Tombstones

“Profit motive” means very simply: you give less than you take. If you give less than you take, you grow mean and stingy. Everybody suffers. Morality is totally impossible.

—Lew Welch

Money is death. Ask yourself why banks and currency use the same images as tombstones.

—Lew Welch 

The money. It is almost over. Blessed be.

We can see this, rightly, if we just look, right, at the current roil of news.

—First, in re the latest eternal recurrence of the American debt limit/grand bargain/ACA/government shutdown/blah-de-blah kabuki.

Senator Ted Cruz, he read Green Eggs And Ham, on the floor of theexorcising the blah man Senate. And proved that he did not understand it. At all. And that he is as run-amok nuts as a schoolyard flasher.

Cruz, and his fellow senators Mike Lee, Marco Rubio, and Ayn Rand Paul: all of them are non-sane; de-evolved; deeply, deeply, stupid. They are the Four Stooges of the 21st Century. With Cruz as the really fat and oafish Stooge, the one with the flat-top, who finds it difficult to even drool properly.

When people in other nations regard a person like Cruz, they clamor to know why their borders cannot be immediately and permanently sealed, against the advent of any and all Americans.

Extraterrestrials, meanwhile, have hastily constructed a hyperspace bypass, so that none of them need come anywhere near this planet.

The photo reproduced above, it proves absolutely that Cruz is a mentally divergent knuckledragger. An atavist who grunts and grinds in a world 2000 years long gone. For he is calling, there, down upon his knees, for divine assistance from one Jesus of Nazareth—a millennially long-gone, thoroughly mortal, Jewish prophet; pressganged, upon his death, by an ambitious toadstool of a Saul of Tarsus, into serving as cat’s-paw for some new and improved Sun King faith.

But of course, in truth, what Stooge Cruz is here really doing, upon his knees, before the White House, is calling upon all and every deity—Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha, Beelzebub, anyfuckingbody, even frigging Cthulhu—to get the goddam black man out of the White House.

For Ted Cruz, like anybody and everybody associated with, or even once fleetingly sympathetic with, the fabled “Tea Party,” is a five-star, glow-in-the-dark, racist.

If you could manage, some deep dark night, to burst into his bedroom, and shine a black light onto his forehead, before he might Take Precautions, you would find, stenciled there, on his forehead, as is stenciled upon the forehead of anybody and everybody ever associated with the Tea Party, these words: “I Hate Ni**ers.”

Cruz hates anything black. And, most especially, the black man in the White House. So much so that he, like his fellow five-star glow-in-the-dark racists Mike Lee, Marco Rubio, Ayn Rand Paul, and any and all persons ever even remotely associated or even fleetingly sympathetic with the Tea Party, is intent on making sure that the United States is transformed, economically, into Zimbabwe. Rather than let any dollars, touch the black man’s hands. They would first deny the black man the money to run the federal government . . . and they would deny it solely because he is black. That was the message and import of the fabled Cruz Green Eggs And Ham flaccidbuster. They are next intent on cthlulhu save me!insuring that the black man cannot pay the nation’s debts. By refusing to raise the debt-ceiling limit. Thereby crashing and burning not only the federal government, but also the American economy . . . and, as my colleague has been cassandraing for the past umpteen-years, the status of the dollar as the world’s reserve currency.

But Cruz and Co., they don’t care. They are perfectly willing to stand in the fire. Even as it consumes them. So long as it first burns the black man.

—Next, there’s the pope. Something has gone seriously wrong with the fellow. So much so, that they’re probably going to have to poison him.

We first understood he’d gone stone-mad when one of his sub-primates emerged from some catacomb to pronounce priestly celibacy and marriage-eschewing “tradition,” rather than dogma. That means, the catacomber explained, that these things are not essential god-ordained ways to be a Catholic. But instead just something they do. And therefore they can change their minds about it, whenever they feel like it.

Then the pope himself, suddenly roared out of the pope-hole, to give an interview in which he told Catholic primates, prelates, and random assorted lay-nimrods, that people, like them, “obsessed” with abortion, birth control, gay people, and the like, should put a cork in it. He said that, in his popedom, he’s not going to talk about those things. Because they’re boring and trivial. And if people don’t like that, well, they can just bugger right off.

Finally, the new popeling, he seized the microphone, at some radio station, to rant, correctly, that money is “the dung of the devil”:

Money sickens our minds, poisons our thoughts, even poisons our faith, leading us down the path of jealousy, quarrels, suspicion and conflict. It drives to idle words and pointless discussions.

We can never serve God and money at the same time. It is not possible: either one or the other. This is not Communism. It is the true Gospel! They are the Lord’s words.

Money begins by offering a sense of well-being. Then you feel important and vanity comes. This vanity is useless, but still you think you are important. And after vanity comes pride. Those are the three steps: wealth, vanity, and pride.

“But, Father, I read the Ten Commandments and they say nothing about the evils of money. Against which Commandment do you sin when you do something for money?” Against the first one! You worship a false idol. And this is the reason: because money becomes an idol and you worship it. And that’s why Jesus tells us that you cannot serve money and the living God: either one or the other.

The early Fathers of the Church, in the 3rd Century, around the year 200 or 300, put it in a very blunt way, calling money ‘the dung of the devil’. And so it is. Because it turns us idolatrous, fills our thoughts with pride, and leads us away from our faith.

Holy fuck! It was bad enough that the guy opened his yap to say no war in Syria. Not even we love deaththe Big Hat during WWII said stop the war: in fact, that cretin got down on his knees and thanked god when the Nazis invaded the USSR, imploring the Big Guy In The Sky to grant the Germans “total victory.”

Why can’t this pope behave like that?

But no.

Not only does he say stop the bomb-rain, but now he’s on about money.

Clearly, something’s going to have to go into his soup.

—Finally, it is a fact that there exists five times as much debt in this world, as there exists money. And anyone who has evolved beyond even Cruz-level can quickly apprehend—no matter how deficient their math skills—that this is a hole from which it is not possible to emerge.

I basically lost all interest in the entire debt/shutdown St. Vitus Dance during one of the previous kabuki iterations.
When I heard about the platinum coin. Which is just great.
As I wrote somewhere or other, there, then, and at many other times, across the universes, the president, he will roll the cameras into the Oval Office, then hold up a little coin, and say Real Moneysomething like: “Hi there. I’m the president. I just made this coin. It’s worth a trillion dollars. Why? Because I say it is. It’s a little bit of platinum, and it’s worth a trillion dollars. Because I say so. Isn’t that neat? I put it in the treasury, and now there is no debt-ceiling problem. How cool is that? It’s like magic. Next week, maybe I’ll make a quadzillion-dollar coin. And with it buy Zimbabwe. Come watch!
“Now,” he will then frown, “you shouldn’t do this at home. Though you could. Just like I could say that, instead of this coin, my left thumbnail is worth a trillion dollars. Or that Juicy Fruit wrapper, over there in the wastebasket. Or, for that matter, the wastebasket. Because it’s all in your head, people. Money. It’s worth what it’s worth, only because you all agree to it.”
It would be a great jolt for people, the platinum coin, to clue them into the essential non-reality of money. It would prepare them for the great worldwide debt jubilee, and the issuance of the A— money.
That’s how it’s happening in my universe.

In that other universe, the one you all live in, it is good that even Normal People in the Washington Post have noticed that DC is now officially bereft of sense, or even sanity.

John Boehner isn’t even trying to pretend his House of Representatives is a sane place anymore.The House GOP’s debt limit bill—obtained by the National Review—isn’t a serious governing document. It’s not even a plausible opening bid. It’s a cry for help.

It looks like an Onion parody of what the House’s debt-ceiling demands might be. It’s a wonder it’s not written in comic sans.

Don’t know about the platinum coin? That’s fine.
It is actually better that way. That makes it easier for you to see that money does not exist. Than if you get deep down into the weeds, and nod sagely, as you “understand,” that there are various and sundry laws, that permit the president to go down to the mint, and start churning out monies that are worth whatever he says they’re worth.
It’s like something out of Alice In Wonderland. Or the deepest darkest bowels of a mental institution. But, here, in this whacked-out universe, it is considered “real.”
No.
What is truly real, is this:

(1) All the money is over.

(2) There shall be a worldwide debt jubilee. Nothing is owed to anybody.

(3) All world currencies shall be obviated. Stripped of worth. Replaced by a single world currency.

(4) Said world currency shall then be evenly distributed, in the exact same amount, to every man, woman, and child on the planet.

I have actually designed this new currency. The plates are ready to almost over nowgo, there in the basement. When the time is right, I shall turn the crank. And start turning out the goods.

Money is a deep dumbness, invented by the Lydians, in the 7th Century BC.

It’s a young’un thing. Since humans have been around for some 200,000 years.

Money, then, just a passing bad fancy. Like deciding to get sucked, all-day-and-all-of-the-night, into crack cocaine.

Humans were at that time—9000 or so years ago—coming up with all sorts of serious brain damage. Besides money, there were also cities. Agriculture. Writing. “Jobs.”

All that shit, it is so old and in the way. It is simply over.

As Richard Manuel sang, a decade or three before he, impulsively—couldn’t any longer wait—hung himself:

don’t you see?
there’s no need to slave
the whip
is in the grave

Stanley Kubrick, in 2001: A Space Odyssey, got it exactly right. Humans shall move from hunter-gatherers, to star children.

Unfortunately, in between, there is the bone. First used to conk on the head, into death, prey. And then to conk on the head, into death, fellow humans. The bone of bone, resolving, some years on, into the bone of the nuclear missile.

Which is where humans are now.

But not, thanks be to jeebus, for much longer.

As I said here:

That all the guns are going to go—that is just a small part of it.

Also going: the money, the cities, the “jobs.”

Etc.

Quaint amusing relicts. Of the larval stage. Of yeshuman beings.

These days, the larvae eagerly yammer, increasingly, of going into space, there to, with their scuttling unthinking humanoid claws, mine, rip, plunder.

Conquer.

They’re going into space, all right. Humans. But not as larvae. Instead, as butterflies. And, therefore, not in bodies at all.

And there, they will disturb nothing at all.

It is all, going, to be all right.

And it doesn’t matter to me, whether you see any of this. Or not. Because I’ve been to the mountaintop. And I’ve looked over.

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