Happy Tax Day. (I started writing this yesterday)
A wise old man I knew (Mine) once told me not to fret about paying taxes, that means you made a profit. But then he was part of the greatest generation. Or so our mas media have christened them as such. Ah the main stream media, herd dogs of a soon by-gone era. The generation that was consumed in this new world order for the ages. The generation who willingly marched into the slaughterhouse. Not as meat cutters, though some were adept at playing the part. These poor misled, starved and battered souls were not only robbed by ten-eleven years of economical depression, they were more than willingly herded up, buzzed short, clothed in uniformed monkey suits and poured out on beaches all around the world to try to snuff out the “demons” their overlords had created, or was that cocreated?
Don’t get me wrong, they were far from the first. Those of the civil war era were maybe a little more easily led astray, convince that their brothers needed to be murdered, either to keep them in the fold or to let them be free of it. Had the tremendous taxes imposed upon the rural states (reportedly up to 40%) simply been ignored, much as the thirty million people who’ve decided to quit playing the corrupted income tax game (as of the year 2000, who knows what it is today fourteen years later) and had the southern states forced, by any and all “off the grid” measures, the Federales to enforce their unsupportable crunch, hundreds of thousands of lives on both sides of the conflict could have been saved. But that premise could be supposed for almost all the fallacious conflicts polluting our common history. When listening to fools the Mob rules. I think you know of which Mob I speak.
Later in life he was more than aware of what had transpired. Luckily he was still in Diesel School for the Marines when the Japanese super dirigibles held Truman hostage with the severe threat of biological warfare. The ensuing suing for peace or at least ceasing of hostilities that had Truman capitulating at the Emperor’s feet from the corner he’d been backed into saved my father’s life. He was going to be the “sacrifice to Mammon” along with possibly millions of US conscripts that our malevolent leaders had planned to offer up for world dominion. His contemporaries and he were spared the inevitable death on Pacific beaches trying to take the Japanese islands when this insanity was permanently delayed. Or I wouldn’t be here writing this diatribe today. He would have died along with the rest of America.
These last little tidbits of history I have no way of knowing if he was aware of. What I do know is his reaction to my first use of the word bankster in a conversation we were having. Of those crooks he was aware. Also, he was plainly aware of many of the other atrocities our malevolent leaders have perpetrated. He told twice (I think he forgot he’d told me) (or he thought it appropriate to remind me) of his little encounter while wandering down around Mena, Arkansas looking for an airport when a rather authoritative man drove up to him and confronted him. More or less telling him to get his Yankee ass back to Iowa where he belonged if he cherished his tranquility. He spoke of hair standing up on his neck. I wonder if he was aware that that’s your subconscious’s way of telling you to pay very close attention.
Though I have yet to read the Treaty Of San Francisco that official ended the state of war between our two great nations I intend to try to find and read what must be a very interesting and revealing document. It may be online. It may be in libraries somewhere. That isn’t the only treaty document I intend to read. I’ve heard that the Treaty Of Westphalia between the prepubescent United States and King George’s British Isles is a fascinating read. If “Merakins” actually knew real history what a world it could be. Until then we might want to listen to someone whose job it was to burn that history. The links below are there for anybody’s examination. Listen at your paradigmatic peril.
See ya in the funny pages writing teenie tiny ‘toons,