The ultimate control of our world has devolved into the hands of an oligarchy with great influence. Their status in international society is determined by three factors: wealth, expertise, and slavish social conformity therein. Being included in the elite circle bestows personal recognition of one’s importance to society and is relentlessly pursued by those who are emotionally bereft.
Wealth is the first factor and self-explanatory in one sense, but it is quite ephemeral in others. Wealthy people will not hand their money to individuals less financially endowed. Consequently, there is not any advantage personally to their presence at your table. Their money does, however, create a level of social respectability and the ability to bask in reflected status attracts many of the self-appointed political type oligarchs who lust to attend convocations in hope of recognition and indirect fame.
Next, professional expertise is an entree which is an area that has experienced exponential growth in the past generation. One of the few differences between ourselves and the ancients is not in the development of character or expertise, but rather in the proliferation of unneeded educational niches and institutions which have created a vast number of nooks and crannies in which the insignificant can attempt to install themselves as persons of consequence.
Insecurity concerning wealth or knowledge leads to a complex order of prominence among the oligarchy and those striving for acceptance. The major question becomes what social action will allow advancement and recognition from this ruling group? The screaming-from-rooftops ploy has devolved into the keyboard commando set, desperate for a momentary spotlight.
If you do not conform to one of these groups’ mantras, you must be deplorable and therefore insignificant. Make no mistake, the word deplorable is certainly how the socially ostracized commoner is viewed. We the insignificant are to be controlled by the rulers’ political police and then otherwise ignored completely.
This situation is quite important as our society has rapidly regressed into the haves and have-nots. Historically the haves possessed only great wealth. The development in recent generations has been that the haves now include those of great scientific knowledge or talents in an appreciated area. This has created a bit of instability in the financial castle but has finally been allowed.
As always, being ruled requires two things. One is someone to rule and the other is someone to bend the knee to receive crumbs from the table. History has never seen such a rapid growth in monetary dominance and power by a ruling class. The changes in our society are immense. Their goal over the past 50 years is the absorption of the middle-class’ wealth and power.
The middle class is dissolving into the serf class. There has been no war or even a natural disaster to accelerate the process. There is only a hugely successful propaganda campaign used to assimilate assets. The business model used for a rapid consolidation of retail commerce was stumbled upon by a simple boy who could write code and had the timing to ride to the top of the financial chart.
The vast amount of wealth created in retail trade supported millions of families and municipal governments across the country before the great financial vacuum was cranked up. These families were a bedrock of the independent society.
Amazon used the model of Sears and Roebuck to take advantage of the time constraints placed upon the working lives of many Americans. The old folks will remember the Sears catalog. Virtually any item could be ordered by phone or mail from a catalog and delivered to your home. A catalog for those young people who are confused by the term is a printed book picturing items and prices available for purchase.
The major difference today is the use of a credit card for the purchase. Your information is stored to send advertising updates on items of interest. The government, of course, has access to your purchase histories in case you are a terrorist or say mean things about a politician from Kenya. This reality allows the money in circulation to be concentrated, regulated, and controlled to benefit the WEF and the U.S. government.
The banks/politicians are quite pleased with the results of the flu scam. Half of the country is terrified to the point of wearing a mask. A large percentage of these people use online shopping to avoid the flu. The rest use big box stores that were somehow exempt from lockdowns. The problem is that out of every $100 spent in the big box only $43 stays in the community. $70 stays if you use a local small store.
The corporate elite now have more money to pay their politician/employees to stack the deck further in their favor. The cycle continues into the glories of having your own charitable foundation. This scam is incredibly well organized after 100 years of fine tuning.
The foundation can be non-taxable while still paying salaries to its’ principles. It can also provide money to political causes and research grants to universities and individuals. These researchers are lifted socially into the cocktail circuit much to their delight while expanding their niche.
Obviously, a quiet question as to the findings desired from the grantee results in an appropriate result. This in turn leads to more grants and a groundswell of noise in support of project global warming, project flu bug or anything else from which the grantee may profit. Finally, there is a way out of financial purgatory for the professoriate which also includes the extra benefit of social standing. What could be better?
We now have reached the stage of having the oligarchy control the government as well as the educational system while sucking their middle-class rivals financially dry. It will be interesting to see how long it will take to drive the society totally into the oblivion.
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Oh, there’s a war.
It is time for new nations. Practice cultural secession. Form parallel structures. Stop complaining. Take action like this heroic young woman did. Notice, she left because she was being maligned as a white Christian woman. They hate you because of who you are.
It’s time for the OLD nations.
“nation (n.)
c. 1300, nacioun, “a race of people, large group of people with common ancestry and language,” from Old French nacion “birth, rank; descendants, relatives; country, homeland” (12c.) and directly from Latin nationem (nominative natio) “birth, origin; breed, stock, kind, species; race of people, tribe,” literally “that which has been born,” from natus, past participle of nasci “be born” (Old Latin gnasci), from PIE root *gene- “give birth, beget,” with derivatives referring to procreation and familial and tribal groups”
The very oldest of the folks know that our parents treasured the Sears&Roebuck to the very last tissue-thin page torn carefully out while in the outhouse, dropping it onto the waste below and noting the need for a “new” catalogue by taking the cardstock covers inside to start the morning’s fire.
My good friend and rabbit-raising partner, Larry, has been feeling poorly of late. Today, he called to let me know he had to go see the Doc (there is only ONE in the county for people using government-funded health care. For folks like Larry (Medicaid) and myself (TriCare/USMilitary Retired and/or Veterans Healthcare*) that means Crosstrails, where Dr. Doyle (not Popeye, he really hates that!) runs the county health clinic/local medical office. They see both private and government sponsored patients. The indigent poor see a nurse practitioner at the County Services office next door, so Dr. Doyle also consults occasionally there though someone has to drive him the quarter mile and back and I don’t blame him. He is 76.
Larry is the youngest son of a devout Baptist lady who raised Larry and his older siblings to take care of themselves and each other. Larry has a ridiculous sign in front of his old ramshackle farmhouse on the crooked road on the last crooked mile before the straightaway into Marble Hill on the Lutesville side. The sign reads: Dressed Rabbits, Eggs. Larry also sells all sorts of farmed fowl, goats and pigs and rabbits, oh my. If you ask just about anyone around Marble Hill if they know the dressed rabbit house on the way up to Patton Junction, they will nod and say something along these lines:
“… oh, yeah, Margy Haffer’s youngest… he ain’t right is he but has a good heart. Yep, a good heart.”
Then they’ll lean back perhaps, as if remembering what they obviously thought first but didn’t want to say.
“Ain’t he a little touched in the head? Got a club foot and a terrible lisp. Sure does have a good heart.”
If you’ve been here at TBP for ten years you will know what led me to Larry’s door was the need for a new buck. My buck had gotten himself the crooked neck and the does would not have him. We ate him.
I stopped by Larry’s and bought a new buck in 2017, a couple years after the trauma of my father’s death and the subsequent cancellation I received illegally, immorally and illegitimately. My siblings thought that they could write up a majority rule statement, have my father sign it, and their 3/1 vote against me would serve as the revocation of my natural born rights as his daughter. This, in spite of the fact that he’d been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s more than five years earlier. They were wrong, legally, of course, but any lawyer will file any paperwork you pay them to file because their first class was “Billable Hours 101” and rule number one is that the lawyer is not liable for anything. Just about like Pfizer.
So, having been cancelled in such a nasty manner by my own father** followed by that strange attack by folks here about my little raccoon-skinned journey I was taking to try to revise the story to devise a better end, I eventually had to realize I was actually in a secondary role in this segment of my life. When all of the people you thought you mattered to simply ignore your distress, it is time to realize you probably don’t matter after all. I’ve been fairly cool with that until last March when Geneva asked me if I could find out “on the internet” what was happening with the Coronavirus Lockdown in Pittsburgh, where her son’s family lived.
I did a search and found a biologist called JC on a bike which piqued my interest enough to listen and learn about the biology none of us learned about in science class in high school. JC not only rode around the city while explaining all the biology regarding the “pandemic” as he knew and understood it, he carried his heart on his sleeve as he explained why he and his co-author were risking their careers and reputations to make people understand that the risks associated with an untried and untested mRNA shot were significant enough to pause and think about what we might be doing to our progeny.
https://gigaohmbiological.com/biology-stream
https://img1.wsimg.com/blobby/go/e89cbef5-70d5-4555-89a9-32f2402dd1aa/SARS2parentsReview_CoueyJJ.pdf
Geneva’s son has since moved his family (and career) to Florida. Geneva prayed God would get him out of Pennsylvania. Jonathan is still in Pittsburgh, but tonight he had a lot to report which I’ve not seen. He had to go speak at a school board meeting regarding mask wearing. I hope it went well.
https://www.twitch.tv/videos/1115462377
Addendum:
A month ago, I stopped by to see old Larry and realized his hands were swollen. I stopped by with my knives and whetstone the next day and helped him clean and dress 18 rabbits. 18 rabbits is almost 200 dollars for Larry, which will pay his electric bill. I also took him some special “ointment” to which I added some special “ointments” that I distill myself up here and then blend into Coconut Oil to make salves and ointments. This had some medicinal herbs distilled in Pure Grain Alcohol, so it was a salve I told him to keep from his eyes. Although I don’t think it would hurt more than a few minutes, if rinsed out in creek water.
Larry told me that he had prayed the night before, at church (was Thursday), that he would get some help skinning those rabbits in the next few days. His customer from Arkansas called and would drive up if he had at least 20 dressed and frozen. That much money meant the difference between paying the electric bill or buying feed for his animals. He said my stopping by to help was a blessing and he wanted me to take as many dozen eggs as I needed for me, Nick and my son. I always take a couple dozen, thanking him profusely, and dropping them off at houses where I know they do not have several dozen stacked and backed up for either drying or freezing if I cannot find someone who can just eat them. We have a dozen chickens so get almost a dozen a day, but Larry likes to pay me for helping out. So I grab a couple dozen eagerly and thank him profusely.
What a good heart indeed. His, not mine.
I started down the business partner road with Larry last year when I discovered there really is a market for domestic meat rabbit. Then, I discovered slaughtering my own rabbits was a lonely job that my husband couldn’t do. However, the money meant so much to Larry and his family (who support him in their own impoverished way), that I continue to be the liaison between he and the different markets: one restaurant, two farm/ranch store and a couple of carnivores from the country who love rabbit more than any other meat. They will drive to get it as long as there are ten or more.
So, since I know Larry is having a tough time right now, I decided to go down and help him slaughter those rabbits a couple weeks ago.
It turns out that Larry went to church that Wednesday night and I’m went to his house the next morning by ten a.m. ready to kill rabbits with him in spite of my deciding I was not gonna kill and skin rabbits for meat any longer. But, Larry really is a dear man and his swollen hands worried me. He takes care of his animals; he takes care of his family; his family takes care of him.
Larry prayed for help. God sent me. Go figure.
By the way, he doesn’t have “the Covid” as we call it around here. He has a touch of pneumonia and Doc Doyle put him on a strict regiment antibiotics and told him to take it “easy.” I am helping him feed the rabbits (all 24 adults and a half dozen cages of feeder kits) and chickens, but I absolutely refuse to do anything with the pigs.
Unless God tells me I have to, I suppose. It isn’t like my hands haven’t been washed in muddy water before.
Better angels indeed.
Imagine discovering I’ve retired here to be at the beck and call of an old guy named Larry who raises baby chickens from an incubator and orphaned bunnies bottle fed by him in his living room along with two cats and a little rat terrier named Sweetie Pie who is obviously confused about what its purpose in life should be. After I arrive, the little dog seeks a comfortable spot on top of the bookcase, where it has managed mess all over the Encyclopedia Set sold to his indigent mother decades earlier when she did not have the $19 a month but hoped it would help Larry in school. Since no one ever pulls them out, the odor seems contained by the heavy brocade curtains between the cheap fiberboard furniture insulated with unused books and the window and wall. It might make Margy feel a bit better to know the Encyclopedias served a higher purpose for Larry after all.
So, today, I stopped by to help him out. He went down to the barn to take care of the pigs and I traveled by foot down the hill with my cage to pick up three really gorgeous rabbits I’ll sell to a farm store soon. (I go monthly with these lionsmane rabbits, so they are a rare specialty at the farm store.)
At the bottom of the hill, I saw his neighbor carrying an air conditioning unity inside with a young man. I’d met Troy at Larry’s barn with his little boy Jackson last spring. The tot had captured my imagination, so when Larry told me Troy helps him with the rabbits and pigs from time to time, I decided to thank Troy the best way I know how: Cold Hard Cash.
I offered the boy (19) a hundred-dollar bill for helping Larry out when he could, especially in thenext week or so. He shook his head and refused to take the money.
“I can’t take that money for doing what’s right.”
I misunderstood, perhaps. I reached up and tucked the bill into the pocket on his shirt, hoping that my placing it there precluded and bypassed his taking it.
He shook his head and look away. “Please, Ma’am, I can’t have that money on me.”
I reached to his pocket and took the bill. “If I give it to Robbie?” Robbie being the neighbor who has taken Troy in.
Troy shook his head. “I still can’t take it for doing the right thing. I’ll help Larry when I can.”
I got it and realized that this young man had a self-control a lot of young meth addicts did not have. He wanted to be able to be a daddy to little Jackson and had asked for prayers last spring. I’d forgotten that, thinking prayers means money. But, Troy gives me a bit of hope for the lost souls of the millennium. Maybe all is not lost after all.
I am praying now. Troy doesn’t want my hundred dollar bill. Troy wants to stay clean for his little boy.
Perhaps Troy will make it.
Better angels indeed.
*Under the 1993 Defense Bill (a lot of SHIT gets snuck into the Defense Bill) a little Amendment about how any doctor that accepted Medicaid contractual payments was also bound to accept what Tricare paid as well, because Tricare and Medicaid were administered by the same sort of federal mumbo jumbo clause. I know it is true because a really high-dollar neurosurgeon told me he didn’t mind operating on me for nothing because I was the only patient he’d performed five brain surgeries upon who could still drive to his office. Tricare would not pay his surgical fee but I really was a miracle patient to him and his wife, also a neurosurgeon. He came back from vacation in Bahamas for my third revision. I’m serious. He thought I was put in his path. Dr. Doyle, retired USNavy Doctor, was put in mine. As was Larry.
**There is always the other side of the story and since I can’t see it, I’m not worried about it now. I’ve built a bridge over it with my mother and everyone else can build their own damned bridges.