Giving the Masters More Money, Blood, Sweat, or Tears (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 210)

Do you think that the american slaves were ever told by their masters that if they worked harder and helped their masters generate more revenue for themselves, that they (the slaves) would then be set free or at least have their standards of life significantly improved? Sounds good, doesn’t it? But isn’t a man (a corporation or any other institution), capable of having the power to be a slave owner and choosing to do so, almost always irrevocably going to remain a slave owner unless he is overthrown and stripped of his power? Giving a slave owner, a master, more money, blood, sweat, or tears almost always just emboldens the slave owner to double down on his oppression and plundering of others, doesn’t it?

Cribb          2017

Convenient Patriots, Well-buttered Words, and Machine Guns (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 170)

A Mexican Patriot (aforementioned he also worked as an Ethiopian Patriot, a Chinese Patriot, and a Haitian Patriot) came across, to the tent of a M.M. brigadier, and confessed that while it hurt him to tattle on his own beloved country, conscience compelled him to reveal that his Mexican superiors were planning to fly over and bomb Laredo, San Antonio, Bisbee, and probably Tacoma, and Bangor, Maine.

This excited the Corpo <fascist party in control> newspapers very much indeed, and in New York and Chicago they published photographs of the conscientious traitor half an hour after he had appeared at the Brigadier’s tent . . . where, at that moment, forty-six reporters happened to be sitting about on neighboring cactuses.

America rose to defend her hearthstones, including all the hearthstones on Park Avenue, New York, against false and treacherous Mexico, with its appalling army of 67,000 men, with thirty-nine military aeroplanes. Women in Cedar Rapids hid under the bed; elderly gentlemen, in Cattaraugus County, New York, concealed their money in elm-tree boles; and the wife of a chicken-raiser seven miles N.E. of Estelline, South Dakota, a woman widely known as a good cook and a trained observer, distinctly saw a file of ninety-two Mexican soldiers pass her cabin, starting at 3:17 A.M. on July 27, 1939 <an obvious impossibility to anyone not delusional within the context of the book>.

To answer this threat, America, the one country that had never lost a war and never started at unjust one <obvious satire>, rose as one man, as the Chicago Daily Evening Corporate put it. It was planned to invade Mexico as soon as it should be cool enough, or even earlier, if the refrigeration and air-conditioning could be arranged. In one month, five million men were drafted for the invasion, and started training.

Then suddenly, America’s agreeable anticipation of stealing Mexico <whatever sovereign country> was checked by a popular rebellion against the whole Corpo regime.

These rebels had most of them, before the election, believed in Buzz Windrip’s fifteen points; believed that when he said he wanted to return the power pilfered by the bankers and the industrialists to the people, he more or less meant that he wanted to return the power of the bankers and industrialists to the people. As month by month they saw that they had been cheated with marked cards again, they were indignant; but they were busy with cornfield and sawmill and diary and motor factory, and it took the impertinent idiocy of demanding that they <the newly drafted US citizenry> march down into the desert and help steal a friendly country to jab them into awakening and into discovering that, while they had been asleep, they had been kidnapped by a small gang of criminals armed with high ideals, well-buttered words, and a lot of machine guns <Drones, Tomahawk Missiles, and the Mother of All Bombs>.

It Can’t Happen Here

Sinclair Lewis          1935

Back to the Future Fascism; 1935 to 2017 (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 163)

He used to surprise persons who were about to shake hands with him by suddenly bending their fingers back till they almost broke. Most people didn’t like it much.

Doremus Jessup could not explain his power of bewitching large audiences. The Senator was vulgar, almost illiterate, a public liar easily detected, and in his “ideas” almost idiotic, while his celebrated piety was that of a traveling salesman for church furniture, and his yet more celebrated humor the sly cynicism of a country store.

Certainly there was nothing exhilarating in the actual words of his speeches, nor anything convincing in his philosophy. His political platforms were only wings of a windmill.

He was an actor of genius. There was no more overwhelming actor on the stage, in motion pictures, nor even in the pulpit. He would whirl arms, bang tables, glare from mad eyes, vomit Biblical wrath  from a gaping mouth; but he would also coo like a nursing mother, beseech like an aching lover, and in between tricks would coldly and almost contemptuously jab his crowds with figures and facts—figures and facts that were inescapable even when, as often happened, they were entirely incorrect.

But below this surface stagecraft was his uncommon natural ability to be authentically excited by and with his audience, and they by and with him. He could dramatize his assertion that he was neither a Nazi nor a Fascist. . .

. . . make you see him veritably defending the Capitol against barbarian hordes, the while he innocently presented as his own warm-hearted Democratic inventions, every anti-libertarian, anti-racist (anti-foreigner) madness of Europe.

Aside from his dramatic glory, Buzz Windrip was a Professional Common Man.

Oh, he was common enough. He had every prejudice and aspiration of every American Common Man. He believed in the desirability and therefore the sanctity of . . .

. . . and the superiority of anyone who possessed a million dollars. He regarded spats, walking sticks, caviar, titles, tea-drinking, poetry not daily syndicated in newspapers, and all foreigners, possibly excepting the British, as degenerate.

But he was the Common Man twenty-times-magnified by his oratory, so that while the other Commoners could understand his every purpose, which was exactly the same as their own, they saw him towering among them, and they raised hands to him in worship.

And it was Buzz’s master stroke that, as warmly as he advocated everyone’s getting rich by just voting to be rich, he denounce all “Fascism” and “Nazism,” so that most of the Republicans who were afraid of Democratic Fascism, and all the Democrats who were afraid of Republican Fascism, were ready to vote for him.

Pushing in among this mob of camp followers who identified political virtue with money for their rent came a flying squad who suffered not from hunger but from congested idealism: Intellectuals and Reformers and even Rugged Individualists, who saw in Windrip, for all his clownish swindlerism, a free vigor which promised a rejuvenation of the crippled and senile capitalistic system.

It Can’t Happen Here

Sinclair Lewis          1935

Bokonon’s Republic (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 159)

Bokonon had written a whole book about Utopias. The Seventh Book, which he called “Bokonon’s Republic.” In that book are these ghastly aphorisms:

The hand that stocks the drug stores rules the world.

Let us start our Republic with a chain of drug stores (prioritizing the protection of our own individual health, aches and pains, on our own demand via corporatism), a chain of grocery stores (our individual gluttony of the gullet supported by corporatism), a chain of gas chambers (prisons, a militarized and bullying police force, and any “indigenous” national scapegoat to take all the blame and be punished for being the enemies of public good and general welfare that they happen to be), and a national game (to obsess over and rewrite as our bullying team tries to destroy every other team in an over-dominating spectacle: the MLB, NFL, NBA, NHL, etc, etc, etc.). After that, we can write our Constitution (any way we want because everyone is too egocentric to care about anyone or anything else other than their own selfish distractions, excuses, and entertainment).

***forgive the added Cribb explanations in parentheses for those who get the original untainted and glorious satire of Vonnegut as it stands in its own succinct purity.

Cat’s Cradle

Kurt Vonnegut          1963

The “Common Sense” of Bullies and Over-dominators (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 154)

There was a small saloon in the rear of the plane and I repaired there for a drink. It was there that I met another fellow American, H. Lowe Crosby of Evanston, Illinois, and his wife, Hazel.

They were heavy people, in their fifties. They spoke twangingly. Crosby told me that he owned a bicycle factory in Chicago, that he had nothing but ingratitude from his employees. He was going to move his business to grateful San Lorenzo.

“You know San Lorenzo well?” I asked.

“This’ll be the first time I’ve ever seen it, but everything I’ve heard about it I like,” said H. Lowe Crosby. “They’ve got discipline. They’ve got something you can count on from one year to the next. They don’t have the government encouraging everybody to be some kind of original pissant nobody ever heard of before.”


“Christ, back in Chicago, we don’t make bicycles any more. It’s all human relations now. The eggheads sit around trying to figure new ways for everybody to be happy. Nobody can get fired, no matter what; and if somebody does accidentally make a bicycle, the union accuses us of cruel and inhuman practices and the government confiscates the bicycle for back taxes and gives it to a blind man in Afghanistan.”

“And you think things will be better in San Lorenzo?”

“I know damn well they will be. The people down there are poor enough and scared enough and ignorant enough to have some common sense!”

Cat’s Cradle

Kurt Vonnegut          1963


The Financial Reward and Favorable Electability of a Persona that Ills, Endorses, and Enables (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 153)

My first boss out of veterinary school was a man that I looked to for admiration, respect, leadership, skill, and inspiration. I was hungry to begin my career as an associate veterinarian under his tutelage. At the time, I believed the profession to be saturated by exceptional professionals who prioritized empathy, exceptional knowledge and skill, integrity, and honor towards everything and everyone. I believed that the reward of money would follow those attributes naturally, secondarily, and in a balanced truthful fashion. It did not take long to discover how wrong such a premise had been. It was like that point in time when you finally figure out that your parents are not invincible, that they don’t know everything in the world, that they never did, and that in many ways, they are as damaged and confused as you are in your own childhood misperceptions.

I learned quickly how he polished the image of his ineptitude with insincere charming bullshit spewed towards anyone who would listen, towards anyone susceptible to his tactics of entertaining deception. I learned how much he loved to manipulate clients into spending massive amounts of money for unnecessary diagnostics and treatments when he did not care or even have a clue about the reality of the case. I learned how he lied to everyone about everything; his wife, his associate, his peers, his staff, and his clients. His relentless pursuit, his unquestionable priority, was selling without conscience, without validity, almost always absent of a fair exchange over a service or skill of objective need. Being a veterinarian seemed to mean nothing to him beyond serving as a mask of respectable authority and having a license to ill. I honestly don’t remember him ever doing the right thing even once when he knew that he could get away with doing less. I witnessed overt malpractice and unethical manipulation of clients on a number of occasions, but fearing unemployment, the associated possibility of being blacklisted by him in the veterinary community, and quickly realizing that in truth, maybe there were more of his character types in our profession than mine, I was frozen in indecision, and thus controlled by the fear of him for a time. The truth was also apparent to many of the staff, but like myself, most were also caught in the employer fear trap. To be fair, I suppose others liked his tactics and the emboldening sense that they felt from carrying out his passive-aggressive manipulation and revenue depletion of others. There are always those minions who prefer such a destabilized approach to their interactions with others.

This man became a very successful businessman and eventually was elected President of my state Veterinary Medical Association. He deserves those accolades. They should be acknowledged, but what should also be acknowledged is that you should hope he never tried to diagnose or treat your pet for anything. He spoke bullshit and sappy charm to all of his clients and most of them ate it up. It was/is almost like most people really want(ed) the bullshit, the show, the song and dance. They just want to be entertained and have their assumptions and beliefs, no matter how far fetched or off the mark they might be, endorsed and enabled. It makes me sick to even think about the insanity of it all for too long. I still can’t fathom how the system became so broken that it props up people of that nature to become financially successful and to become esteemed as elected leaders who supposedly have everyone’s best interest at heart. Such a system leaves all of the “patients” under the care of an incompetent doctor of malicious intent whether those patients know it or not.

Cribb          January 20, 2017

Some Choose Instead to Vote the Other 364 Days (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 142)

Voting reminds me a lot of a person’s birthday or Valentines Day or even Christmas itself. It is a day in which we can loudly herald our passion and conviction; our ever vigilant effort and action, towards emphatically displaying our love for another or our commitment to making the world a better place for all…….or is it?

Three hundred and sixty-five or one? The awareness, the contemplation, and sincere effort, of three hundred and sixty-five or the same for just one? It’s a great marketing day and the approval stamp of the applauding and all too well compliant herd is all over it. It is a one that can supposedly wash away all the sins, apathy, and hypocrisy of the other three hundred and sixty-four. See how I love my wife…..I bought her some wilting picked over-roses, some discounted hum-drum chocolates, and a fabulous Hallmark card imprinted with a unique and exquisite message from the core of my being? How many people gloriously celebrate the Christ child’s birth by drinking themselves into oblivion on his namesake day as he requested in his eleventh commandment? I voted. I voted. I voted. Look at my sticker!…..I voted! and if you did not, you don’t have the right to say anything…anything, about our leadership or this country. People died for your right to vote, don’t you get that, how could you give up or discount such a privilege?

I don’t believe those people died or gave their lives, energy, and effort, to establish and support a deceptive and beguiling system where voting is in part, or perhaps in complete entirety, only a satiating illusion. That would be silly and suggest less of them, demeaning their character, awareness, and contribution. The Electoral College is deliberately complicated and deceptive to the general public. The frequent references to our form of government by our bipartisan leadership as a democracy is intentionally deceptive and misleading. Representation is not proportional, nor truly representative of the people. The blackout, smearing, misdirection, and propaganda of the mass media significantly sabotages Third-Party considerations and candidates. Political discourse is progressively dumbed down by our governing elite and their puppets to default the public into a perpetual state of destabilized fear, ignorance, and willful submission. And conversely, laws, public policy, and other matters of debate are also willfully over-complicated and bogged down with misleading minutia to hoodwink public perception and understanding. When such doublespeak, marketing, propaganda, inundation, limitation, complication, and multitiered over-organization is thrust upon the people and the process, I find it impossible to believe that a ballot can truly even be what it is suppose to be or that the powers of authority have any sincere concern or obligation towards protecting, defending, and preserving the viable merit, input, and ultimate consequence of the common man’s opinion and the legitimacy of his vote.

But I wonder how many of the sticker voters also voted the day before, and the other three hundred and sixty three days before that. How many voted profoundly for their family on all of those days; for the love, stability, peace, and nurturing of their spouse, and their children, and even themselves? How many voted for their clients and customers by being forthright and sincere, and offering the best product and service possible to them in a fair exchange of currency? How many voted for their employees by truly rewarding them fairly and appropriately with compensation and praise and encouragement? By being a positive and honorable role model who keeps his word to everyone even when he can get away without doing so? How many voted for the true universal freedom of all…..all people, all races, all religions, and all nations, versus their own egocentric version of freedom and acceptability?  How many voted to remove the plausible excuses and jealousy from their applied perceptions and assumptions relating to every one of their relationships? How many voted to forgive as opposed to crucify? For empathy versus condescension and scapegoating? How many voted for respect and stability and union with their fellow man and all life on this planet versus yielding to the temptable demons of overriding internal and interactive fear, destabilization, and isolation? How many voted against their own doublespeak and doublethink? How many live their vote in their life every single moment of every single day in hopes that that vote, that choice, that statement of  opinion and record, will make a difference in this world and how we all interact with one another?

If you believe voting at the ballot box really does makes a difference, I support you in that action. I’m not sure that I can agree with such an assumption and I worry that a vote of that nature is more about distraction and misdirection; having an excuse to feel as though you have done enough in regards to American society, as well as our foreign policy; that the rest of all of it is out of your control and that you can only do so much to contribute to the changes that the world needs to experience, at least for the next four years. You get the right to brag or complain or feel content for a short while, but most often that leads to a person to less awareness, less contemplation, and less actual implementation of the real difference that they can make in the world.

A ballot may or may not produce significant change, but such a national or centralizing vote is far-removed from direct interaction and the comprehensive ability to truly assess its genuine effectiveness. There is too much misdirection and separation and plausible excuse in such a system to allow for the definitive assessment of the reality, impact, and consequences yielded on a personal level. As a result, the “truth” of that experience gets to be rewritten by our psyche outside of our sensational existence. Levels of separation via a pyramid of centralization create that dangerous and tragic dynamic of a perceived or subjective reality outside of immediate and direct experience.

If you make a genuinely uplifting and stabilizing difference in the lives of the people within your direct contact, you will change the world for the better, and the world will in turn, bless you with the same nurturing and stabilizing energy. That becomes a union of change, direct impact, and direct experience. It is undeniable, unmistakable, and irrefutable. Nothing can stand against such, not even a real or an imaginary ballot box.


Election Day 2016