in miniature
THE LAST CHARACTER IN THE WORLD
Once upon a time in a land very very close by, in something of a pious fraud of a mass email, lived a media figment of the imagination. His name was the President of the United States – POTUS. Potus, for short.
Potus was a real person but he did not play one on TV. His role on TV was that of corporate drone looking the part of a human being working hard at being a corporate drone – with fetching big military muscles – for which Potus was cherished lauded and applauded by many another drone-being-drone, DBD, on TV. Potus ruled over the entire world, or thought he did, or gave the impression he would want to as was expected of the last great hope on Earth.
Potus bowed so often to his paymasters, the Banksters and all their buddies, that he had silver dollars for eyes. Without all his banksters Potus was invisible, no one could see him, least of all the TVs. So Potus was a true TV hero and heroic only there, an actor in The Greatest Show on Earth! His was the reality shows of reality shows. Everyone wanted to play Potus, be Potus, see Potus. (Well, not everyone but so many did that it hardly seems an exaggeration.) Potus was popular.
Well not popular exactly. No Potus these days could scarcely get a quarter of eligible voters to so much as move a finger for him, other than the middle, once every four years. But popular enough! After all, his story was beamed through the media all the time, 24/7. Potus was a star, the star. He was sort of like the first and last character in the world. At least, that is how he appeared in America, if, sadly, not exactly everywhere else.
But Potus was supposed to be our star and we were supposed loved him. Not everybody all the time but enough. Potus was us, good or bad, brave or cowardly, quick or quaint, and we were him. Or himmish. Or her. Or herrish. Man or woman, let’s simply refer to Potus as him, if not Him, as he so often is, has been, and possibly will be, amen.
Well, let’s get to the Plot.
Potus had a problem. Flipping Russia. Yes, again. Also: China, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan – all the olives, blacks, and browns, and even whites, rich and poor – but mostly the poor – the whole flipping world of the poor was the problem of Potus. Especially where the oil was, and other precious sources of wealth. Wouldn’t flippin’ behave. No could do. Potus especially had trouble keeping the Rabble in line. The flipping Rabble. There were so damn many of them! Everywhere poor Potus gazed, Rabble here, Rabble there, Rabble, Rabble everywhere. It was enough to make a princely Potus cry. If he were a lesser man, a lesser Potus, unfit for 24/7 media immersion, and not the last great character in the world, Potus might have blinked winked or nodded but, good Potus that he was, he carried The Message instead. Potus carried the banksters’ demands to the people in guise of a human working hard to act like a trustworthy representative. Give me your money. Give my banksters your money. Trust me.
And then one day Potus told the American people, and he told the peoples of the world, We need all your money. Now.
There was only one problem, the banksters already had all the peoples’ money. A few folks had accounts clinging to the positive side but they were completely outbalanced by the debtor masses locked in by the bankster owners. Banktopia had long since arrived. But the banksters wanted more. They wanted not only what they did not have but that which nobody could have. They wanted the future before the future arrived. They wanted all credit and debt, ever. They wanted everything, all together, at once.
There was only one solution, and Potus was just the man to pitch it:
Lock everybody up – in one giant slave camp factory. A concentration camp to which people flowed in and money flowed out. Banktopia born again. All that was needed was to grease the legislation through Congress and the United States of America would be reborn as the Unified Debtors Slave Prison Colony of the Banksters. Of course Potus needed other language with which to clarify the idea, and so he turned to his trusty speech writer Stan D. Garde for the magic of the mouth applied to the mind for the money.
Freedom, Stan D. Garde spoke through the mouth of Potus, is the mother of all things. Freedom is where we find ourselves when we run out of money and have nowhere to turn except to our everloving bankster brethren, our cousins in cash. We must do as we are told. Let us now pray. We ask thee dear Good to send us to the corporate farm, the capitalist stockade, for our owned well-being. We ask that our journey to this concentration camp of cash, this dominion of the dollar, be swift and full of grace, in your name, if you do please, quickly now, amen.
And so Potus spoke. And so the people went, herded like flipping flies stuck to sticky paper. The capitalist stockade or death! And there the people went all smashed up against the eternal stickum of forever debt.
Well not all the people, of course. A distinct minority (mostly white and male, and totally affluent, along with their select pets, human and animal) remained in the world to enjoy it.
Bank in banktopia, which Potus grew almost dizzy jetting in and out of to deliver the good word, the people did what debtors do: they worked, suffered, endured and died. May we all rest in peace, Amen.
Watching the presidential candidates debate is like watching two of the most studiedly, artfully, dumbest men on earth chewing each other’s shinbones.
