want what’s mine. This is communism where we can look out over the horizon and say “this is all yours, and mine too,” a communism where we can take care of one another because it pleases us to do so and because it ensures we too shall be taken care of.

“The harshness of life at sea made mutual aid into a simple survival tactic. Pirate articles also commonly included a form of mutual aid where injured shipmates unable to participate in the fighting would receive their share as a pension. Pirates took this sort of solidarity very seriously – at least one pirate crew compensated their wounded only to discover they had nothing left. From the articles of Bartholomew Roberts’ crew: “If… any Man should lose a Limb, or become a Cripple in their Service, he was to have 800 Dollars, out of the publick Stock, and for lesser Hurts, proportionably.” And from those of George Lowther’s crew: “He that shall have the Misfortune to lose a Limb, in Time of Engagement, shall have the Sum of one hundred and fifty Pounds Sterling, and remain with the Company as long as he shall think fit.”

Technology can be harnessed to provide our every need, an entire galaxy awaits our fingertips, so why should our existence be boiled down to buying and selling? Doesn’t that limit our Unique? Can you feed your family alone? Can I? Can we alone provide electricity to our homes and maintain the systems that keeps it going?

If we can’t, shouldn’t we work together? If we still can’t, shouldn’t we find others? And when we find them won’t they desire to own just as much of that property as we do? Why can’t we have individual indulgence with a joyous community life; why not lawlessness with the cause of social justice? I seek the whole me, not a sliver, and to find him I need friends and accomplices to work with. What somebody works ought to be owned by them, plain and simple, and I believe we’d be surprised how much coming together might free up our time for other pleasures.

“In communist society, where nobody has one exclusive sphere of activity but each can become accomplished in any branch he wishes, society regulates the general production and thus makes it possible for me to do one thing today and another tomorrow, to hunt in the morning, fish in the afternoon, rear cattle in the evening, criticise after dinner, just as I have a mind, without ever becoming hunter, fisherman, herdsman or critic.” – Marx

Egoist-Communism might be thought of as Mutualism without Markets, a honeycomb of non-hierarchical mafias looking to live life as joyously as they can and free from the divisions of race, nationality, class, or gender. It promotes differentiation, embraces chaos, and takes gangs of individuals as its organizational unit instead of a manufactured society. It is the abolition of all that limits the Unique and the search for other like-minded souls to increase each other’s power. How you do so will ultimately be up to you.

Don’t let the name fool you, this isn’t some radical new idea. This is what humanity has been doing at parties, after disasters, before funerals, and between sheets since the whole damn thing began. Instead of stealing those moments between “work” and whatever else this techno-hellscape forces onto us, we desire to make it our entire mission.

That is Egoist-Communism, its praxis and its goal: life in the pursuit of life, where individual satisfaction and the enjoyment of others rotates endlessly without form.

If you enjoyed any of this you’ll love my new book: “Curse your Boss, Hex the State, Take Back the World!” It’s a sorcerer’s manual for Egoist-Communism, Insurrection, and Magical Terrorism!


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It’s Time to Banish the Police and Burn the Prisons

Originally posted at Gods & Radicals


I could write about the newest murder committed by the police, could write about the newest life lost behind bars, but what would be the point? Like cancer and massive debt these things hold no shock value for us anymore. We’ve come to expect them in our everyday life, stare blankly as body after body goes into a cell or into the ground. We argue about “prison reform” and “better training” yet still the blood flows. Above all, all maintain that while it’s not pretty police and prisons are necessary for any society.

These people are, in the parlance of our times, spineless and servile little worms who are hideously, grotesquely wrong.

The bootlickers among us, those disgusting and shriveled souls who can idly watch execution after execution, might differ from my opinion. To them there is no problem, and if there was it could never, ever be the institutions themselves. It’s a given that rough men breaking skulls are needed to keep dangerous people away from the good; that large amounts of humans are required to be kept in cages where they will be raped, beaten, and humiliated on a daily basis to preserve society’s serenity.

Some of these people even dare call us “comrade.”

The radical breed of these poor deluded souls, clouded from years of competing with liberals, attempt to dress the same institutions in new language. They assure converts the people’s prisons will be filled not with criminals but “class enemies,” promise that the difference between a cop and a comrade is a matter of pages read by Murray Bookchin or a degree in intersectional theory. The most despicable of these repugnant creatures will even bubble the wretched idea that “cops are workers too.”

Nothing can be further from the truth and nothing can transform these institutions. Prison and Police reform are impossible because they are the epitome of exploitation, the crowning jewel of a modern-day slave empire. We do not need cops and we do not need prisons. We cling to these institutions not because they are necessary but because we can’t imagine a world without them, even if such a world has existed and continues to today.

But before we can see that world we must first cleanse our vision, douse our selves in hyssop and break free from the unclean spirits that litter our mind. We must first come to terms with what the police and prisons really are instead of what the police and prisons say they are.

The Police Are Your Enemy

Police were never created to protect anybody. Police instead have their roots in the rise of modern property relations 200 years ago and the “disorderly conduct” of the urban poor. This, coupled with their long history as slave catchers, highlight the fact the police only “serve” to steal value from the workers and “protect” the property of the powerful.

When the police admit they must arrest a certain amount of people, they are admitting they operate to intimidate and steal from workers. Witness the effects of a two-day work stoppage by the NYPD: citations for traffic violations fell by 94 percent, summons for low-level offenses like public drinking and urination plunged by 94 percent, parking violations dropped by 92 percent, and drug arrests fell by 84 percent.

This wasn’t some noble decision to get back to “protecting and serving,” but a calculated economic attack, and shows arrests mostly function as a way to generate revenue. Cops are nothing more than engines of profit, profit taken by force from the workers and deposited into the hands of the bourgeoisie. Court, criminal, and administrative fines contribute some $800 million to the New York City’s annual budget, according to its Office of Management and Budget’s projections, and that’s money mostly taken from the working poor.

To put that in perspective, the cigarette tax will bring in about $52 million a year, hotel taxes generate roughly $547 million, and commercial rent tax will supply $720 million. Don’t think this is some kind of New York oddity either, like mole people living in subways or a disproportionate pride in the fact you were born in a shithole.  According to The Washington Post, some communities in Missouri draw as much as 30 percent of their revenue from these sources, and across the board they always seem to fall disproportionately on poor, non-white people.

The people are being fleeced, like sheep, by shepherds who have no qualms about killing the livestock. But these pastoral pigs don’t merely beat up the poor and shake them down for money.

You can only make so much money off a worker, but you can make a hell of a lot more off a slave.

Prison: The Modern Day Plantation

When we think of police we often think of half-evolved werewolves that “patrol” our neighborhoods, noses sniffing for easy prey as they roll by in race cars, but there’s much more to policing then that. A cop implies law, laws imply courts, and courts imply cages where those deemed troublesome can be left to rot. A cop’s job is to enforce the law, whether it is wrong or right, and especially if it means keeping prison beds full.

Prison and jail aren’t about rehabilitation, and they aren’t about justice. They are about money through slavery, and the significant 1871 court ruling from Ruffin v. Commonwealth puts it all in black and white. This landmark Virginia case set the precedent for state control of inmate bodies and labor, one still used today, and cuts no corners in laying out what the State hopes to gain from an individual’s imprisonment:

“For the time, during his term of service in the penitentiary, he is in a state of penal servitude to the State. He has, as a consequence of his crime, not only forfeited his liberty, but all his personal rights except those which the law in its humanity accords to him. He is for the time being a slave of the State. He is civiliter mortus; and his estate, if he has any, is administered like that of a dead man.”

Slavery never ended. It just became legal. In privately run prisons inmates will receive as little as 17 cents per hour for a maximum of six hours a day, the equivalent of $20 per month. The highest-paying private prison is CCA in Tennessee, where prisoners receive 50 cents per hour for what they deem “highly skilled positions.” Federal prisons are a little better, offering $1.25 an hour. Both will make everything from blue jeans to body armor and hire their captive labor out to the highest bidder.

These are not hardened criminals being sentenced to indentured servitude. Ninety-seven percent of 125,000 federal inmates have been convicted of non-violent crimes and it is believed that more than half of the 623,000 inmates in municipal or county jails are innocent of the crimes they are accused of. Of these, the majority are awaiting trial. Two-thirds of the one million state prisoners have committed non-violent offenses. This is not by accident but by design.

Just look at who is being arrested.

African-Americans now constitute nearly 1 million of the total 2.3 million incarcerated population, and are incarcerated at nearly six times the rate of whites. Considering the black imprisonment rate for drug offenses is about 5.8 times higher than it is for whites the “drug war” might better be called what it is: a coordinated attack against the black community with the goal of re-enslaving them.

Nowhere is this more apparent than Louisiana.

The Future of America Lies in Louisiana


Angola Prison in Louisiana, where prisoners still pick cotton by hand for 85 cents an hour. Source:

Louisiana is run by police and for police, and is a great model of what policing run rampant looks like. Police have a month before they have to give any reason as to why they killed anybody and attacking a police officer is automatically filed as a hate crime. Louisiana has the highest incarceration rate in the world(even greater than the US) and does this almost exclusively on the basis of making a profit.

David, a New Orleans resident who I spoke to, filled me in on the details….

(Read the rest here)

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Pre-sale for Curse Your Boss, Hex The State, Take Back The World!

The pre-sale for my first book is going on, and it’s so dangerous facebook BANNED ME FOR A DAY to keep you from reading it!

In Curse Your Boss, Hex The State, Take Back The World, Conjurer and anarcho-communist swamp-dweller Dr. Bones unravels the Spectral Cage in which we–even magic-workers–find ourselves trapped. The State, Capitalism, Society, and Media all enmesh not just our actions but our very perception both of this world and the Other, and Dr. Bones shows you how to forge the keys to freedom.

But unlike the pulp pablum pushed out by mass-market magic publishers, this book won’t tell you how to get that car you saw in the commercial, or how to get a raise or find inner peace. Instead, Dr. Bones offers you rituals and theory to change the entire world, to free not just yourself but others, and issues a revolutionary call to take up magical arms against Capital and the State.

Curse Your Boss, Hex The State, Take Back The World is 120 pages, 6X9 inches, perfect bound, B&W with a matte cover. Pre-sale begins 18 May, 2017 and ends 30 June, 2017 for delivery between 1 July and 15 July, 2017. It will be available for regular sale on 1 July, 2017, and a digital edition will follow in mid-July.

A sample chapter is available here.

Go out and reserve your copy!

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What Has Become of American Healthcare?

(Originally posted at Gods & Radicals)

THE DUTY OF THE PRESS is to keep the people informed, even when the things they might learn lean towards the morbidly terrible and truly bizarre. The Republican healthcare plan is both.

You’d never know this from the way it was being reported by the larger outlets, the kind that depend upon a cozy relationship with politicians to get close to a story. The terms being discussed were enough to make one’s hair turn white, yet I never saw MSNBC or CNN get up on television and call it what it was: a rapacious, soulless attack on the proletariat, one that should be answered not with calls or letters to Senators but bullets, bombs, and fire. It was yet another black mark against the Capitalist press, and a lash of shame against every soul that bore a press pass.

Fresh from a three-day bender, it was revealed to me in a series of mystical visions by the Gods of Journalism that this humble Reporter of Fortune and soon-to-be-author had to correct this grave and mortal error. Filled with sacred duty and copious amounts of Sailor Jerry’s I have combed through the finer details of the bill and discovered they match the visions I received of what lies ahead. Brace yourself dear reader, and stare in terror at the future…

Thee First Vision

The bill encourages people to maintain coverage by prohibiting insurance companies from cutting them off or charging more for pre-existing conditions as long as their insurance doesn’t lapse. If coverage is interrupted for more than 63 days, however, insurers can charge people a 30 percent penalty over their premium for one year

You will sit around the kitchen table, tears dripping from your eyes, as you explain to those you love it’ll be instant ramen for dinner next month because if you miss a bill or payment on your premium you will all be cast into poverty and uninsured status. Many a night will be spent awake and praying to shadowy gods over sacrificed chickens that you remain employed, dark oaths made to bloodthirsty and intangible creatures that no lapse occur in your coverage lest you never be able to afford it again.

Thee Second Vision

…some people will see their costs go up while others would pay less, depending on your age and where you live…A 60-year-old, however, would see costs rise almost everywhere, with increases of almost $20,000 a year in Nebraska. Both Kaiser and the Congressional Budget Office found that, on average, older people with lower incomes would be worse off under the Republican plan than under the Affordable Care Act.

Older citizens on fixed incomes will either need to work just to afford medical care or quietly die. Check out lines in grocery stores will swell with physical confrontations as Vietnam veterans battle it out with struggling single-parents for low paying jobs just to eat. Suicide rates will climb as the bleak void of an ever-present death looms over the cash-strapped elderly. Cults and rumors of cults devoted to Goddesses of Death will sprout up in active 55+ communities, the name Santa Muerte both a comforting benediction and blood-soaked battle cry for the legions of old people turning to kidnapping and murder just to afford medication.

Thee Third Vision

…The bill eliminates nearly all the taxes that were included in the Affordable Care Act to pay for the subsidies that help people buy insurance. Those cuts, which add up to about $592 billion, include a tax on incomes over $200,000.

Gigantic flags, bathed in gold, will fly at the gates of The Golden Triangle, Potomac Manors, and all the other rich enclaves no doubt surrounded by armed guards. They shall read, in big bold letters visible for nearly 10 miles the following words: “Fuck the poor, we’re keeping our goddamn money.”

Thee Fourth Vision

The Affordable Care Act allows states to expand eligibility for Medicaid to single, nondisabled adults with incomes slightly above the poverty line…The Republican plan would gradually roll back that expansion starting in 2019 by cutting the federal reimbursement to states for anyone who leaves the Medicaid rolls. People often cycle in and out of the program as their income fluctuates, so the result would likely be an ever-dwindling number of people covered….

Combined with the “block grants” written into the bill Medicaid will slowly be…

Read the rest here…

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No One Is Coming to Save You, Comrade.

Source: Sputnik News

No one is coming to save you, Comrade.


There is no revolution on the horizon, there is no party, there is no grand idea that will finally awaken humanity to its potential and free us from our chains.

There is no vanguard, no purpose, no secret method we can all use to magically make the powerful resign themselves to the fate of ordinary existence.

There have been pretenders. There are priests and pimps and false gods that call on you to worship them. They will give you immortal “sciences” and identities, they will assure you if just enough people donned the uniform or spoke the right words everything would be okay.

There are those of course who would deny you even that, who refuse any action without every detail planned out. Who will run the schools, who will build the roads, how will tire fires and blockades raise our carbon footprint?

They will call your plans starry-eyed, impractical, an Insurrecionist fantasy.

They say this half-asleep.

They, so wise, snore and say they will “wait for the people to rise.” The people have risen and been crushed. Occupy failed, Standing Rock failed. All that’s left is you and me.

They, so strong, snore and say they wait for their rights to be taken, the right to assembly or the right to vote an invisible line they shan’t abide. Where where they for the Patriot Act, the NDAA? They petitioned, they moaned, they lost.

They say they are waiting for some grand event in a universe with millions of them everyday.  Each day the criteria changes, each day they grow more stagnant and old.

Everybody is waiting and nobody wants to start, everybody wants to join and nobody wants to build. Everybody is waiting for a grand and general revolt, yet steal an apple or burn a cop car and they’ll call you an “adventurist.”

Everybody is sure change is right around the corner, that divine powers will steer us the right way. Everybody is sure time is on our side, that the good gals will always win and that things can’t hold out much longer. Everybody says a revolution is very possible with no bloodshed and no heart feelings, that everyone will be heard and cared for.

Everybody is sure that the revolution will come like an amazon package: quick, clean, and ready to be enjoyed right at their doorstep. They have children you see, and must put them first, but will gladly step over your body after you’ve built the road for them to walk on.

Everybody is waiting. Waiting for something. Waiting for somebody, somebody to save them.

They aren’t coming to save you, Comrade.

Nobody is.

Those people are going to die just as they lived. They are going to stay right where they are, on the couch, and play pretend online because it costs them nothing. Like a ball gag slipped on for “special nights,” politics is the kink that makes them feel different.

They always talk alot about feelings, how much “solidarity” they give and need. Every time a black child lies in a pool of his own blood they really feel bad. Truly. But they have jobs you see, and families, and shows to watch and cars to maintain.

They will hurt for you comrade when you lose your job. Why, they’ll call for a General Strike and make posters, badges, and pins! Provided it’s a weekend and not a holiday of course, and with enough advance notice to ask for it off.

They are growing to grow old, these people, happy with the knowledge that if they had the chance they would have done something spectacular. They will have fun little funerals, not sad ones, where mediocre lives will be celebrated by talking about how “brave” they were and how “hard” they fought for freedom.

Who’s is never mentioned, how and where politely not discussed.

There are millions of them, Comrade. Always have been. Always will be. They are going to be born, squirm around for a bit, and go right back into the hole they crawled out of.

They look to be led, watch to see what they can join, and wait patiently for someone to shove food into their mouths and help them chew.

Will you wait for them, Comrade?

Will you wait for the same people who prefer for YOU to suffer and YOU to die so that they can play risk free?
Will you wait for the people who will not lift a finger to aid you until they can’t get in trouble and all the hiccups have been worked out?
Will you wait and draw up plans to convince those who need convincing, who won’t move an inch until we’re sure how many trees will be planted at every school that is suddenly free for the deaf and the blind?
Will you wait for the people who call your actions a sin as they pray in front of police batons?
Will you wait for the entire planet to agree to an idea, a monumental event that would be the first in our history?

Are you prepared, dear comrade, to die just as they will, surrounded by cheap party favors and even cheaper music as your friends sing hymns to a banal existence?

Or will you act?

Don’t mistake me for a fool comrade, I hope you aren’t one either. I don’t want to die and I don’t want to go to jail. I have no use for being a martyr because I want to be free, just like you do.

But if you are prepared to act, to put aside the arguments and to truly build, then perhaps we have a chance. You and I. I’m done talking about them.

What if we focused on getting free? What if we built the structures we needed to do so? What if instead of arguing about hairstyles or flag colors we argued about crops to plant or stores to rob? What if we made a union, a gang, devoted to getting free? What if we stopped arguing online and set about becoming real comrades, the kind that can hide each other from the police and offer a safe place to stay?

What if we could rely on one another so well that I knew I was safe wherever I went because an injury to one really was an injury to all? What if we didn’t wait for an apocalyptic war and instead waged OUR war everyday, a war against everything that enslaved us?

What if we did that? What if we put away the theories and focused on that? Why not? Why wait?

Nobody is coming to save us, Comrade.


So it’s up to you and me.

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Anything But Class: The Horrors I Saw At A Democrat Town Hall

(Originally posted at Gods & Radicals)

Our story starts where usually it ends, at least in Florida anyway: on a crowded highway at breakneck speed and heavily, heavily distracted.

“What are you doing?” my wife screams, “Keep your hands on the wheel!” Our black jeep emblazoned in Antifa and Stirner stickers roars past 65 and into the 80’s, passing a camouflage truck bearing a confederate flag.

“I am, I am,” I say in a reassuring tone, trying to ignore the nearby honks and screams. “I just have to record what’s happening. How we got here, that sort of thing.” I reach for the voice recorder in my pocket, flipping the switch and trying to speak over the salsa music blaring out of the radio. “It was a Wednesday, my usual day for oiling up my essential tools of sorcery and conjuration when the lead came in-”

“Why are you talking like that?”

“Like…like what?” I tap the brakes to pass another wreck.

“Like that, like you’re some detective or something.” 

“Oh. I’m narrating, Boo.”

“I see that. Why is the question.” I pretend not to hear her and continue talking into the device.

A Marxist-Leninist who doubles as a tenth-generation Floridian wanted to know if I’d be available to attend a Democrat town hall. Normally I’d avoid such things like the plague, though the thought of dropping in three sheets to the wind and screaming curses no doubt sounded appealing.”


“Yes, really.” We switch lanes, a rickety 18-wheeler nervously riding the little yellow lines separating us from certain death. “I despised Democrats,” I continued, “even more than I hated Republicans, and to be deep within enemy territory unarmed was something I had no intention of doing. But when I heard the Democrats would be having a ‘People’s Town Hall’ in one of the wealthier Florida enclaves I knew the spirits had gifted me an enormous opportunity. The gods are with us it appears, greater tides coursing through the timelines. As G&R’s sole Reporter of Fortune it is my sworn duty to cover such weirdness. There is no doubt in this journalist’s mind that what I will witness-“

“What WE will witness-“

“What WE will witness will be nothing short of a full-blown omen, a magical synchronicity giving those with the eyes to see a naked glimpse at the beating heart of American liberalism. 

“Reach Out and Convince the Non-Believers.”


Maybe the night’s events can be blamed on the soil. Conjurers know dirt carries power. The location of a spell can change everything from who it affects to how it plays out. Speak Out Brevard, the progressive non-profit putting on the town hall, could not have picked a more hilarious venue.

Viera is a pop-up “planned community” pulled out of cowfields and built to cater almost exclusively to the well-to-do. It is a strange, unnatural place and on sunny days as they scrub jays play you get the distinct sensation you’ve slipped into an alternate dimension. Houses can be bought there “for the low 400’s” and small malls covered in chain restaurants assure the would be patron that for a mere $40 the humble pizza pie can be taken “from food into art.” Winds tear through hundreds of acres of prairie only to slam against fertility clinics and banks. The temperature is hot enough to cause you to walk slow and speak even slower, unconsciously mimicking the spirits of Cowhunters and farmers who no doubt still tread across the very land you stand on.

But the herds are gone, as are the farms, and instead you’ll find yourself enmeshed in botox injections, faux-miami fashion, and stores hawking nautical memorabilia nearly 18 miles from the seashore. The same soil haunted by blues and ranch hands has been bought up by palms so smooth from luxury it’s said quarters will roll right off them.

Here, of all places, the Democrats chose to make their appeal to the people of Florida.

We were lost for what seemed like an hour, trapped in a maze of Panera’s and roundabouts, until a massive brick structure rose from the horizon. There, shrouded in the favor of heaven, was Viera Highschool, and by extension The People’s Town Hall. The school’s auditorium had been chosen as tonight’s seat of populism and as we pulled in we took note of a parking lot full of cars barely three years old.

Some driven by parents, others by their kids.

Getting in was pretty easy, though we were welcomed to a standing room only event; iphones mounted on tripods jutting out from a sea of white faces and name-brand clothing. I was looking for Harmony, our contact, flumbling with my voice recorder when I began to notice a subtle etheric shift. I glanced over my shoulder only to be greeted by a row of sheriffs covered in long faces. Everything about them said they’dve been much happier breaking up this event with clubs than providing it protection.

A petite voice echoed out from the stage far ahead. “We will now start with the pledge of allegiance.” The line of cops suddenly freezes as the those in seats suddenly rose, pinning one of the pigs directly behind me.

I chuckle now when I think about it, and can only imagine what was going through his head, my hand noticeably not on my heart and my hat still very much on, a jacket with communist symbols staring back at him with the word “PRESS” obnoxiously visible. Before I could ask him a few questions a bespectacled woman clutching a notebook made her way to us, slipping through bodies like a Seminole through trees. It was Harmony, and after a small introduction she led us to three seats she’d managed to save right at the front.

Ellie Logan, the president of the NGO putting on this event, strode towards the podium with a grin that indicated she was pleased. “This place was empty like, 20 minutes ago,” Harmony told me, rubbing her pentagram ring, “but than, bam, everybody just showed up all at once.”

The event, Ellie proclaimed on stage, was “not a liberal town hall, not a republican town hall” but a “people’s town hall,” one that would reflect the key issues faced by Floridians whether politicians wanted to pay attention or not. Of course this wasn’t exactly true: Speak Out Brevard was overwhelmingly liberal, and the large amount of “I’m with Her” stickers seen in the parking lot left little to wonder about where loyalties lay. Four speakers sat at a table on the stage, three women and one man, each one representing a pressing and topical issue: education, environmental issues, reproductive rights, and healthcare.

It was here the first telltale signs of Democrat influence were in full display. In a state where 3.2 million households – fully 45 percent– are daily struggling to support themselves the silence on poverty was deafening.

First at the podium didn’t come from the table and was more of a celebrity guest….

Read more here

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Easter is an Empty Ritual, Just Like the Fights at Berkeley

Easter: a day normally celebrated by the recollection of Christian myth, the painting of eggs, and the wide scale eating of pork in clear defiance of Judaic law. This holiday is obliquely about rebirth or resurrection, whether a simple celebration of springtime or the foolhardy belief that the energetic mass behind all things chose this day to look upon earth and scream “deuces.”

Christians believe the physical embodiment of All That is Holy departed the planet in a ghostly haze, no doubt shrouded in UFO’s and spinning wheels, because ultimately it is we who killed him. But could it be? Wouldn’t God have known he was going to be killed, perhaps setting it up that way all along? Wasn’t It in charge of the very atoms coursing through It’s disciples, influencing their probability fields by the simple act of being near them?

Regular people do that, no word on how much more intense the Double Slit experiment might have been in front of a deity. Dear Gods, what if the Christians are right about all this “free will” business, our universe nothing more than the latest copy of Grand Theft Auto for God to fuck around in?

Perhaps in spite of the almost Lovecraftian implications Easter is commonly regarded by Christians as a “happy” day, yet even at a table of family members the unconscious pull of mythic religion leans in; weird whispering that we too are just as fallen as the flesh roasted and cooked before us reaching into that reptilian part of the brain that speaks in symbols and shoots out magic in between wet dreams.

That’s about the only place it can go, because the great majority of Americans are so hopelessly adrift and vapid they stand little chance of groking a Dr. Seuss book, let alone a mythic drama.

We are gathering with friends and family on a secular level to at least celebrate life, a life increasingly short, brutal, and nasty. We will revel in the sense of “freedom” we have if we’re off work while making sure to make car payments, and if we end up having to be “on the clock” we’ll console ourselves with the fact we’re at least making money, the same money that grows progressively more worthless.

Anybody else remember when two jobs wasn’t normal?

The truly religious should perhaps bear the deepest marks of shame and if they had any spine they’d go out to the nearest Wal-Mart and publicly whip themselves bloody. They believe that God, the literal Divine Creator, came down to Earth and ended up being killed by us, followed by a spiritual exodus that proved the immortality of the soul and the falsehood of the realm of Maya.

People SAY these things, but they don’t really believe them. Today they’ll still gladly support the troops that will do a fair amount of killing in places very close to where Jesus actually lived, they will buy and spend as greedily as any money-changers near a temple could, and each one will hold on to their fleshy, mortal coil at the cost of anybody around them.

They tell me things are changing, hope is right around the corner, a Leftist twinge on that ole’ time religion.

Fights rage at Berkeley, so what? Berkeley’s combat has already become ritualized and in effect necromantic: it goes on because it must, a reanimated body of a time once unique in space. It is a place where you do a certain thing, the political equivalent of any red light district. Give it ten more years and it’ll become a holiday, a “quaint local festival” where natives with differing opinions would go to settle differences with fists and bats. There will be hotels and restaurants where spectators can enjoy the local flair and feel like they’re apart of something, t-shirts sold on corners, and in perhaps 50 years it’ll get its own signage from the city council to mark the places where teeth met pavement as “a historic landmark.”

Look what they did to Tombstone, Harlem, Gettysburg, Haight Ashbury, and Fort Sumter and tell me any of this matters. Tickets to Burning Man, once a “temporary autonomous zone,” are now $500-$1,000 a pop. You’re going to PAY to experience the empty shell of where artistic freedom used to be!

What are we celebrating today? A Christian myth? A reanimated pagan rite?

No friends, we celebrate because we want to, because we are told to, and because we all desperately want to feel connected to SOMETHING. We get together because we enjoy ourselves. That’s it. Everything else is window dressing for the great self-aware fever dream we’ve taken to calling “people.”

Easter is just another example that meaning can barely be held beyond one generation, fecund fertility symbols mixing freely with a story about fallibility of flesh, all covered in chocolate eggs that were buy one get one at the grocery store.

There is meaning of course, somewhere in between the symbols, and only the Wise have the eyes to see it. The Masons knew people would join for political reasons or “just for fun,” and made sure to keep the rituals intact so that 1 out of 100 might get what was really being said. Meet a Scottish Rite Mason in a Blue Lodge(the term for a non-esoteric lodge) and you can see the difference right around the eyes, a quiet sense of knowing surrounded in a sea of shit.

Mystery still stalks the world, as real as it did in the Pagan Days of Lore or any Jesus Myth. Maybe these days serve to remind us there is real, undeniable weirdness out there that can be brought up with the right words and touched, an unshakable knowledge that all is not as it appears. There is no doubt SOMETHING happened with out there in the desert of Judea, just like SOMETHING is being tapped into with all the children hunting for eggs and celebrating around bunnies. When the first fight broke out at Berkeley, in response to that first riot, that was Gnosis. People knew, on a cellular level, that something different was in the air. Something unnameable had changed. Everything else, every other battle, has just been chasing that feeling.

So too with Easter.

Take heart comrades, and enjoy your dinners. Enjoy you time with friends and family not because it’s what you are supposed to do but because you actually are. And if you’re not? Well, pull out a bottle and get hammered. Summon an ancient fertility deity. Invoke Jesus and jam nails through your palms. Stop chasing the forms of what life, celebration, and political meaning are supposed to be and start crafting your own. Skip the choreographed fight and find where the Nazis are staying. Trash their hotels, slash their tires. Wait lurking in alleys until the fights are over, and when the enemy is weak and tired on the way home pounce on him with fresh strength and vigor. Go where the cops aren’t and really raise some hell.

Stop focusing and celebrating a resurrection where there already was one and get down to building one in your life right now: magically, spiritually, and politically.

Dr. Bones



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What the Wealthy’s Quest for Immortality Means for You

(Originally posted at Gods & Radicals)

Death has always been the great equalizer. It was the one unavoidable aspect of existence, the one sure thing everybody could bet on. King, peasant, and all inbetween knew no matter how hard they might fight, no matter what kind of gods they may have called on, The Grim Reaper would eventually take his captive kicking and screaming beyond The Veil.

If the wealthy techno-elite in Silicon Valley have their way however, this notion of universal death will become as obsolete as fax machines and beepers.

As I write this, far off from the sandy beaches and unforgiving swampland of Florida, labs you have never heard of are doing important research for people you’ll never meet. They go to all the functions you’re not allowed in, live lives you could only dream of, and mostly regard you as irritating peasants.

And they will be damned if they have to give any of that up, even to Death itself.

Becoming as Godlike as they Knew They Always Were


The quest for immortality among the well-to do is nothing new. Emperors, Noblewomen, Queens, and Kings have all sought the secret to perpetual earthly existence, from Taoist “elixers” of Arsenic and Mercury to literally bathing in the blood of virgin maids. So far none has been successful.

Transhumanism plans to change that.

Transhumanism, for those who haven’t heard of it, is an interesting blend of philosophy and science. The idea is that humanity can overcome its biological limitations, such as aging or disease, by combining our organic selves with technology. This can run the gamut of gene therapy and bio-mechanical “mods” to our existing bodies all the way to wedding our minds to AI’s, becoming new creatures altogether.

Escaping death and becoming immortal take the reins of most Transhumanist discussions however, Transhumanist thinkers go so far as to refer to those outside the movement as “Deathist.”

It is this aspect of the philosophy that is quite in vogue among the Silicon Valley elite at the forefront of the American tech industry. Folks like Bill Maris, Elon Musk, and a host of others are spear-heading anti-death research with funds that almost boggle the mind. 

Google Ventures has close to $2 billion in assets under management, with stakes in more than 280 startups. Each year, Google gives Maris $300 million in new capital, and this year he’ll have an extra $125 million to invest in a new European fund. That puts Google Ventures on a financial par with Silicon Valley’s biggest venture firms, which typically put to work $300 million to $500 million a year. According to data compiled by CB Insights, a research firm that tracks venture capital activity, Google Ventures was the fourth-most-active venture firm in the U.S. last year, participating in 87 deals….

“There are a lot of billionaires in Silicon Valley, but in the end, we are all heading to the same place,” Maris says. “If given the choice between making a lot of money or finding a way to make people live longer, what do you choose?”

Maris has since retired from Google Ventures but the money is still there, still flooding in at rate that might make a stock broker blush. Tad Friend in “Silicon Valley’s Quest to Live Forever” has an impressive run down of the entire scene and highlights an interweaving nest of persons and labs most people have never heard of: Joon Yun, Verily, Andy Conrad, Unity Biotechnology, Peter Thiel, California Life Company, the list goes on and on. What becomes clear after even a casual reading is that, among the Tech Elite, not dying is a very serious matter.

“Joon Yun, a doctor who runs a health-care hedge fund, announced that he and his wife had given the first two million dollars toward funding the challenge. ‘I have the idea that aging is plastic, that it’s encoded,’ he said. ‘If something is encoded, you can crack the code.’ To growing applause, he went on, ‘If you can crack the code, you can hack the code!’…

“Clearly, it is possible, through technology, to make death optional,’ Rothblatt said. (She has already commissioned a backup version of her wife, Bina—a ‘mindclone’ robot named Bina48.)…’It’s enormously gratifying to have the epitome of the establishment, the head of the National Academy of Medicine, say, ‘We, too, choose to make death optional!’

Last fall, Unity raised a hundred and sixteen million dollars from such investors as Jeff Bezos and Peter Thiel, billionaires eager to stretch our lives, or at least their own, to a span that Thiel has pinpointed as ‘forever.’

Larry Ellison, the co-founder of Oracle, lost his adoptive mother to cancer when he was in college—and later donated three hundred and seventy million dollars to aging research. ‘Death has never made any sense to me,’ he told a biographer. ‘How can a person be there and then just vanish?’ Bill Maris, who conceived of Calico, said that, when he pondered the inevitability of death, ‘I felt it was maybe our mission here to transcend that, and to preserve consciousness indefinitely.’”

They certainly make the goal sound lofty enough, don’t they? Noble geniuses on a quest to free humanity from it’s biological chains so that we might live our lives forever?

For about $50 worth of candles, wormwood, and myrrh most Occultists could easily soothe the anxiety of these billionaires. I could offer them a discount and a tour through South Florida’s shadier graveyards, but even that wouldn’t be necessary. There is ample evidence for those willing to look that life carries on beyond our earthly shell, that consciousness is indeed indefinite: ghosts have been caught on video numerous times, even phone calls to the living from dead paranormal investigators  have been recorded. 42% of Americans claim to have witnessed undead apparitions and 61% of the population say they believe that other people have had supernatural experiences.

For the great majority of the country then the quest for immortality is a non-issue, a puzzling and perhaps morbid line of questioning but one with a definite answer.

Why then the fervent focus on not dying?

Under the Heaven of the Rich Exists Hell for the Poor


We have a saying in the South: “everybody wants to get to heaven but nobody wants to die.” One anonymous scientist echoes this proverb when discussing Silicon Valley’s interest in immortality:

“It’s based on the frustration of many successful rich people that life is too short: ‘We have all this money, but we only get to live a normal life span.’”

Among much of the immortality research mentioned in Freind’s report is of a “healthspan,” or the time human beings can live healthy without major complications. The billionaires packing millions into research labs talk about “eternal twenty-fiveness” and achieving a “compressed mortality” where they simply go to sleep and never wake up. It’s an ideal life, born from a section of the country where personal nutritionists and plentiful cosmetic surgery aim to make “old age” an outdated concept.

Who wouldn’t want that? Let’s look at what death looks like to the poor.

After thirty, everything starts to change. From that year on the human risk of mortality doubles every seven years; the body wears down, muscles no longer move as they used to. We age, and often not gracefully.

Christmas, 2016: my stepmother’s father sits in a chair in the living room, on visit from the retirement home specializing in the elderly with dementia. He is rushed to the bathroom by my step-mother, who quickly..

(Read More Here)

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What Trump’s Game of Missile Command Means for Syria

I know I wasn’t the only one that nearly shit themselves when they heard that 59 thomahawk missiles launched from two American destroyers had slammed into Syrian territory.

I was at work when my wife told me the news and quickly spread the word.

The first person I grabbed was an Iraq War vet, an older guy with 10 years of Army and National Guard experience. “Did you hear we just launched 59 missiles into Syria?” He grinned from ear to ear.

“Good.” He gave me a thumbs up.

“G-good? W-what the FUCK?”

“World War 3, ’bout time it happened.”

Wondering how much ammo I had at home and how much Sailor Jerry’s the nearby liquor store might have lootable, I shared the news with another one of my “fellow workers.”

“Well,” she said with brown eyes cast upwards to heaven, “it did say that Russia would be involved in the end times. It’s biblical. And you did say the Russians were-“

Street to street with the Americans, yes. Fucking GRENADE distance. Don’t you…don’t you know what these means?” My eyes were practically wild, hands shaking.

“We’re all going to die?”

Yes, in a sense. We’re all going to die.

“Ha! You’ll WISH you were dead. Where you and I are now is outside of the blast radius of most tactical war heads–at least I think so, I remember them telling us this in high school there would be 50% casualties…t-that’s not the point, the point is we’re close enough to a major Airforce base to definitely be affected but far enough to where death won’t come swiftly. No, we’ll be climbing through the GODDAMN RUINS, skin lacerated by the countless fires and exposed to massive doses of radiation. Biblical you say, yeah it’ll be fucking biblical: corpses lying on the pavement, stinking children crying out in the night to parents long since disappeared, dogs roving the streets looking for the weakest of the injured to-“

I stopped, because my wife had just texted me an important detail about the recent strike, one that changed my impassioned sermon to a quizzical befuddlement:

No casualties were being reported.

I had to wait to get home to check the news yet at that point it became even more confusing. 59 tomahawk missiles and not one splattered corpse? Not one vaporized mist where once there’d been people?

(EDIT: RT is reporting five people have been left dead and seven wounded, 3 of them civilians. For such a huge attack this is still an almost miniscule amount and most importantly no Russians hit)

What kind of “strike” was this?

As the details filtered in everything quickly became clear: severe cautions had been made to insure no civilian casualties; Pentagon spokesperson Jeff Davis said in the briefing to reporters that it informed Russia ahead of the missile strike, which means the Russians were able to warn the Syrians.

In essence the United States, rather than kick off World War 3, had just spent $75 million dollars on a gigantic firework show.

Sure, an airstrip had been blown up and a few planes reduced to pieces, but that was nothing. Trump claimed in his press address that this was in retaliation to the gas attacks, yet why strike an airbase where Russian soldiers would be? There is no evidence Assad was responsible for the attack, and if there was you can bet Jupiter’s beard they wouldn’t hang around any evidence to be implicated in the guilt.

That attack itself defies all logic: why would the side currently winning the war fuck everything up with the same weapons that almost got the US involved last time? Why would the Russians allow Assad to drag the US back into a conflict it had practically walked away from?

Unless of course, the strike wasn’t about the chemical attack at all.

The Atlantic causally noted earlier today the “unusually” large amount “of devastating visual evidence that has emerged” almost immediately after the gas attack occurred, as if cameras were already waiting to capture images that might stir the hearts of outside observers.

Does anybody remember who was responsible last time something like this happened?

“Our investigators have been in neighboring countries interviewing victims, doctors and field hospitals and, according to their report of last week which I have seen, there are strong, concrete suspicions but not yet incontrovertible proof of the use of sarin gas, from the way the victims were treated,’ Del Ponte said in an interview with Swiss-Italian television.

This was use on the part of the opposition, the rebels, not by the government authorities,’ she added, speaking in Italian.”

A gas attack launched by the fleeing Syrian rebels, a side quickly losing it’s CIA-sponsorship and well aware it’s continued health depends on American funds, sure haa shit-ton more to gain from wide swathes of civilians dying on camera. Even better if they die particularly gruesomely and in a way the rebels claim they couldn’t be responsible for despite being photographed with all the tech to do so.

How does Trump’s seemingly pointless explosion-show play into this? The answer: perfectly.

It Trump has some inkling the Syrian government was not responsible for the gas attack he has no motive to escalate an already cooling war. He does however have a need to soothe the bellicose ambitions of the American public, show his party and constituents he’s “tough,” and make it clear to anybody watching the United States has the muscle and willingness to take the world to the edge and back.

If he believed the Syrian government was really responsible why blow 59 missiles on one airbase? Why not several? If you’re going to warn the Russians beforehand about what you’re going to do you can ensure almost nobody gets hurt just as easily as he did tonight.

Consider also that the Chinese President was in Mar-a-Largo when the strike was underway, that Trump not only told him it was going to happen but actually ate dinner with him as it went on and the event spirals into even greater significance. A show of force full of technical prowess in a contested warzone while the Russians stood back and watched sends a powerful message to a foreign leader currently dining in enemy territory:

“I am very aware of what is actually going on. I can strike anywhere and I can do it all while your neighbor stands back and lets it happen. Don’t think I can’t do it to you.”

Is World War Three on the horizon? That seemingly appears to be the hope of the American electorate, at least the slightly-off ones that dare to call an entire peninsula sure to be doomed to nuclear fire home. As for this gonzo reporter I’m not so sure. Much of what marks this event is no longer in American hands but in those of Vladimir Putin.

If Russia makes a muted response, as it did in when Turkish gunners shot down Russian jets, it will show Putin is aware that deeper moves are at play. He will remain calm, call for international law, and increase troops in Syria as a sign that he won’t be pushed around either. If I’m wrong and Russia takes this to the next level nothing will really matter anyway.

We unfortunately will have to wait, pieces in a game we gave away control over long ago, hopeful that the ones that dictate our lives won’t gamble them away.

I’m off to bed. See you in the morning. Or not.

Dr. Bones

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