A Children's Fable

I think I will write a children's story book. And when I do, it will include this story:

Once upon a time, there was an ant and a grasshopper. The ant was a wealthy capitalist who owned a chain of "big box" stores, and spent all summer counting his money, while the grasshopper labored very hard making money for the ant.

In short, the ant exploited the grasshopper.

All summer long, the ant would smoke cigars, drink martinis, and see prostitutes. The grasshopper would simply work as a slave for the ant and turn over his meager pay to A.N.S.W.E.R., The Rachel Corrie Memorial Fund, and the Barack Obama campaign.

Then the winter came. It was a cold and dark winter, and the grasshopper had nothing to eat. The bitter temperatures were caused by global warming, as the ant-made pollutants created heat pockets that actually lowered temperatures.

The grasshopper was hungry, for he had no money left. And so, he approached the ant: "Ant, my dear dear ant, please find it in your heart to spare just a tiny morsel of food so that I and my family might survive to see one more day."

The ant thought about this humble request. After several days of contemplation, the ant went to the grasshopper's house and approached the grasshopper's family. And then, without any hesitation, the ant raped the grasshopper's daughter so violently that she would have preferred death instead. However, the ant realized what the consequences of his actions might be, and so went from abortion clinic to abortion clinic, tossing gasoline bombs, dismembering doctors, and raping nurses. All in the name of Jesus, he would say. It is what the bible told him to do.

And so, without abortions, the grasshopper population multiplied far beyond its scientifically-calculated sustainable optimality. And all these new grasshoppers were hungry.

By the spring, half the grasshopper population died from either starvation or from the ant's insistence on sending grasshoppers to far-off lands to launch wars against innocent Islamic grasshoppers.

However, that summer, the grasshopper got himself a different job -- at The United States Department of Housing and Urban Development. His job was "Assistant Deputy Analyst" in the HOPE program, which mandates that ants pay the mortgages of those home-owning grasshoppers who have more pressing needs than to pay fort heir own homes. The grasshopper's responsibilities included "being able to analyze and prepare official HOPE documents while demonstrating proficiency in equivalent tasks and programs". In practice, this required the demands of attending many meetings and learning how to use "email".

Much of the HOPE time was spent making contributions to United for Peace and Justice and The Nation of Islam from the grasshopper's desk.

And once again, hunger arrived in the winter.

And the grasshopper approached the ant: "Hey ant, I'm gettin' in your face this year, know what I'm sayin? You owe me, unnerstan'? I got demands and you better respec' them."

The ant returned to his guarded estate, and a few days later, received a visit from someone unfamiliar. It was a grasshopper, but one whom he had never before met.

This new grasshopper said, "Ant...I am here to collect your money, which I will then give to the other grasshoppers, and will keep some for myself. If you do not agree, I will, at gunpoint, drag you to a prison cell where you will be anally violated while your life rots away in isolation."

The new grasshopper had a badge. It said "I.R.S."

And the ant turned over his plundered wealth to the I.R.S. grasshopper.

Forevermore, for the rest of his life, the ant, with his bottomless pit of money, would give and give to the grasshoppers -- providing for their food, their health care, their housing, their homes, and everything else that the grasshoppers could ever want or need, as determined by their educated leaders.

Moral: Rich capitalist ants have an endless supply of wealth that was stolen from the working class. It can never be depleted and it will always be there for taking -- by any means. It is not theirs, it belongs to the people, and shall be controlled by the people's leaders.

Kids: Let's educate your parents, kill the capitalists, and live in a Socialist Paradise!

God DAMN Amerikkka!

Cross posted at The People's Cube

How Wall Street got rich through GREED

Everyone agrees that our financial crisis was caused by greed. Naturally, this is a correct assessment because it was formed by consensus.

But how, you ask, did greed make the Wall Street bankers so rich?

Simple. Greed drives businesses to sell things to customers who cannot afford to pay for them.

Let's look at an example:

Say you want to buy a house, and can only afford $100,000. A rich capitalist might discover this, and the following conversation would ensue:

You: I want to buy a $100,000 house because I can only afford to spend $100,000.

Capitalist: Nonsense, you can afford a $300,000 house, easily, and I can lend you enough money to make it happen.

You: There's no way I can afford a $300,000 house; I'll never have enough money to pay back that loan!

Capitalist: That's a swell haircut you have there.

You: Thank you! Of course I can afford a $300,000 house! Yes I can! Yes we can!

At this point, the capitalist lends you $300,000 -- knowing full well that the loan will never be paid off. You struggle to make payments, but you...just...can't. The greedy capitalist loaned you $300,000 and you only paid back $100,000! Need I elaborate further on how this has made capitalists rich? (And how this further oppresses the Palestinian people?)

It's my understanding that automobiles are sold the same way. Greedy auto salesmen often sell $30,000 cars to people who can only pay $10,000.

Fortunately, the government, which by its very definition cannot ever be greedy, is only asking for a mere $700,000,000,000 contribution to make us all investors in these loans.

I weep at the fairness of this.

God Damn George Bush; he created this mess.

God Damn the U.S. of KKK!

Capitalist Pyramids

One is old, one is new -- but they are both horribly and frightening real.

I Go to Wal-Mart

I went for a bus ride today. It’s a statement of solidarity! The other passengers, like me, are the oppressed and the neglected. Their fight is my fight!

Anyway, I rode to the last stop and walked for about a mile until I found a Wal-Mart. I have never been in a Wal-Mart, and nor do I need to in order to know how they stain our society with their cruel and racist management. And so, I made a decision: I will go into Wal-Mart.

I entered the store, and was immediately “greeted” by a brainwashed agent who was no doubt intimidated by my righteous vibe.

I then stopped, frozen in awe of what I was looking at. For here, right in front of me, was the epicenter of capitalist oppression. As legions of uneducated shoppers pushed past me (with some very unflattering remarks), I gazed at the working class and their scars of exploitation.

I stood still.

I stood still and wept.

I wept for the unfortunate immigrants who were being underpaid. I wept for the sad lot of immigrants who were being fucked over by our criminal system of genocide against the working class. Hormonal secretions of solidarity were filling my every pore. My mind, as complex as it is, was being directed against my will into a state of pure rage and hatred. My very biological functions were acting against my body the temple, and I was never so determined to correct the injustices in front of me.

I marched to the service desk and demanded health benefits for myself.

"But you don't work here," they said in their typical sadistic manner.

"Your time is over, for I am an immigrant in your store!"

I had them cornered.

You see, I was not in the store earlier in the day. I was once in another part of the city. But today, I migrated on a public bus to Wal-Mart, and when I entered the store, I became an immigrant. A Wal-Mart immigrant.

And in solidarity with the immigrant protests of Workers Day on May 1, I too demanded fair treatment.

"As an immigrant, I demand payment! I demand a check for my health care! I demand a union-scale wage! I demand social justice!"

They gave a weak response: "But you don't work here."

"Oh really?" I said, as I knocked a jar of some non-organic food product onto the floor. Grabbing the phone, I yelled into the P.A. system, "CLEANUP AT THE SERVICE DESK!"

I stared at them: "Now I do work here. And I demand payment! And I demand a workers' takeover! And I demand your unearned profits! And I demand a boycott! And I demand advocacy protests and protests of advocacy and advocating protests! I DESERVE WHAT I DEMAND! WHERE ARE MY RIGHTS AS AN IMMIGRANT?"

However, I was fooled. Apparently, this was a "sting" operation, as a turned around and saw two thugs dressed in police uniforms. "Hello, Professor," said the whiter of the two, in his most mean-spirited Christian manner. "We haven't seen you in over a week. Maybe you would like to leave on your own?"

As always, I won the battle, and I will also win the war. No, we will win the war. As part of the oppressed class, I know the meaning of suffering, and it makes me fight even harder.

I left the store, weeping. Weeping for the ghastly annihilation left behind me, the grisly extermination of an entire class of people.