I personally do not celebrate Thanksgiving.
Not unless I am forced to do so by social and familial necessities, and even then I am just going through the motions.
I cannot bring myself to celebrate a successful enslavement and genocide, no matter what the end result may have been for my own Celtic immigrant ancestors who had themselves been enslaved first in a Roman-dominated and then a Germanic-dominated Northern Europe.
Can’t see it.
Besides…I don’t like turkey nor I do not much like being stuffed like a turkey, either.
Last night I ate brown rice, a bean dish cooked with a little chicken sausage, onions and cheese, and collard greens. It was wonderful. Then I went back to working at what I do. That was wonderful, too.
Read on for more.
The whole so-called “holiday” season is getting progressively more distasteful as the reality of what this country has become more and more plainly evidences itself. That we can swallow the bullshit that is now coming out of the hypnomedia about “change” while our weaponry continues to kill brown people all over the globe is beyond horrible.
The Native Americans were only the beginning, and those nasty-spirited, lying sacks of shit who called themselves Puritans are still running the show.
Gotta give them their due, though.
They have been the most successful criminals in the history of the world.
And their public relations firm is AWESOME!!!
No propaganda mechanism in the history of the world has even come close to rivaling it.
300 million plus people here.
Out of that 300 million I will bet you that there are not 150,000 who actually understand its power and are at least to some degree immune to it. Not even most of the people who work in it.
Sometimes I really do believe that we have been successfully invaded and colonized by an alien race and that this whole media control mechanism that is slowly encircling the globe is their conqueror worm.
Deep as shit.
Ol’ Edgar Allen Poe knew.
Bet on it.
THE CONQUEROR WORM
by Edgar Allan Poe
Lo! ’tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
That motley drama- oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out- out are the lights- out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
Another fucking prophet.