“Who are those people I really hate?”

Listening to the daily news can unwittingly become a disheartening project.  This I find to be an especial peril when failing to analyze the logic (or, what often proves to be the lack of it) associated with the despatch, scandal or scoop. At times the headlines can impose a sudden and quite unanticipated damper upon one’s spirit. Nor is there any assurance that any one of us, for whatever reason, is above or beneath the daunt and dismay. As my late father so regularly adjured in the interest of irrepressible clarity, it assists the calculation of the deductive element to have not only the general law from which to draw particular inference but the added benefit of prediction and estimation based upon those pre-existing details, the paramountcy of which normally paints a broad empirical scope on its already enlarged canvass. Maintaining a singular image within such a vastly abstract vision is both unlikely and infrequent; that is, from a remote outlook the commonality is the regular stroke. We’re very much alike no matter what the alleged differences or difficulties.

For purposes of stirring the convincing theme of eligibility and authenticity to the news flash – and to remove it from the tawdry resource of gossip, tittle-tattle or rumour – it is first imperative to acknowledge the equally plastic absorption of the local media with whatever sells.  Here may be a crude but nonetheless exemplary retail account (which in case you’re wondering was written by James Altucher). In 1998, Altucher left HBO, sold a company he founded, Reset Inc., for approximately $15 million, and used the proceeds to fund new internet investments. Altucher has said he began this period with $15 million and lost it all in two years, which led him to re-evaluate his approach to both business and life.  During this time, Jim Cramer of TheStreet.com hired him to write about stocks, and Altucher began trading for hedge funds:

Jobs are modern-day slavery. We are paid just enough to live and not more. You are punished if you ask for more.

We are often verbally abused on the job. Sometimes (more than is reported), physically abused, raped, castrated.

The government gets up to 50% of your paycheck and then 10-20% of that goes to kill people on other parts of the planet, including our own children.

We are deluded into thinking our job-friends are our real-friends. With our job friends we talk about pens and cubicles. We stop having real-friends.

There’s a glass ceiling. It doesn’t matter if you are a woman or minority or a white man. The glass ceiling is that you aren’t allowed to make more than your Master, even if he’s an idiot.

From 7am to 7pm you are either going to work, at work, or coming back from work. The times when you can be most creative are garbage-compacted into your cubicle.

You eat shit at work. And, even worse, you have to shit next to your co-workers and Masters. Unless, like I have, you make a map of all the secret bathrooms in your local urban blight.

When you are paranoid at a job, you are probably correct. THEY are, in fact, talking about you and backstabbing you right now.

You realize that all the dollars you spent on degrees to get you a job that will make you happy were completely wasted. You were scammed but you can’t let the next generation know so now you become part of perpetuating the scam.

A trillion dollar marketing campaign forced you to buy a house you didn’t really want and now you will “lose a house” you never really owned if you don’t bow down to the Masters every day. The words “The American Dream” were coined by Fannie Mae in a marketing campaign 40 years ago to sell mortgages to slaves.

Your spouse is tired of hearing about your job after six months. And you couldn’t care less about hers. Ten years later you wake up next to a total stranger. 40 years later you die next to one.

Your IRA was not intended to provide for your retirement. It was intended to take money from you every month so you remain chained to your cubicle. Inflation then takes 90% of your IRA.

By definition: you create more value than you earn. That spread, minus executive salaries, is called “profit”. This is not an “-ism”. Just a definition.

When you were a kid you liked to draw, and read, and run, and laugh, and play, and imagine a magical world. You’re never going to do any of that again.

Over time everyone is getting fired and being replaced by younger, cheaper, more temporary versions of you. You see this but are afraid to do anything about it.

You see homeless people and think, “There but for the grace of God go I”.


Now. What are you going to do about it?

Whew! That surely gets the cognitive wheels rolling!  What’s even spookier is the inexplicable anxiety this moot examination delivers.  The mixture of calculated abuse and self-righteousness is the perfect ingredient for controversy and contradiction.  Though the effect of these repeated assaults may not be either immediate or successful, the lingering toxins in the overall argument are indisputable. This is the stuff of revolt! The bed bugs may be small but they’re annoying!

Clearly – based upon prior conduct and emissions – there is little of either poison or perfection to dignify the constituents.  Yet every hour of every day is devoted to the obfuscation of the behaviour of others. The object is seemingly nothing other than the implication of impropriety, a discredit to whatever minor differences are extolled for the purpose of superiority or inferiority, whatever it takes to heighten the advantage or interest of one over another.

Often I have wished for a more penetrating inquisition of the Members Opposite; that is, an explanation of why and how those on the opposite side of the aisle have reasoned accordingly? It is a fuitile and fruitless debate which surrounds only the rhetorical success of an argument.

It is unimaginable that each one of us, upon awakening to another day, confines our intelligence and pursuit of knowledge to the mechanism of some scheme designed to corrupt an existing interpretation.  Surely this must be the pursuit of a disgruntled soul.  How weary it is to read the mirage of the performance is guided by the poster, “You too can be like me if you try!”  Deliberating as I do upon the thriving meadow by the proliferating river, the capital for augmentation of every description is overwhemling. Granted the picture from my drawing room window is itself inexpressible. It therefore appears to be but a rude and indefinable controversy, should there indeed exist any such poignancy among such artistic production. But the philosopher’s easy chair is not always afforded the popular recipe. It is a disruptive but undeniable definition. We have as well little patience for the limitation of the weather and its preciptious alterations.