If I told you who I had dinner with last night I would have to kill you.
Evidently the individual was privy to top secret information. He continuously looked around to see if anyone was overhearing the conversation. He was sure the gentleman seated at the next table was trying to glean nuggets of information that evidently could be used against him.
So, I thought perhaps rather than bogging down in the details why not go big, really big, global, and find out what he thinks is going on exactly here on planet earth as seen through the eyes of a beltway insider.
First, everybody and everything is bought. Okay, Is it the D’s or R’s? It’s everybody. Who’s doing the buying the banks? Nope… they are silly little intermediaries. Who is it then? It isn’t even the multinationals, they are too small and too weak. It is something more vaguely powerful than all of that.
Here was his answer. There are a group of organized syndicates that have enormous capital reserves invested around the globe, they are quasi criminal, decidedly uncoupled to any nation state, and singularly interested in what they are interested in and haven’t the least bit of time for the silly notion of running or managing a country. Got that? Voting rights, abortion, stand your ground, gay marriage… all of that is silliness…. These people are interested in commodities, in offshore tax havens, central bankers doing what they are told, and small countries with no economies having nice little revolutions that might clutter the front pages of newspapers to provide cover and distraction while they go about their merry business of global domination busily vacuuming up all that wealth, all those riches, all that fabulous loot. Evidently this group isn’t into the spiritual thing….
Washington DC is out of control because they want it that way. Capitalism, democracy, the Bill of Rights, constitutional form of government, corporations, free trade, the dollar… all that big stuff? These guys (girls too) transcend all that junk. It isn’t even anything to do with any of that. It does seem to beg the question if this is farce why the NSA? What are we trying to protect ourselves from?
And it is the perfect set up. Anyone starts trying to explain this and they are instantly placed into the loony bin of conspiracy theorists, inflammatory the sky is falling types. Nope, keep your head down and keep playing along, any conversation about the puppeteers of the Davos set is sheer folly, you will need to see the head doctor and start taking your med’s regularly. So sanity is a negotiable… sincerity a quaint and quite charming but exploitable character trait. If you raise your voice as our dear friend Edward Snowden has done you are in deep dew-dew… First rule of rules? Don’t speak about the unspeakable.
Anyway, there you go mates, a cheerful little view from a DC insider….
HOT SPRING HONEYMOON
Bambalina was worried near to death. He wasn’t even kind of the same man. If he’d kept working, even at this pace, unfortunate as it may have seemed Fletcher McCrea was going to be stupid rich and rock bottom miserable all at the same time. That kind of paradox could shatter the soul of even the world’s most shallow womanizer’s. The saddest part was the burro could see that Fletcher didn’t much care for his life any longer. Worse yet Bambalina could smell that he wasn’t even bothering to shower. There was no need, he wasn’t going into town and none of his women were driving up to spend the night. He wasn’t even getting drunk. He didn’t even have enough sadness for that.
Day after day he’d worked the tragic end of his sex life, over and over again in his head. The same answer spit out every time. Fletcher McCrea could not conceive of there being any method or means to his being faithful to one woman. It was neither natural to his inclinations nor a kind of way of being he agreed with. For Fletcher’s sex life to work right he needed to be all tangled up with one woman, but just for the night, and then best thing was if he was with a woman, he’d see another he’d have to have, and then he’d start dwelling on the other while he was having intimate relations with the one. His women all knew that. His way of turning his sex life into some kind of relay race was an adaptation, a coping mechanism. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t kind. It was simply the best he could do. It was incomprehensible that when Fletcher McCrea looked out from Pipe Dream Mountain across the open wild Great Basin bottom lands, he was looking as far as any man’s eye could see, and there wasn’t in eyesight another bunch of women ready to take over where all his former girlfriends had left him off.