My Kingdom For A War

by Bruce Patterson, September 20, 2017

Potemkin Village: an impressive façade or show designed to hide an undesirable fact or condition.  

When, immediately after taking office, our Emperor Orange Julius made it clear to the world that he, the self-described “Most Powerful Man on Earth,” was going to use the “Dictatorial Executive Orders” he’d so passionately run against to trash our civil service, trade agreements and treaties, International Law and Constitution (it’s up to the stuffed suits in Congress to instigate, fund and lose wars of agression), I realized this obscene swamp thing must be a front man for creatures a whole lot more powerful than he. Listen to him: at best he’s a sidewalk barker. By now most everybody in the world knows this dude’s an automated fiasco constantly flashing a trademark printed with Invisible Ink. Myself, I see this guy as no more talented than a third-rate Poker player working as a shill for a third-rate, off-Strip casino while pretending he’s just in from Sheboygan and, howdy, pardners, hot to trot.

We’re eight months into this swamp thing’s slo-mo nuthouse playhouse and—it’s a miracle!—the dude’s still in biz. Except now our man with the big plans is reduced to swallowing swords, biting the heads off chickens and, between acts, gathering up the coins his happy customers have tossed through the bars of his cage. Still itching to “win a war” to prove himself the New, New Global World Economy’s Samurai King Kong LLC, not to mention maybe getting to outrun our posse, after properly securing his coinage in his belly pouch, old Swampy he glares up at the sky, pounds his chest and roars his complaints and commands:

“If Congress doesn’t give me funding for my Beautiful Border Wall, I just might shut down the Federal Government. I just might and it’ll be all your fault, people.”

I expected far more out of these Republican politicians currently lined up tossing rose petals over the spray-painted heads of their trigger-happy, double-wide Emperor and his procession of rickety crawdaddies. I swear to god I expected more. I’ve had plenty of family and friends who were Republicans, including my dad, nephew and big sister. Also I spent 40 years taking care of other people’s land, crops and livestock, and virtually everybody I worked with and drank with over all those decades (except the “colored” ones) were Republicans. Still we could talk politics without having at each other with Bowie knives in the name of the Yellow Rose of Baja Oklahoma or Those Green Fields of Home.

As a growing boy, I was a militantly Pro-War, Pro-Military, Pro-Protestant Work Ethic and WASP Civilization. I was a righteously Pro-American, Pro-War, E-1, shit-green, no-class Republican wannabe since, from the day I took my sacred oath, I wouldn’t get the right to vote for another five full years. Still I became full-fledged, small arms combat infantryman and mighty proud of it, thus inaugurating what would become my lifelong pattern of, on the stuff that counts, putting my ass where my mouth is.

So I submit that today this chemically-stunted crop of old-aged retrogrades masquerading as Republicans ain’t any such thing. Check out the Republican’s “House Freedom Caucus.” Check out this spit-polished Fraternity’s political positions and programs: know thy sticky-fingered cornpone Messiahs. Then check out the portraits of these esteemed gentlemen in their dagger-sharp, snow-white starched collars and the bright shining knotted nooses cinched tight around the sagging necks and you’ll catch a glimpse of just how shithouse nasty these zombie Puritans can get when they’re drunk with Power and vainglory. Check them out and you just might get reminded of why the Nazis so proudly proclaimed themselves “Nationalist/Socialist.”

Can’t rightly call them phony-cheap old fossils “Conservatives,” either, not when they’re adamantly refusing to open their eyes to the irreparable harms being done to Nature and Humankind by Mr. Libertarian B. Petrochemical (ever wonder who gave the Gulf of Texas its blue lighter fluid sheen and sprawling Dead Zones?). Old Fossil Fuel Man his self with his third wife, Mrs. Massive Consumer Waste, and their adorable daughter, Ms. Stealth B. Bomber and—the apple of their eyes—their Annapolis-bound son, Sir $14 Billion-Aircraft-Carrier (one each) called McCain the 3rd.

Yet, I can assure you, nobody is going to make money searching dead oceans for seaborn Terrorists in suicide vests. There’ll be no more fun in the sun when Florida, along with Wall Street and lots more, go underwater. Then, lest we forget, putting your party/tribe/sect/wallet above the well-being of your people and your people’s children is a mighty sorry way of showing your patriotism. Subverting the Constitution by handing over all, including thermonuclear, War Powers to one person—even if he or she wasn’t a bloodthirsty geek—is also a mighty sorry way of showing your patriotism.

It scares me seeing the mangy, flea-bit rump of the Republican Party acting as this naked Emperor’s clothes, umbrella, shoes, socks and foot stools. Goes to show what happens when, thanks to a Supreme Court packed with dithering, bleached bone-chucking clairvoyants piously intuiting the “Original Intent” of a very select group of very argumentative English Gentlemen Slave Owners who’ve been dead for two centuries, We the People get sold down the river. The Supreme’s proclamation that Conglomerates are Sovereign Individuals and that their money is entitled to talk every bit as loudly as poor people’s money gets to talk, was so atrocious it helped make our rule by geek possible. Moreover, according to these robed Titans of Wall Street and Princes of the Pentagon axis, actively buying and selling the people’s representatives is just another presumably fair exchange and cost of doing business.

Today also goes to show what happens when “we the people” lose ourselves in mass-produced holographic postcards of ourselves while a very select number of very special children are groomed and doomed to become highflying corporate lawyers. Corporate lawyers flying in formation like stratospheric ICBMs and then, with age, morphing into hanging judges, experts, advisors, spokespeople for “Law and Order” conglomerates and politicians all joined at the hip with megachurch Holy Anti-Terror War Crusader pitchmen and plate-passers, featherbedding admirals and generals all at once morphing into Born Again lobbyists with the bottomless perks of Hollywood’s Biggest Stars except while getting to work a whole lot less, getting to lie a whole bunch more and, like hopeless lushes and vampires, being unable to stand the light of day.

Is it “The End of History” when today’s young people are getting pushed kicking and screaming into another solid-gold, self-defeating bloodbath instigated by lobbyists selling yesterday’s Roman Imperial fantasies delivered with Free Shipping and No Money Down? Anonymous legions of lobbyists morphed into Opera House bag men for war-profiteering and too big to fail “institutional investors” owned by politicians, generals, admirals, lawyers, lawmen, lobbyists for lawyers, lawyers for lobbyists and, as always, all done in broad daylight and in the name of inspiring the little children with these shining examples of Heavenly Worldly Success.

When, for Wall Street’s institutional investors, endlessly preparing for war becomes even more profitable than “fighting” wars, and financing wars, and tinhorn war machines strung around the world like rusty razor wire, how sweet is it having nobody looking over your shoulders? Can you even imagine your Possibilities for Growth?

Yet, if “power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely,” where does that leave the rest of us?

Atop the world if you’re a war lover. If you’re a war lover, absolute power puts you sitting mighty pretty. It’s so easy for these money-clipped flippers of military hardware to tend to their own biz while everybody else is either doing likewise or busy watching this geek going through his routines on TV. Being the material beneficiaries of timing so extraordinary fortuitous—how often do the inmates get to run the asylum?—these Masters of the Universe can be forgiven for, while raking in money with both hands, convincing themselves they’re being Blessed by God.

Our gluttonous, vacuous and tottering Wall Street Pentagon Estate Planners can even be forgiven for convincing themselves that they’ve invented the gift that keeps on giving. Their gift to the world that’s so precious it should be put up there in lights right beside the Invisible Hand of Justice and the Miracle of Interest Compounding Daily. So far as these thermonuclear Old Men of the Steaming Plastic Sea are concerned, they’re at the controls of a hotrod jalopy Perpetual Motion Machine and they’re racing it no matter because they paid cash for it and, by golly, they own it bumper to bumper, sunroof to muffler.

This Labor Day our man on the moon publically ordered the South Koreans to halt their “Policy of Appeasement” toward that fat Northerner kid with his scary missiles and the soup bowl haircut. Our Caudillo he threatens to unilaterally start a “preventative war” over there just as if the consequences for that ancient peninsular home to 77,000,000 people represents no more than a dollar ante in a hand of pot-limit, 7-headed, 7-Card Mexican Stud. As if, from his Ivory Tower War Room, our geek gets to decide who lives and dies exactly like he gets to decide whether to bet, or fold, his 7-high Straight in a four-headed showdown. As if Korea’s neighbors, China, Japan and Russia, haven’t contributed any chips to the pot, have no hole cards fanned in their hands and glints in their eyes. As if it isn’t the international community, and children unborn, providing these players with their room, lights, carpet, table, chips, ashtrays, peanuts and drinks.

As if Labor Day is for celebrating the elephant that, scared out of its wits, squishes a mouse in self-defense, our Primetime Commander-in-Grief, in the name of preserving our precious bodily fluids, declares that he has revoked the de-facto “illegal amnesty” granted by Obama the Kenyan spear-chucker to roughly 800,000 of America’s young, colored, spiffy-clean, de-facto Americans who, well, signed a contract with the federales and have faithfully met its terms but still, well, listen: Anything’s possible: who knows? We won’t deport all of these Illegal Alien law-breakers immediately, of course—we don’t want to unduly inconvenience anybody. We’ll just lock their “Mexican” and “Latin American” necks into the collars of our Great American guillotines without dropping the blades for, oh, at max, 90 days. You know, in the name of Family Values and Christian Mercy. We’ll see how it looks after 90 days, I promise you. I’m fine with them staying till then. I love these people: I love all people.

As all of the world’s Great Philosophers—and slaves and convicts—have always known, chickenshit is as chickenshit does. Nobody is more dangerous than cold-blooded, power-drunk cowards armed with global suicide vests. Think giant soaring chickenhawks painted black and blocking out the sun to rob their violent crimes of their color, texture and scale. Civilization’s oldest racket: gouge out the people’s eyes and then sell them red-tipped canes.

Orange Julius going around mis-quoting Abe Lincoln rubs me wrong. As if, knowing all he touches turns to shit, he wishes to sully a real American’s reputation to maybe help keep him silent in his grave. But here’s a bit of what Abraham had to say to we caught in this historical moment:

“Familiarize yourselves with the chains of bondage and you prepare your own limbs to wear them. . . Accustomed to trample on the rights of others, you have lost the genius of your own independence and become fit subjects of the first cunning tyrant who rises among you.”

2 Responses to My Kingdom For A War

  1. Pat Kittle Reply

    September 20, 2017 at 4:34 pm


    It’s Israel lobby billionaire war criminals who select & control all “our” sleazy politicians. Surely you that.

    Afraid to say so??

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  2. Jurgen Stoll Reply

    September 22, 2017 at 9:55 am

    Man Kittle, you missed the finer points of a great essay. Put down the Brietbart or whatever other conspiracy theory rag you read and try a little more objectivity.

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