Month: November 2024

Autopsy

Banana peel twice over moment for the Dems with their last-ditch attempt to defeat Bernie coming home to roost. Sad sorry-ass operation leaving us with Trump redux, which feels surreal. But that’s the absurd reality now—what could’ve been a reckoning for a failed system turned into the political equivalent of a three-ring circus with a tinpot dictator at the center. The Dems—still drunk on their neoliberal fantasies—did everything they could to kneecap the one guy who actually gave a damn about people, the guy who wasn’t afraid to throw punches at Wall Street, Big Pharma, and the whole rigged system. And here we are, left with a man who will give permission to corporations and banks to eat the world alive, all while grinning like a bulldog in a three-piece suit.

The Dems seem locked into this delusion, this desperate fantasy that they can just sit back and wait out the demands for real change, waiting for the next economic boom to somehow roll in and fix everything. They treat the issues Sanders raised—healthcare, living wages, housing—as if they’re optional add-ons to a system that maybe will take care of itself if we just leave it alone long enough. They’re convinced that another bubble will come, lift the economy, and make the demands for real reform vanish into thin air like a magic trick.

But here we are, still waiting for that “bounce back.” Still waiting for the economy to pull itself up by its bootstraps while the rest of us are watching the factory jobs disappear, our rents double, and our healthcare premiums rival the cost of a down payment on a house. It’s like they’re hoping for some economic miracle to save their asses, but all we’ve got is the same old tired song: “Just wait, just wait, the market will fix it all.” And yet, the market has never fixed anything. It’s only ever patched over the rot until the next crisis comes along.

Still waiting. Still waiting for that “bounce back.” But it’s obvious now: it’s not coming. And the longer the Dems stick to this fantasy, the deeper the hole they’re digging for themselves. Trump may be the symptom, but the disease is this profound refusal to face the future.

Look, the people—the disaffected, disenfranchised, and desperately ticked-off millions—were trying to send a message loud and clear. But the Democratic brain trust, the sanctimonious sages of the Party of Good Intentions, somehow misinterpreted it all. They thought they were putting a leash on fascism, but it turned out they were just muzzling themselves, eyes closed, hands over ears, la-la-la, while a political reality they refused to face bulldozed through their illusions.

Now here we are, as if in a cheap satire, where Trump and that square-jawed Vance kid—neither of whom have ever met a populist they didn’t want to keep at arm’s length—paid just enough lip service to anti-war sentiment and the working-class struggle that it landed. Turns out a hologram of populism, a cardboard cutout version, was still preferable to the Democrats’ corporate-speak. At least Trump dared to say, in his cowboy bluntness, that Americans should afford a house, a car, groceries. Meanwhile, Kamala Harris was out there with the “Opportunity Economy” claptrap, a slogan so stripped of substance it may as well have been lifted from a focus group in a Wall Street conference room.

And all these Democratic “geniuses” who thought they could outwit, outspin, and out-tactic Trump have now driven the country off a cliff. Ezra Klein—smug on the pages of every think piece and podcast—played his high-stakes game of chicken with Biden’s future, only to watch the train tumble off a different cliff entirely. The “smart set” wanted to replace Biden, sure, but only with their own pet project—a “safe,” “nuanced” alternative who could keep those liberal sinecures intact. But the result? Chaos. The one thing no one had the guts to predict was that people might actually just want to buy groceries and pay rent without a second mortgage.

And yet, the resistance that formed? A media spectacle. The talking heads, the armchair warriors of Twitter, with their hashtags and their performative outrage, cosplaying like they’re the French Resistance in ’41, missing the point entirely. #Resistance, indeed—resistance to what? To Trump? To fascism? Hell, half of them couldn’t tell you what they’re really resisting; it’s all just performance, filling airtime with self-righteous indignation.

In 2016, when the ACA premiums shot up 40% the same week James Comey made his move on Clinton, you’d think it would have hit home. But no, the Acela corridor elite convinced themselves it was the emails, the FBI, the Russians, the damn solar eclipse—anything but the reality that people are sick of being handed scraps while billion-dollar policy ideas make big promises and deliver squat. They closed schools, then claimed they were helping the working class. They promised affordability and served up slogans that wouldn’t fly in an undergrad debate class. They treated the working class like they’d sign off on anything.

And now we’ve arrived at the unavoidable conclusion: the people didn’t buy it. They could sniff the hypocrisy, the hollow talk, and decided, hell, we’ll take our chances with the reality-TV businessman who’s at least entertaining.

Remember Obama, that beacon of hope, the man with the golden smile who was supposed to be different, who was supposed to transcend all the swampy sludge of Washington. He had the whole country lined up behind him, all the goodwill in the world, and what did he do? He bailed out the banks, handed out blank checks to Wall Street, and made his Ivy League cronies rich. All those high-flying Wall Street wizards, the ones who’d gambled recklessly and left Main Street bleeding, got rescued—while everyone else, everyone who actually put Obama in office, got left holding the bag. Home foreclosures, lost pensions, layoffs—none of it mattered as long as the banks could stay afloat.

Obama had this chance—hell, he had the perfect chance—to put Wall Street in check, to stand with the people. But instead, he threw the working class to the wolves while claiming he’d saved the economy. His friends in high places rode high on the wave of that bailout cash, and we’re supposed to act like he had no choice? Like his hands were tied by some invisible law of the universe? Please.

And then people sit around scratching their heads, baffled, wondering how on earth we ended up with Trump? Really? After Obama’s big giveaway to the finance overlords? Trump wasn’t some inexplicable phenomenon; he was the big, ugly, neon-lit reaction to all the Democrats’ double-dealing and betrayal. Voters were tired of candidates who mouthed pretty words about “change” but handed them a bill for someone else’s yacht. They didn’t want to hear about “the long game” or “slow and steady wins the race” from a party that didn’t seem to care if they were winning or losing—so long as the right consultants got paid.

It was inevitable, really. The whole thing. The voters who lined up for Obama in ’08 felt their hope ripped out of their guts by a man they thought was on their side.

Yeah, and that’s the real kicker, isn’t it? The worst thing isn’t just that Trump’s a disaster on every front—it’s that he’s the license for all of it. The big banks, the corporations, the ones who’ve been shoveling wealth up to the top since the 1980s—they’re looking at Trump and saying, “Oh, this is our guy. This is the green light.” With Trump in power, there’s no more pretense, no more worrying about looking like the villain. The man’s practically begging them to go ahead, exploit as much as you can, take it all, and don’t even bother with the dress rehearsal.

This isn’t just about more inequality; it’s about a systematic breakdown of any semblance of responsibility. It’s an epoch of exploitation where the ones doing the exploiting have no interest in maintaining even the illusion of fair play. The veneer of decency, of corporate social responsibility, that’s all gone out the window. We’re heading into an era where the public face of business is a gleaming smile on a boardroom shark, and the lives of regular people are just another cost of doing business. Only now, no one’s even pretending it’s anything but a blood-soaked money grab.

It’s exploitation without even the grace of manners. At least back in the day, there were some unspoken rules—“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you,” “Don’t be too obvious about how much you’re ripping people off”—but now? We’ve entered a world where there’s no shame left in it. The rich get richer, the poor get crushed, and the ones left in the middle are too distracted by shiny promises of “tax cuts” and “jobs” to realize they’ve been handed a one-way ticket to nowhere.

We’re living through the rise of corporate fascism with a smile, the glee of deregulation, and a free-market wet dream where the only thing that matters is making a buck, even if that buck’s stolen right out of your pocket. It’s like a bad sitcom where the punchlines are just more suffering for everyone who isn’t sitting on a pile of cash. And the worst part? Trump’s got a whole cult of people cheering it on, convinced that somehow, this time it’ll trickle down.

Pigfuck and the Sisters of Mercy #2: A Fable

Once upon a time, in a forest crawling with filth, corruption, and fat-cat lobbyists, there lived the three little piggies—known far and wide as the Sisters of Mercy. They were a fine-looking bunch, all dolled up in their little blue suits, tails neatly curled, ready for the cameras, always chattering on about justice and equality and the dire need to keep the Big Bad Pigfuck at bay.

Pigfuck was no ordinary wolf, mind you. He was a massive, hulking beast of a creature, slicked in corporate grease, his snout buried deep in the feeding troughs of industry. The kind of monster who could blow your house down without so much as a sneeze. Pigfuck didn’t just terrorize the forest; he owned it. Everywhere he went, he left a trail of stock options, tax breaks, and non-disclosure agreements. He was the ultimate power broker, a carnivorous Wall Street Frankenstein stitched together from military contracts, energy subsidies, and all the greed money could buy.

Now, the Sisters of Mercy had one job: keep Pigfuck from tearing the forest to pieces. But instead of fortifying their homes, they sat around their little house of straw, squawking about the horrors of Pigfuck, lamenting his tyrannical reign. “Oh, the wolf is such a terror! Just look at him slobbering over our resources, crushing the poor under his hooves!” they cried, as if naming the beast would somehow exorcize him. Their solution? Statements. Endless statements about the dangers of Pigfuck and the importance of standing up to him. Meanwhile, Pigfuck was doubling down on his rampage, buying up half the forest and lining his den with the hides of those who dared challenge him.

The Sisters built themselves a second house, this one out of sticks—committee meetings, town halls, press releases—but all it took was one blow from Pigfuck, and it went up in a cloud of PR dust. They just stood there, picking up the splinters, still yammering on about how someone had to do something. Because that’s the thing about the Sisters of Mercy—they loved to talk about saving the forest but didn’t have a spine between them when it came to actually keeping Pigfuck out. Oh, they’d cluck and they’d preen, and they’d wag their curly little tails, but when the beast came huffing and puffing, all they could do was watch him stomp through the rubble.

In the end, the Sisters built a third house, this one out of bricks. It was sturdy enough, built on lofty speeches and activist catchphrases, just enough to keep Pigfuck from blowing it down in one swoop. But inside those walls, the Sisters were up to the same old game—clinking wine glasses, swapping platitudes, and counting donations while Pigfuck prowled outside, still devouring every inch of the forest that wasn’t behind their pretty brick wall.

And so, Pigfuck continued his reign, growing fatter, meaner, more ruthless by the day, while the Sisters of Mercy held tight to their illusions of resistance. They’d throw parties to “raise awareness,” host soirées to “build morale,” all the while pretending their house of bricks was a fortress of change. But they knew, deep down, they weren’t doing a damn thing to stop him. They were just three little piggies, snug and self-righteous, too afraid to face the beast they’d rather just complain about.

In the end, the forest wasn’t lost because Pigfuck was powerful. It was lost because the Sisters of Mercy thought pointing at the monster was the same as fighting him.

Pigfuck and The Sisters of Mercy

“Our faith in the integrity of the system has been restored! After all, democracy is alive and well—as long as we’re on top, of course. It’s a beautiful thing, really: ballots counted, recounts recounted, audits audited, until—by some miracle of divine intervention—Republicans win! Then, and only then, is the system above reproach, a paragon of fairness, with not a shred of fraud to be found.

Funny how it works, isn’t it? Win, and we have the most secure election ever held. Lose, and suddenly the whole thing reeks of foul play, conspiracies lurking in every precinct. In short, elections are ‘stolen’ exactly as often as they are lost. Democracy, folks—it’s foolproof, provided you pick the right fools.”

Our “faith” in the integrity of the system has been restored—if, of course, by faith, we mean a cynical grin and a shot of bourbon while the clowns spin their wheels. This, my friends, is the greatest farce in the American political circus: Republicans hollering from the rooftops that democracy has been stolen from the People—until, by some celestial coin flip, they end up winning. Then, somehow, the entire operation is as pristine as a monk’s prayer book.

Think about it. The same bloodshot-eyed politicians who spent years spreading election paranoia like they were spreading manure suddenly morph into pious defenders of the very machine they’d spent so much time bashing. It’s as if the voting booths, those hallowed “sacred instruments of democracy,” become sanctified only when they turn out to be dispensers of red ballots. I can almost hear them: “Ah yes, the American people have spoken.” Right—so long as they’re speaking with a conservative accent.

But oh, when they lose, it’s suddenly the crime of the century! The earth shakes, the skies darken, and before you know it, the same officials who declared themselves the holy defenders of democracy are rampaging through their own playbook of conspiracies, frantically declaring it all a rigged spectacle. Out come the wild-eyed claims, the imaginary fraudsters, the phantoms of dead voters and ballot dumps—all so they don’t have to swallow the bitter pill of an election defeat. And yet, when they win, these problems magically evaporate.

The game is rigged, all right. But it’s not the ballot counters or the polling stations who are rigging it—it’s the spin doctors and fear-mongers. They’ve got a good racket going: win, and democracy is sacred; lose, and democracy is a lie. It’s a shell game, a three-ring carnival, and they’re selling you snake oil with one hand while they pick your pocket with the other. And every time you tune in, every time you let yourself get sucked into their pantomime of rage and righteousness, you’re just buying another ticket to the circus.

And then we have the Sisters of Mercy—our noble Democrats—tossing up their hands and bowing down to the almighty patriarchy of power and wealth, while still cooing sweet, syrupy promises to the poor sods who trusted them. Make no mistake, these so-called “champions of the people” are doing nothing but rolling over for every boardroom warlord and tech titan that dangles a dollar in their direction. They’re not so much a resistance as a pitiful curtsy—a bow to the billionaires, a nod to the corporations, a submissive little grin to anyone who’ll keep them fat and funded.

They prance around talking about “hope” and “change,” but what does that translate to? Just another soporific cocktail of half-measures and empty gestures, designed to keep the electorate in a cozy stupor while the corporate machinery churns on, louder than ever. They don’t earn the people’s trust; they leech off it, riding the coattails of progressive rhetoric while offering nothing substantial in return. Behind the scenes, they’re every bit as beholden to power as the villains they claim to oppose.

The reality is, they’ve perfected the art of symbolic resistance—a neat little trick where they stand in front of the cameras, shaking their fists, mouthing platitudes about “fighting for the common man,” all while giving the green light to the same backdoor deals and loophole-ridden legislation that feeds the beast. They’re not a counterforce to Republican corporate pandering; they’re the polished flip side, selling out with a smile, waving a rainbow flag while signing off on a corporate tax cut.

And they wonder why the electorate’s trust is thin as a politician’s spine.

But this is all comfort food for the periodic arrival of the real villains in this melodrama: the ethno-nationalist, fascist, pig-headed wing of the industrial-corporate complex. The Democratic Party may be complacent, but it’s the other side—the red-faced, boot-stomping maniacs—who take that complacency and turn it into a weapon. They’re the ones salivating on the sidelines, just waiting to take the reins of the machine, to twist and reshape it in their image, with slogans that smell of blood and soil.

The Democrats, bless them, think they’re holding the line, playing a noble game of resistance. But all they’re really doing is keeping the seat warm. Their tepid half-measures, their sanitized rhetoric, their cozy relationship with Wall Street—it all amounts to a mere intermission before the fascist show rolls back into town. They’re the warm-up act, lulling everyone into a sense of security so that when the hardliners show up with their chest-thumping nationalism and crude, industrial-strength authoritarianism, people are too dazed, too weary, to resist.

And the “villains,” these ethno-nationalist corporate beasts, they’re not here to play pretend. No, they don’t bow, they don’t nod politely to the corporate overlords—they are the overlords, unabashedly wielding power and privilege as a blunt instrument, smashing down anything or anyone who gets in their way. They aren’t beholden to the system; they want to own it outright, to reshape it into their own monstrous vision, where democracy is just a dusty word and the electorate is nothing more than a mass of consumers to be exploited or discarded.

So while the Sisters of Mercy are busy shuffling papers and mumbling slogans, the real threat is waiting in the wings, ready to barrel through with corporate backing and a base pumped full of rage and righteous ignorance. They’ve got no use for comfort or moderation, and the sad fact is, they’re not going anywhere. They’ll just keep coming back, riding on the waves of populist fury, dressed up as patriots, until the last semblance of democracy is a thin, fraying disguise for the ugly machinery grinding away underneath.

Home Buyers

Let me tell you, kids today just don’t get it. I hear all this whining about “sky-high home prices” and “crippling student debt,” and you know what I say? You’re just not thinking big enough. You want affordable housing? Well, why don’t we start thinking about something that actually works: a good old-fashioned, global conflict with high casualties and massive rebuilding efforts. That’s right—World War III. The ultimate economic equalizer. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.

I know what you’re thinking: “Oh, but war is bad! People die!” Sure, but that’s exactly what makes it work, right? Picture it—millions of people overseas and right here at home, suddenly “vacating” the housing market. And by “vacating,” I mean, you know…vacating. Inventory would skyrocket! Houses, apartments, mansions—heck, whole blocks—up for grabs, just sitting there waiting for a nice young couple like you to swing by and pick one up for peanuts.

And let’s not forget the perks. I mean, look at what my generation got out of it: the GI Bill! The government couldn’t stop throwing money at us. Free education, low-interest home loans, all the benefits you could dream of just for showing up and doing our part. You say you’re struggling with student loans? Well, back in my day, we didn’t have those issues because we had options, and those options involved a certain amount of strategically placed artillery fire.

And sure, there’s the unfortunate bit about population reduction—again, not ideal, but let’s not ignore the potential here. Think of the job market after a good solid war effort. Companies desperate for fresh faces, positions opening up everywhere, affordable housing all around. You millennials could finally get a foot in the door. You’d even have that cozy, “We fought for this country” glow that every interviewer loves to see.

Now, I know some of you might be squeamish about signing up for military service. But think about it this way: you’re doing your part to bring balance back to the market. And the best part is, with today’s technology, it’s all remote-controlled drones and cyber warfare. Who knows? Maybe you could fight this war from your living room while putting an offer on that charming fixer-upper down the street.

Oh, sweetheart, don’t get your hopes up too high. Sure, World War III might mean cheap houses and booming job markets—but you, personally? You’re probably not gonna make it anyway. Statistically speaking, odds aren’t exactly in your favor here. Not everyone gets to ride the post-apocalyptic real estate wave, okay?

So think of this as a selfless act. Maybe you’re not here to buy a house; maybe you’re here to clear out space for someone else to buy a house. Thank you for your service in, well… making room. You’re the “golden generation” now, the sacrifice, the hero. And honestly, that’s something.

And, hey, if you don’t, your sacrifice won’t be in vain. Your ashes will be sprinkled over a housing market that finally understands balance. You’ll be gone, but your memory? Immortal. Some lucky Gen Alpha kid will be raising their cappuccino to you from the downtown loft they snagged at foreclosure prices. Maybe they’ll even get a plaque for you out front—“In loving memory of those who couldn’t outbid an all-cash offer.”

Thank you for your service, by the way. Honestly. Now, take that golden glow and go, you know… fuck off.

Valencia Floods

www.nbcnews.com/news/amp/rcn…

Oh, but it’s positively incredible how the people of Valencia clutch at the government’s skirts like lost children in a rainstorm! They actually expect warnings when a flood is on the way, as if nature itself should ring their doorbells. They imagine protocols will spring up to save them—protocols! Why, they could’ve simply popped to the market, where every manner of inflatable contraption was on sale: floating armchairs, luxury life vests bedazzled with faux diamonds, and even portable flood dams (although one wonders why they hadn’t bought two or three already). The market provides, after all! For just a month’s wages, one could’ve had a raft shaped like a giant swan or, better still, a Venetian gondola look-alike for that authentic submerged experience. Alas, they simply refuse to fend for themselves—how terribly misguided! The government is no life jacket, no matter how one puffs it up.

Well, yes, if the government must meddle, let it be in the form of good, solid tax breaks! Imagine the incentives: tax deductions on personal raft purchases, rebates for inflatable duckies, and perhaps a subsidy or two for the luxury yacht life preservers, fitted with GPS and faux-leather cupholders. They could set up a grant for entrepreneurial sorts to market high-end flood accessories—like waterproof Bluetooth speakers so people could float around in style, listening to Les Misérables as they drift through their very own barricades. Maybe even a small business loan for anyone wishing to open a boutique selling “Flood Essentials”—designer sandbags, artisanal buckets, and bespoke water wings in the latest hues of despair. That’s the kind of “support” the government should be offering! Anything else would simply distort the natural, self-correcting power of the market!

Now if you want solutions just ask the billionaires. Imagine, if you will, the Hyper-Sink: an architectural marvel that would funnel every drop of water right through the earth to the other side of the world—completely self-sustaining, fully solar-powered, and, naturally, a triumph of private enterprise. It would’ve been the most beautiful sink, a masterpiece of human ingenuity, a monument to the pioneering spirit of those daring enough to bypass the government’s limp hand. But alas, the red tape strangled our vision! The bureaucrats couldn’t possibly grasp the brilliance of draining Valencia’s floods to, oh, let’s say, Australia. No, the permits were delayed, the environmental impact studies became “essential,” and the whole glorious concept sank before it ever even saw a drop of water.

1. Airbnb Climate Shelters – Because nothing says climate resilience like overpriced, short-term rentals in flooded zones.

2. Uber for Boats – On-demand rides in floodwaters with “surge pricing” based on depth and urgency.

3. Meal Kits for Climate Crises – Fresh, gourmet meals delivered weekly (when delivery routes aren’t underwater).

4. WeWork Disaster Coworking Spaces – Pop-up coworking lounges where the A/C is blasting, while the world outside swelters.

5. IoT Smart Sandbags – App-controlled sandbags that alert you when water breaches (but, naturally, require Wi-Fi).

6. Blockchain for Disaster Aid – Crypto-based aid where donations take weeks to verify, but hey, they’re “secure.”

7.Climate-Tracking Wearables – Wristbands that warn you of the heat… if you weren’t already melting outside.

9. Virtual Reality Evacuation Drills – Practice fleeing disasters in VR, no real-world infrastructure needed.

10. NFT Carbon Offsets – Collectible offsets, “backed” by vague promises to plant trees… someday.

11. Electric Scooters for Hurricanes – Hop on an electric scooter and, if you’re lucky, escape a hurricane one block at a time.

12. AI Flood Prediction Apps – Real-time flood prediction that sends alerts just in time for you to swim for higher ground.

13. Subscription-Based Fire Escape Ladders – Rent your escape ladder for an affordable monthly fee, billed until you cancel.

14. Augmented Reality Home Repairs – View potential repairs through your phone screen while your roof blows off in a storm.

15. Bespoke Luxury Survival Kits – Designer kits for climate resilience, complete with a gold-plated can opener.

16. Pay-Per-Use Solar Chargers – Rentable phone chargers for post-blackout areas, only a dollar per minute.

17. Insurance for Your Insurance – Premium protection plans for your flood or fire insurance, just in case that company goes bust.

18. Climate Crisis Networking App – Meet other disaster survivors in your area and collaborate… for a monthly fee.

19.Subscription Water Rationing Service – Get access to water deliveries during shortages if you subscribe at the premium tier.