Sometimes it seems it is better to be lonely than to be in love. This seems more so when you realize that you are nearing the end of earthly existence and currently descending far past the pinnacle that was unknowingly crossed in the dead of the night of your complacency. You think about all those near misses in an earlier time. Names that often escape you. Faces that you can no longer recall. The ones that hurt so terribly bad when you both had reached that point when everything was no longer possible. The loneliness then, and this loneliness now, so radically dissimilar. For then there was constant animal desire to drive you on and now happily, just a memory. I pity those who grow old together for they must one day face the unbearably wrenching pain of seeing their other half fade and fade and then finally disappear. Suffer all the stages of apprehension then turning into fear and finally fall to resignation in farewells. Who hurts more? You go through that once or possibly twice and you can never be the same. The life preserver with your name imprinted is never cast out as far from those days hence. You are like a pumice stone that floats irritatingly upon the water’s surface unable to sink to that rock bottom you formerly had hit. Once again, complacent. The clock inside just ticks and ticks and ticks and you just get bored. This latest set of habits that you most recently developed at this end time the only thing to look forwards to. The rest is just a slow journey to an unexpected circumstance for that final fatal rendezvous. This knowledge you carry upon your back like a hump. Your physical framework has become old and saggy and pathetic. You look like someone else’s grandparent. “Who could live this?“, you shake your head in the finality of disgust turning away from every reflection. The rock floats on, dancing on the counter imposition of varying currents. Life goes on obliviously around you. You are simply a voyeur now. A sorter of memories that fall back out of place as soon as they are piled. Someone ever so much more suited to that long lost impossible vision of an eternally beautiful maiden that never existed. But one that was ever alive within your heart’s notion of the perfect match. You are that match. You realize that there is a side of you that never existed! But that your truly believed like every other fool was palpably ever-present. It was your own belief about what you were and what you really wanted. Fantasy! All fantasy. You are him no longer. You never were. The truth is not so bad as the loss.
It was quiet. Quiet for a change in the immediate vicinity of his living space. The formless apparition of fictional neighbors behind the staccato noises that would interrupt from time to time. Quiet within that event horizon of a gray patched city whose overbearing grid of streets melted intuit he distance of a carnivorous fog. The door was not banging and the phone slept comatose. Who was on the hit parade for this afternoon? The strain across his neck and that cool dry feeling in his nostrils said it was coming.
You couldn’t think of anything else here as you passed the time waiting until it was your turn to die. No need for speculation for what you might find after. The best would be nothing. Just there one second and then nothing. He checked his automatic, first releasing the magazine and pulling back the bolt. Then replacing the magazine with a sharp push from the palm of his hand answered by the snap. There was nothing else to do but wait now. The door was barred but he knew it was just a delaying tactic to keep out an otherwise hostile world. The hush of complacency moved freely without. All the organs of the usual information had been tamed with commercial messaging re-enforcing the trivial and the banal. No more mirror to reflect the terrible wrenching grip of despair that lay restless each night behind every other locked door. The cold rough checkered grip of case hardened blued steel presented a playground for his nevus fingertips.
How would he account himself he wondered when the door was battered in? He figure that at best the several seconds of delay would allow him to position himself to inflict massive damage on at least one of the intruders. The trick of course was to fully commit to the proposition so that there would be no hesitation. No second thoughts or middle road. Of course, you could not plan such things. You had no control only the decision to surrender to the inevitably. Keep the weapon near to the fingertips locked and at the ready. How many rounds could one get off> Remember to fire lower than one expects. They didn’t care about their pawns. The small cadres that made up these surreptitious assault squads relished the challenges and of course were edified by each successful kill. They were assured that the public notion of ‘right‘ would be on their side in the blogs and tabloids each morning. The headlines reading, “Another terrorist cell discovered!” or much more than likely, no headline at all. Just a cleaning job that was handled in the remaining hours before dawn where the setting was sanitized and the errant truth seekers cowering behind their peepholes knew enough to keep their mouths shut lest they attract their own form of the ‘wrong attention‘.
There was no possibility of help or sanctuary left in his mind. The distant rumble of train cars and the far off cry of the lonesome engine’s pulling the assemblage far afield into oblivion drifted though the icy silence. He was alone and he would remain alone and this vigil would go on in some respects like infinity. Sort of like some strange party game event where the immediacy of the calendar removed chair after chair to the constant beat of a rain of sand crystals. The Rhumba of that constant washing machine rhythm displacing the flow of blood his temples that went on uninterrupted. This animal alertness would eventually quickly fade as it did overnight and he drifted into the misty obscurity of slumber. He would walk the empty halls without betraying himself through sound or light. The lights of the city grid pretending to be stars disappearing into the mystery of a boundless untried universe. This would go on, as it always had, until like any event in life something completely unexpected would one night eventually awaken him. Maybe the long fiery arc of an asteroid on his birthday before the impact of the event horizon that would bring down the pancakes of the floors above upon his head?
Sickness had subjugated his physical being. The symptoms seemed innocuous enough to be discounted as something bromidic. The congestion of the sinus desiccating the body to the sate of near mummification. The nostrils and eyes becoming tiny fountains of saline tainted mucous. Some microscopic banditry at work chipping steadily away at one’s strength and power of resistance to the collective assault. Days past but nights persevered forth on endlessly. The flesh was weakened. A dryness of mind in limited outlook ensued forcing the existential. Past and future blotted out by ceaseless discomforts endured throughout the night. A dry cough chiming in to curse the lungs with the possibility of a mother load of phlegm hidden in the barrel shaped casing of a restless volcano below. An extreme sense of lethargy governed the course of daily existence. Trips to the bowl to hack from above like the petty dictator of a tiny porcelain universe. The incessant madness by tickle and drip. The crest of which is expelled in short blasts like a wind whipped ocean wave. The drama of life’s external concerns was extinguished by a self-serving predilection with tissues to alternately serve and irritate those red hot hollow orifices of the nose. Day after day the hope of a general departure delayed. Waiting in vain heavily upon this internal rock hard plastic glacier. Waiting impatiently for it to finally shatters and fall away. One might have though one possessed by an unseeable demon. Fallen under the spell of powers unknown. Who then in this unseen endless universe sent these hell hounds out to despoil? Vast peaks of Kleenex pile high and relief can only be envisioned as an unhindered surrender to the oblivion of total exhaustion.
Perhaps somewhere now lost, misplaced within memory is that long departed future, there might be the continuation of what had once been known as just another day?
It was Mai of 1945, just a score of kilometers from the outskirts of Berlin in the small village of Rehfelde. The roads were full with a patchwork of battered military vehicles and exhausted Wehrmacht hastily traveling past each other in opposite directions. Grock stood immobile in his old moth-eaten greatcoat. Like it, he was a fossil of the previous Great War. The same on that eventually had led in its unreasoning conclusion to this one! An old man topping sixty-five in accumulated years, he cut a dispiriting figure in contrast to the passing formations of young Panzer Grenadier’s barely out of puberty. The combined load of machine guns, rifles, and extra ammo dragging down highly polished black straps painfully into narrow shoulders as they strode forth snappily in perfect step to an uncertain future at the oncoming front. Hay wagons pulled by hastily conscripted skeletal dray horses rolled slowly the other way towards Berlin. The overladen flatbeds behind the starving animals piled high with the hastily bandaged dead and dying. Their pitiful assembly composing as many of the remnants of the 9th Panzer army that could be retrieved from this side of the Seelow Heights. Another formations of freshly attired ‘feldgrau’ suited troops marched snappily upon the opposite shoulder wending their way around a growing detritus of burned out and stalled vehicles. The eternally ‘verärgert’ noncoms always making doubly sure that all their eyes continued, “auger front!” and the voices were lustily singing that old popular army marching song, ‘Erika’ as loudly as humanly possible. Some of the Mauser rifles that these fresh faced ‘pothelm köpfigen jungen’ were shouldering could have been older than Grock! More pathetic still was the gaggle of ‘kleine Gänse’ that trailed just behind. Individual tiny bodies struggling mightily under the weight its own ‘panzerfaust’. A small detachment of SS had rounded up these school boys from surrounding local villages earlier towards the beginning of the week providing these new acolytes with poorly tailored recycled uniforms that threatened to swallow each of them whole. Barely a day or two before, these lads had collectively been given a brief demonstration of the tank busting Sigurdgram’s they toted as part of their final lesson in the ‘Volkssturmann’. This same band of black-uniformed party heroes had commandeered an armored Hanomag earlier this morning and beat a hasty retreat to some thickly-walled underground bunker or one of the impregnable concrete and steel ‘flakturme’ back in Berlin. The distant sound of approaching thunder announcing that Lelyushenko’s 20th Guards Russian Army group was quickly rumbling up from somewhere beyond the eastern woods. Their forces descending from horizon to horizon like a pack of murderous dogs Hell bent upon enacting ravenous mayhem on all before them.
Grock had personally witnessed carnage of this sort at Verdun three decades previous. A trench bound young recruit serving as part of the First Army’s 24th Brandenburg Regiment near hill 347 sent out to overwhelm the nearby ‘turtleback’ fortress of Fort Douamont. It took him three months to recover from the shell fragments that had dug deep into his left leg. A few more wasted years on schnapps and opium after the way in the gutter had finally abated when he had recovered his senses through a circus act giving birth to his alter ego of Grock. The thundering sound of massed artillery rolling closer brought him immediately back to the moment. He barely imagine the level of carnage that would be enacted upon the town when multiple waves of IS-2 Stalin and KV tanks rolled passed! He looked down at his left hand tightly clutching the ancient castoff of rusty shotgun that had been dispensed to him along with a small shovel. All the regular working rifles had been distributed to the younger more predictably foolish Hitler jungends. They had no fit ideas bouncing around in their empty heads beyond gaining some greater glory for the Fatherland within the imminent Gotterdammerung that could only promise a fatal baptism in lead and steel. “That verdant broken down ‘Gott und Meister’ Fuhrer!”, he snarled to himself. “Where was that ‘Ölmaler’, hiding out?” “No doubt in some dark hole under his glorious Reich’s Kanizei palace in Mitte!”, he spat his angry face twisting into a cynical smile. A relentless wind was blowing forth as he haphazardly continued to pick at the frozen earth with his tiny borrowed ‘schippe’. The scene behind the extended row of hasty defenses before the backdrop of the town’s shattered ‘holzplattenfabrick’ seemed almost Wagnerian. The continued bombing by twin engine Petlyakov’s had reduced the factory to a piles of rubble. The sections of wall still upright appearing like a giant row of broken rotted teeth.
Standing before this operatic tableau staring forth at that ominous darkness just beyond the treelike, Grock could not fathom how things in his life had turned out the way they had? Why was he entangled in this madness once again? His life in the circus and on stage had led to so much acclaim that it had even some copycats. One in particular made famous by a half Austrian American film directors working here for UFA. His own ‘ersatz doppleganger’ had mysteriously arisen fifteen years earlier upon celluloid gift wrapped in the package of “Der Blau Engel”. That great creative lapse of memory occasioning a similarity of the same makeup worn by the famous American Oscar winning Emil Jannings. “Or?”, he pondered’ “Was it that other ‘filmschauspieler’, Reinholdt Berndt?” He of course had his own share of cinema exposure in several films working with an old stage partner and straight man, van Embdlen. “That old ‘Schmierenschauspieler’!” The endless show dates and publicity had worn their friendship thin. All this seemed like a million miles and a thousand years past as if read in the newspaper from the life of someone else now! The only thing he had left was his face. That sad sour greasepaint laden ambivalent grin that could only approximate a genuine smile. Something that had been along for the ride with him for his career of thirty years. The flaps of his moth-eaten greatcoat blew open for an instant revealing the signature of his absurdly baggy plaid stage pants. He had decided early this morning since it was most likely that this coming day would likely be his last performance, he might as well wear his best suit to the grave. “How did this ridiculous fabric pattern originally come into being?”, he wondered nursing the errant thought. It always seemed to get the biggest laugh from the audience when stumbled on stage at beginning of each act. What an irony that an export of the same British Empire that had tried to kill him as a young man had also helped to provide the perfect uniform for the character that had led to his eventual success? He reached into the lint ridden pocket of the overcoat and pulled out his small silver makeup kit. “Let the others dig their own graves.”, he thought, “My alter ego and I will meet our fate this day together!” A few sets of eyes from others digging furiously beside him peeked up from their ‘stahlhelms’ in astonishment that he was calmly standing straight up rubbing greasepaint upon his face. His long practiced expertise transforming his weary features into that well-publicized iconic expression of professional angst. The crack of a tree limb above them followed by a massive explosion just behind shook them all out of the complacency. This organized rabble of would be’ soldaten’ and old men seemed to quiver as one. The smoldering calling card of a severed bough sending forth a collective adrenalin rush of heightened alert. The newly dug ditch caused by the detonation from that first shell smack through the tree’s mass signaling that the Russian assault forces were now in firing range just across the field.
The slow rise of crunching and creaking noisily from afar bespoke the fact that an insatiably hungry giant insect in the form of the first line of KV-1 tanks was busily smashing through tree trunks. Its din provoked the urgent commands of Oberfeldwebel’s up and down the line before the backdrop of the factory rubble. Two more sudden detonations sprayed the hastily dug trenches with a mixture of clods of dirt and a few body parts that had been randomly ripped from the torsos of hapless defenders. The strident call of “Abfahrbereit!” was answered in kind by a massed chorus of the metal on metal drag and click of rifle bolts echoing back. A report and muzzle flash spitting shells from a 7.5 cm Infanteriegeschütz’s towards the faceplate of the first IS-2 lumbering out of into the gray daylight commenced the start of action. Grock had by this point abandoned his small hand mirror and brush in favor of the bottom of the narrow slit trench. Shell after shell thumped nearby on either side. Sheets of flames spreading overhead signaling a direct hit somewhere near. The sheer quantity of Russian panzers squeezing their way out of the demolished treelike haphazardly banging loudly as they careened into some of their comrades that had been struck and disabled. “Die Kommunisten sind Fäulnis Treiber”, a disembodied voice laughed half-heartedly at the top of their lungs a few meters away. Grock fought the temptation to peek over the edge of the earthy revetment whose dirt was occasionally torn with rifle fire. He knew all to well from his youth when the right time to throw himself up over its shattered precipice to aim that rusty aging blunderbuss and find a quick answer to his doubtful fate. The din of battle was punctuated by the screams of child soldiers between the usual chorus of curses impotently flung by men under heavy bombardment. “Keep your mouth a little bit open!”, Grock reminded himself. “That way your eardrums won’t shatter!” His white face seemed paler now fully committed to the long established theatrical grimace that was the essence of his emblematic stage presence. That comical frozen-face expression parodying the acquaintance of unreasoning animal fear that was the hallmark of his stage career as one of the most famous of all European clowns. The same one perfected in shell-shock trenches with all those others permanently transformed by that earlier bygone once forgotten war. A sudden blast just above him kicking him forth into complete blackness like the wayward impact of a misapplied theatrical mallet upon the top of his head by another inexperienced performer.
That old familiar unwanted odor of cordite mixed with smoldering burned flesh choked his nostrils once again. Grock struggled to open his eyes but could not seem to summon any light. He was awake. His entire body was numb and his limbs felt paralyzed. It was as if something very heavy was physically restraining him from rising. He pulled back his head just enough to see the red piping on the epaulets signifying the great bulk of an Oberfeldwebe pinning him directly underneath. It took a few more instants before he could twist enough to find was that the uniforms owner was now headless. A sense of unbounded horror drove the clown to forcefully push away with all his might. His unexpected vigor dragging both he and the corpse that was smothering him along upward for the ride. The dead man’s torso was clinging about him like a second skin. Its lifeless arms encircling Grock in an unbreakable deathly embrace. That constant sense of ringing of the ears was instantly defeated by his own scream. A small ensemble of Russian voices nearby responded with an explosion of uncontrollable laughter. Grock’s arms flung back and forth wildly trying to dislodge the grip of his disembodied companion. A kapok jacketed Russian sergeant with a PPSH41 slung on his arms was having a hard time maintaining his feet as he was laughing so hard. Two other woolly looking Siberians were bent over alternately slapping each other’s backs in hysterics both trying to regain their breath. “Bozhe moi . . . Chort Vozmi . . .”, the non-com managed to hoarsely choke out between spasmodic loud guffaws. Grock stared back frozen in stunned silence. His wide eyed expression drawing even more raucous laughter from other’s hidden in the gloom a little further away in its darkness. The entire field surrounding him was turbulently disemboweled by shell holes. A Waldorf salad of piles of dead men’s detached parts and shattered implements of war. The battalion of Russians forming quickly around the disheveled clown along with their other other companions in order to share in the joke. This uncontrolled chaos of mirth went on until a stone faced officers appeared in their midst. Like an ill wind, he immediately extinguished its comical fury. The first noncom lazily grabbed across to the drum of his short barreled submachine gun that was slung on his shoulder and motioned at Grock to raise his arms high. The comical prop of the headless corpse fell straight down to the ground as the clown stepped forth tugging his legs free of its encircling embrace. That old great coat now partially torn hanging off one arm of the inadvertent jester discarded behind, leaving him fully revealed in full regalia of his stage costume. Two sets of rough hands secured his upper arms and hustled him forward towards the road. The heads of his captors turned away attempting to regain their composure. The officer beside them waving the ensemble to a small truck within which the deflated clown was squeezed in between two old and disheveled Bauern.
If some have noted a certain stridency in the words emanating since the New Year. As Arthur Conan Doyle’s most famous literary creation frequently quipped, “The game is once more afoot!” Eight years have passed and the rewards for villainy that were handed out by top governmental officials over the globe have borne fruit is an even greater coming meltdown, both economic and political. To say this is another economic ‘shit happens‘ experience is about as foolish as believing that ‘WHITE‘ America’s foremost product are lone gun toting assassins. A war is not coming. A war is already underway! The ongoing incessantly popularized fiction of the last centuries’ ‘Good War’ is as historically demented as the notion that a whole nation of people are fundamentally evil or just biologically insane. That same old sneaky group is once again at work from the top. The ability to reason out differences based upon commonalities has been legislated out of everyday life globally. The multinational vultures are now circling on high ready to devour the hordes of unkowing two-legged carrion from the formerly once stable societies. The bulk of the ‘useless eaters‘ have been herded into the pens of of overpopulated metropolitan areas. Most of them cut off totally from any possibility of survival through self-reliance by direct access to the land. The desired mental transformation to corrosive pessimism has been repeatedly analogized within countless angst ridden movie franchises pretending to be mere entertainment. But their underlying messaging merely promoting further demonizing and demoralization. Institutional racism, sexism and euthanasia are now widely practiced both rhetorically upon those of the ‘other foot’. The proverbial ‘Dogs of War’ are currently straining at their leashes with loaded weapons already in itchy palms.
These sort of ravings are significant of the type of person that has been uncritically caught up in so much ‘astroturf‘ media. The same one replete with uncounted phalanxes of paid ‘trolls’ who daily constrain any public attempt at intelligent discussion between two narrow pillars of politically acceptable discourse. Who really believes that their 401K will suffer catastrophic losses from another major downturn in the stock market? Or that their government check will no longer arrive electronically in their bank account? All this is simply, “Hooey!” There will be no roaming gangs of gun toting hooligans invading the more affluent precincts of the city. Their will be no flash mobs dealing out ‘knockout’ punches to the unwary. They will not be joined in their mischief by Baskin Robbins 31 ethnic varieties of Muslim or other third world immigrants. An unexpected rainbow coalition of Russian, Chinese and North Koreans paratroopers will not be floating ‘en masse‘ down from the sky to forcefully demand the elimination of the last vestiges of the American Dream! The infrastructure will be renewed as it always is. Taxes will rise as they always have. Eventually the level of income earned by the Middle Class will descend below the clouds to that of the much larger constituency of blue collar service based economy. All colors and ethnicity’s will be ‘milk-shaked‘ into one amorphous mass. The unctuous elderly along with their out-of-date perspectives with be marginalized and quickly die off. All of the underground bunkers and silos constructed by the Constitution happy ‘prepper’s‘ will remain unused. The absolute truth of the matter is that the coming war has long ago been won. And anyone who believes otherwise has already lost! It will be better for everyone if they all just go back to the bar to watch the next televised sports extravaganza. Buy your children that new latest high tech electronic games tablet. For Napoleon may have been ultimately defeated on the playing fields of Eton but we have all been too willingly overcome by the foolishness of ourselves.
If you want to have a unified functioing society you have to drop all the pretense of victimization and become colorblind. You have to forget about the symbols on the places of worship and realize the fact that you need to positively support those people who make it their business to focus on what they have in common not how they differ, or how they need something more because of past transgressions. For all their grievous faults and acts, the Romans finally formed an inclusive empire while some of the same forces still very rampant today worked to tear that apart. Those who believe that they are somehow permanent citizens more deserved than the next will never fit in or provide anything of worth to society as a whole. One only needs to see how Western society has been craftily degenerated into a self-obsessed rabble too easily bought off by the shiny trinkets of continued deceit to continually stir up crisis rather than follow lessons of hard won common sense. The notion that the, “ends justify the means“, has led to an eternal sense of conflict. Utopian conflagrations that in turn ALWAYS ends up in a devastated remaining residue that is only significant for what has been lost in the process. One has to ask what has been traded away in the last seventy years or more for our many blatantly petty solipsistic superficial causes? The real hero’s among us do not need great marble statues sanctified by secret symbolism or biopics any more than the collective ‘WE’ need such constant glorification to appreciate their worth. They remain silent and conspicuously unobserved by the false tongue of that overbearing pyramid of mass communications ever grasping for the collective attention by their many forked tongues wagging away 24/7. The human race DOES NOT need to be saved from itself but by those who claim to for their own devious gain! There is no more cynical game of useless effort than deifying an individual even for the span of time that it takes to elect them on high only to be an easy target to tear off its pedestal in the next regime change.The real embodiment of a actual hero is by the strength of their deeds and how those actions positively benefit the flow of current times. A social system based upon the foundation of avarice simply supporting handouts that daily robs everyone of their ability to learn by their mistakes through struggle on their own, is one of REAL slavery. There is no value found in those who are handed simply their laurels undeservedly as a matter of policy.
Violin shaped boxes carried gingerly across a main thoroughfare. An exhibit in many parts of a type that remains cloaked yet still very familiar. When the illusion drifts and other realms of existence open to one’s limited senses. The standard term in this world being hallucination. Why do such activities not fall through the cracks in the old floorboards of trivial artifacts of nightly rest? I find my own cause defaulted to little more than the maintenance of a daily schedule in my own brand of solitary confinement. “Hey Madonna, what else ya got?”
I wish that this were fiction but unfortunately this currently stands in for fact. Truth can be a sewing circle or just another well-supported claim cherry picked at random from an indigestible megalithic search engine. How can anyone resurrect eternity from this intricate maze? Where is the most conveniently available Minotaur when you need to get some replacement thread to replace your own that has recently become frayed? One’s own truth gets lost these days so deep and lost below. What is a good person worth these days and under which rock do they continue to hide?
If I think I am going crazy then just look around? What has anyone these days to hang their hat upon for the next thousand years beyond a Roman road? The descendants of slavers that built them are still crashing borders. I guess they don’t like living under the slender carbon fiber thread of media inspired democracy? The only thing far worse than a good ‘white‘ woman, is a good ‘white‘ man! The statement of same the ultimate heresy in the true demographic of universal hypocrisy. No one dare challenges the accumulation of rhetoric piled up on the other side of the door blocking further discussion.
It is after all, a card game. Collect the best hand you are able to based on the current customary rules of the game that you agree to play with the faith that by the sheer force of your personality you might see your winnings? People don’t always do what they are supposed to. It appears that the most nagging form of persistence, right or wrong currently wins the day? I’ll stick to haunted houses! The lack of company found there has much to say about the echoes one unexpectedly find still resounding in my head. It might give feminists and their favorite sex offenders a bad name?
I still believe in Aristotle, that old tottering fool! A Prodicus of Ceo who knew how to properly rearrange the Scrabble board with pieces of his day. After all,”I come not to praise this Caesar but to bury him!” Bury him next to those still all too potent episode of MASH and I Love Lucy. One foot apiece solidly upon the divergent pathways of Hercules. That old double message resoundingly reflected back and forth from each adjoining pillar. This confused conveyor belt of vice and virtue rapidly losing its appeal
Could it be that with a little hard won knowledge it is hard not to come to a conclusion that it is impossible to live with this current sense of ‘sanity‘ in a world gone mad? One where the rules change daily from day to day from hour to minute? Diversity resulted simply in divisiveness and life at a standstill? When will the green men mount their own form of irrefutably significant protest? So ‘soothe sayeth‘ the the stranger crouched behind the curtain in the GuyFi down the street awaiting more digital satisfaction! This newest trendy New York solution to alleviate any added stress by a further depletion of the potential gene pool. Another method to become even more trivial by enthroning yet another scumbag. Just make sure that your local transsexual Hermaphrodite is included in the mix in this ‘gender of the day’ play! It seems that it is finally time to pull up those pants and join the legion of compulsive haters before the angels of heaven bring their current nukes to bear! They’ll be no more back door escapes permitted then!