Wednesday, August 15, 2018

...Not Space Farce...


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Is it Earth-like in space as I travel vast distances? Can I breathe the Earth's sweetness in transit twixt stars? Can I live in a "can" that retreats from the sun, or in rings that we built from the moons around Mars?

The answer is yes, is my own learned opinion. The answer is yes, in all ways, shapes, and forms. The answer is yes; even frat boys are grudging, as they plan their dark business in churches and dorms.

We could push to light speed, or real close to it anyway... We could slow elapsed time to a glacial-like crawl. We could do in a moment what the eons were taking, and we'd seed our environs with life, after all.

It's all in the living the joys of continuance. It's all in a place you can stand safe, and watch. It's finding and knowing, and beating the nightmare that nibbles at your nether-mind, then bites you on your haunch!



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What's passed grows small in a rear view glass,
 retreating with the sun.
See, all you need is with you in your city on the run.
Not running from some consequence, 
or running on the lam,
but running to a future where one gives a tinker's damn.


This city's where you're living, then. 
Its travel spans the stars.
The Earth is carried with you; 
Earth you've coaxed to live in jars.
All the people you have with you, 
that you'll ever see again,
'cause time erased those left behind like, 
indeed, they'd never been.


...But... ten thousand years still passed on Earth, 
and these had found some way (!)
to obviate realities that we endure today!
Less is more, they had discovered, 
and could travel in a *wink*
what our ship in space had traveled, then, 
in all that time—just think!


...They meet you at your journey's end; 
they visit on the way.
They upgrade all your hardware, 
but they never judge or weigh.
They don't peer down their noses… 
don't insist upon new prayers.
It's rather like you meet nice folks 
while climbing cosmic stairs!


...You can go or you can stay
you can have it either way,
either one has heaven's promise—the attraction!
No one "pays," so you can "play"; 
you make it work; you save the day!
But for you? ...Why, living grace in satisfaction.

Return then to your night of dreams where, 
nestled in the stars
are the fruits these satisfactions can provide...
...in rocks from Mars!
I metaphor ideas, 
we then take our precious breath,
and we live among our stars to cheat 
a grinning, leering death.



Though, you won't be engaging your garden variety cosmic brotherhood... friends and neighbors, while hapless children starve anywhere in complacent aggregate neglect right here at home.  We have to earn more passage than that.


Wednesday, August 08, 2018

Graspers And Gaslighters

Where can a self-styled gold standard like our intrepid "Gene Steinberg" incur such a wholly justified wrath and enmity from the rational reasonable among us? Persons the likes of Tim Binnall and Jack Brewer, for example. Men of differing varieties of sobriety (so providing a certain depth of field)... these demonstrate a singular, "...had enough," compelling their outraged and well-cited content, of needs and requirements, yea and verily... I've personal insight, myself.  

Gene (send-me-cash-my-wife's-gums-are-bleeding-and-I-gots-da-t'aint rot) Steinberg is in messy, forget sad, decline, and it's not a pretty picture. I would find him wholly—if pathetically—ignorable but that he continues to personally vex, revolt, annoy, and aggravate me... 

It's the unjustified hubris, I think. Gold Standard my old and wattled ass. 

Verily, he tasks me; tasks me even when he is not impinging on my expectation to a free expression.  No, I do not remotely exaggerate.

Once upon a time long passed, out of the Paracastian murk of his tepid web presence, and like the thick rolling stench from an untidy paranormal graveyard sieved and titrated for its contemptable content grist... not grasping that relevance never actually aspired to... (...a transparent result, I remind the reader, of serious—albeit self-facilitated—blows to his ufological street cred, reputation, and approaching need for legacy vis a vis the compelling Rainey/Woods controversy!)... he reaches out with this pompous little note to me—in full damage control, I suspect, and attempting, in full gaslight mode, to manage one of his many provoked if well-cultivated antagonists, me:

  
Tell you what, let's clear the air, since I don't know you and, clearly, you don't know me.

 I'm happy to apologize for reporting you to your ISP. I was pissed off at the insults, period.

 I'm even happy to let you join our forums, but no personal attacks.

 The ball is in your court.

 Peace,
Gene=

Apart from the fact I'd rather spend the night in hog swill than join his toxic little forum (an ironic "personal attack's" murder of fanboy crows...) every line of the above, I submit, has to be a reflection of the most extreme use of cognitive disassociation and insentient pompousness... as can be available to mortal man and then ladled out to his serfs or hangers-on benignly and in all condescension! Bailiff! Gag me with a shock-rod!

Great suffering and most baragrugous ZOT!!!   

I begin to suspect—which I had expected all along—that he was entirely apart from what was really going on as regards the fall-out of his misogynistic initiative, his gossipy coven of cyberstalking lickspittles and fluffers! A Trumpian narcissist? I digress...

I wrote back that his offer was utterly unsatisfactory. I said"No, You 'Net-ball' Mr. Steinberg... twice on your side of the net to double-fault.  [I thought that was clever] Moreover, Sir, I don't make 'personal attacks.'  I observe.  Yeah, I'll pop a literary cap in a deserving ass.  Conscience sometimes demands it.  Zero apologies here." I'm in the fall of my winter, agewise, and that's how we roll.

He responds:

Then feel free to "observe."
 I look forward to your participation. Just keep it civil.
 Peace,
Gene

What?!  Really?  How astoundingly oblivious! 

What a brilliant example of "out of touch" faculty and repressed crumbling air-castle in a last-legs food processor ready to puke!  I'm stunned to clenched astonishment, actually! Remember, his was the dearth of sense, fairness, and sensibility... at the start, if for all his patronizing officiousness, now. I won't be criticised for pointing that out. I won't be remotely patronized.

I respond that, as per expected par he, one, misses the point and the broad side of the communicational barn by the obligatory parsec, two, has provided me much too little, much too late with regard to faux-collegiality forced by public censure or a then angered mob (Gene had to do more walk-backing, I seem to recollect), and, three, that he has only succeeded in irritating me further.  

You see, I'd already seen the e-mail to another where he refers to me as a "bomb thrower."  I resent that.  I eschew uncivilized bombs to roll in hot with righteous thirty-mm cannon and hell-fire missiles.  I fight the called-for fight, close, and you know who's shooting at you.

Finally, a portrait of abject disingenuousness, he concludes:


Which is, of course, what you're doing. You don't know me, yet you continue to attack. I gave you your chance.


Goodbye.
Gene Steinberg=


Yeah, Steiny... I know ye! Fuck you.

..Didn't respond to that last one, eh, reader?  The last time I switched his flaccid, sway-backed, and irrelevant ass out of my E-mail coral he, an ironic and unrepentant spammer beggaring measure, as Binnall and Brewer observe... pulled obvious institutional strings to have me thrown off the internet!!! Nobody can just "reach out" and have you unplugged from the web! He did,  howsomever. What was up with that...

That's right. Complete removal from the world wide web for three whole, decidedly dark, days... good thing I didn't get my phone that way.

All this pales to insignificance compared with what he facilitated for Rainey/Woods vis a vis supports for "this" and slanders for "that." ...Then he'd trot out another plea for cash to round out his hypocrisy as is abundantly noted... this writer would rather send money to Ted Cruz or Pee-pee Dondi.

Wait... no... not even in jest. Between the three, Steiny gets my money.

Closing, I'm sure our intellectually felching Mr. Steinberg has no problem with me sharing this "private" mail... see, he does it himself, to suit his very self-interested ends... All.  The.  Time. His "bomb-thrower" allusion to me, for example...

Please demand that I prove that, Mr. Steinberg. In other news, is Ms woods writing a book regarding her, trials, travails, and tribulations regarding et sig all? I don't know...

"I see... [writing] people..."

She's certainly subsequent to abundant subject matter. I say true. I'd be hard-pressed not to write it... were it me.

Steinberg Transporto Caveo
Steinberg Sender Beware.

Read on.

Sunday, August 05, 2018

...Not Watching The Sky...


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...Not a new story that just came to me, as I sit on hard chairs, and I read I'm not free. These are charges of thievery, graft, and corruption ... the right writes their *writ*, and assures our dysfunction!

They're less than contrite with us; they destroy hapless families; they rob and they maim helpless folks—sheer insanity! This nation we love, in surreal dissolution, it is fraught with cold terrors at our top institutions!

Constitutions, as writ, are spat upon jokes to be used and abused, silken ropes around throats? They are tools of the mighty to be used when they're necessary... when convenient, or useful, or expediently arbitrary?

They're to hide flying lights moving low on horizons who have "lights" of their own far beyond my describing! They are playing with secrets that spawn all the craziness... you'd refute if you knew it... ...and that's why they're betraying us!

Now most will not care in their drive to live lives that they work pretty hard for... ...but may learn to despise. We are ruled by the hatreds gladly fanned in our "churches" ... we are scared and upset, and our fear is discursive.

We look at the "few," but we're told we see many.  Distracted—bedeviled, we're shorted our pennies. The *right* won't help out when it comes to the sharing; though their mansions are built by the ones who starve... ...staring!

As we pray for our *gub'ment*, say, to "run off them faggots," but want its retreat when we'd spawn our detritus! Imposing our will when it complements business, but betraying the trust when we're called to be generous!

As they mask and they hide their fine mess of choice secrets, the watchers continue to tease and entreat us. ...But at the whim of that... "man"... to be born, work, and die ... we're *secure* in our rut, so, not watching the sky...



The man — all the while laughing, and having fun at your expense—able to "play" because you "pay"—knowing you're a fool (and worse), so programming your children not to be the leaders in the "new century." He'll play bait and switch with all manner of anomaly. He'll drag you back and forth across the line of credulity so hard and so often that you doubt the validity of your own reality, reality as smeared as that aforementioned line...

The knowing, finally, is a foundation that won't shift beneath your feet. You look up with a hard new eye, see the unending expanse of the misty *always was*—and ask the question, …not why, but, "When"!

When will you have the pitching deck secure beneath your feet, and a real "star to steer by"? It's then you'll have your "why."

Saturday, July 28, 2018

ITS: The End Of The Story




ITS: The End Of The Story

by Alfred Lehmberg



...Remember the end of the story? We'll get there in a minute.


The beginning of the story, one recalls, revealed individuals selected of a pool from which astronauts would later be drawn.  These selectively sieved persons, highly trained, intelligent, and brave, were ordered to fly out in state-of-the-art jet aircraft to meet with their inevitable opposition. Only, forgetting they must have acquitted themselves gloriously whatever their fate, most of them had never signed on for this brand of opposition. 


See, they'd fly right into the teeth of the unknown unknown: unidentified flying objects. That's right, UFOs. That's where the data seems to go, even if off our established rails. Some of these pilots and crew, by the way, were never again seen, man or machine. Poof.




Well acknowledged Standing Orders were to shoot "noncompliant" UFOs down, remember, wherever they were encountered... and "non-compliant." Laughable, but those were the orders of the day.


A conjecture, reader, that shots were never fired at UFOs is just ludicrous beyond the testimony of at least one four-star General. He reported "many men and machines lost" in certainly countable armed rejoinders, a testimony to how serious the official responses to UFOs actually were. Disclosure of a sort, eh?

A leader for the Air Force's official investigatory body wrote of "other, more lurid duels of death." He minced no words as he otherwise complained of the lack of proper funding for his effort. UFOs must have been "investigated," of needs. Where did the real money go? I digress.

Feschino and Friedman hold blow-up of a Newspaper headline 
published during the Summer Of Saucers, 1952.

It's no leap to conjecture an aerial engagement where early official admissions, recorded losses, and numerous eye-witness accounts bear out data pointing to exactly that. Gird barbarian loins, pilgrims, for undeclared and secret (even as announced!) airwar with ET in 1952. Such would appear to be so. 


...Sounds crazy. Yeah yeah. Sure sure. No apologies, here. 


We had our own aircraft losses, unexplained... or badly explained. We know about them. Verily, we had ours crashing into schools and subdivisions! 



Yet... chasing UFOs? The report, this writer recalls, was that the unarmed aircraft above crashed with an unejected pilot (?), due to fuel starvation... only... the aircraft explosion and fire testified to a profundity of fuel (it appears also to this former Master Aviator) and the area was hazarded to firefighters a result of exploding munitions.
So... 



But wait! How about similar "downed aircraft" incidents involving supposed occupants of those UFOs aforementioned? They're being shot at, after all. ...And on that subject of alien defenses, one can say what one will about alien "countermeasures," superior to "mere human" munitions... but 10 pounds of high explosive on the business end of a 2.75 folding fin aerial rocket arriving at point of impact, just under the speed of sound, must complicate even ET's physics!







Cut to Flatwoods, West Virginia in the same year... at the end of our story, now. September 12th. A warm Indian Summer evening and some kids are playing football in a valley schoolyard. Abruptly, a flaming fireball (a distressed alien craft?) coasts low and slow over their heads from the east-north-east, hangs a 90 degree left turn to the south, and then lands behind the trees on a hilltop of the old Bailey Fischer farm. 

This spot is well known to the locals and only a short distance away. The kids will run and get one of their mothers, who will think to bring a flashlight, then all will troop up the hill to investigate. Someone said UFO in the excitement (it was the season for them after all) but "downed aircraft" was on everyone's mind.  

Who would have thought, "both"? ...A creeping low fog gathered as they made their excited accent up paths and through gates...

...Our very "highly strange" incident would ensue.



May confronts the monster...

Enter Ivan T. Sanderson. One of the first few named researchers on-site only five days after the now very much-renowned event of that night of the 12th, he was a reputational worthy and not one to reflexively dismiss the high strangeness surrounding the event as too impossible to seriously regard. That was not this investigator's style.


It's what ITS did...

No, Sanderson was no credulous buffoon fluffing a bizarre occurrence for an edge reputation, an initiative so popular today. He liked getting to the actual bottoms of things. He was a man very highly regarded.

He was a well-out-of-his-armchair, world-class educated, and literate literary who wouldn't be cowed or bullied even by the likes of a forceful John Nebel (An earlier and more credible Art Bell) in a radio interview regarding this, our... end of the story. The reader will recall that this was the end, as ends were had.

The end of 1952's "Summer of Saucers," flap. Flatwoods seemed to bring everything to a close. The end of official open-mindedness and forthcomingness as cover-up became the increasing order of the day. A consequence of secret wars? ...Not; however, the end of the well-publicized orders to shoot UFOs down. Those orders may have yet to be rescinded.



Here's what ITS had to say on the subject:


Notice the sequestered witness drawings...





Later on, it would be proffered by gloating members of a disingenuous skeptibunky intelligentsia that Flatwoods people didn't know their own night forest fauna, were poisoned by hallucinogenic ground gas  (?) absent before or since, or that West Virginia "hillbillies" won't know a simple meteor from a space invader. Sanderson didn't think so. 


Sanderson, plainly not a sufferer of fools, found everyone he spoke to, examined, or interviewed to be precise, moreover, accurate, intelligent, and considered. Listen to the short Youtube interview above. He was emphatic about this.


No, this story happened, beginning, middle, and end. But for one Frank C. Feschino, Jr. we would know none of it and would have forgotten all of it. Spin up on this story. It's the future after all.





Read on...

Saturday, July 21, 2018

...I Would Live *Forever*...



I would live forever. I would live to seed the stars. Why, I'd live to see the glad demise of petrol-burning cars!

I'd dare exist in silent space in cities that we built.
I would sip a comet's water. I would farm that comet's silt.

The Earth would be a garden when her language we could speak. We would decrease human numbers... "Less is more," is my critique.

At last, when churlish kidneys went the way of facile flesh?
We'd switch out two "brand new"ones; I'd continue—be refreshed!

I'd needed brand new kidneys, and my fellows used the rest. Flesh is more respected, see; respect's now in neglect!

...I'd live to see our "Asteroid Belt" restructured living space.
We'd build it and not take it... ...to ameliorate our prior disgrace...

We'd treat each other decently. We'd live for one another. The Earth herself? ...A living thing! We would treat her like our Mother.

We'd take her lesson to the stars. We're creatures of her art!
We'd live like we had common sense; we'd live like we had heart.

...And once we had this change of mind, the skies would open wide; we'd find it filled with stellar folk... ...strange folk who used to hide.

Though now they'd hide no longer, see?  We'd discarded errant shame...
 To see them as we'd see ourselves, self-aware and sane.



So, they engineered a cloned frog without a head… Yes! I want it. Please continue the research. I'll pay the freight, psychological and pecuniary, on spec... ...but, at your peril! 

Create nothing with even the barest potential for the remotest consciousness! I'm a player only when it's me paying for it. If I have to die... ...well, I have to die, don't I.

...But, I should be able to grow my own replacement flesh—I would live *forever*. I will answer the ethical questions as I go along at select points in the next few thousand years, and that ongoing quest will be driven by asking who has to pay so ...I... can *play*.  Do you grok the implication, reader?

Consider longevity juxtaposed with population... I can cop to the egregious perils of overpopulation; most can't or won't at any level of our society, especially on the institutional, governmental, or ecumenical levels... To cop is to sacrifice, to sacrifice is to endure... enduring we explore... ...that part of the universe created to know itself... ...herself? So, where to go...

A lot of living space can be made from our ring of asteroids. We could be a shining bracelet around our star, just to keep things in perspective. If we can think it, it can be so. Who says we're not God.

You know? The only real way to ensure a quality human being may be to bring the total number of humans down to a level where individual humans are assured of some respect... ...to start! Love the fetus, sure! But only if you love the child too... ...and then the nursing home denizens these children grow into.  Consider, instead. 

Individually sire only once. Do this and our population is painlessly curbed in a single generation, no muss no fuss!  The individual is key!

This is an individual thing. It is from this individuality that teams of real quality have their provenance. Can't you feel it? Again, the individual is key.

...Living *forever* does not seem to add to that. Or does it? Can it? Should it?  I would find out. Scary.

Still...I'd live longer than I'm presently *allowed*. Not because I'm scared to die so much... no, that's a terror of the known unknown. It's because I missed so much of what was here. You know? Space, Time... Surface area?

Out in the asteroid belt, I'd live as far as I could *see*. Unfettered consciousness is a precious, precious thing... ...at the very least it should be.

Read on.

Thursday, July 05, 2018

At The Gravesite...

Lieutenant John Jones

There were these fellows, brave stalwarts in the service of their duty, their honor, and their country. Some scant weeks after their own Fourth Of July, let's pretend... it's now somewhat later, September 12th, 1952... are you with me?

Walk with these men. Stanger steps are seldom taken. 

Fading into these boots...you're a flight officer in the nascent Air Forces of the United States in 1952. This writer was four, then. You've been assigned to an airbase on the near-deserted azured green and frothy white coast of panhandle Florida. You are trained and educated to be part of the pool from which would later be drawn moon-walking astronauts. You're not arrogant, only appropriately confident; see, with few contenders of this Earth? You and your brothers would compete in an aspiration to rule Earth's skies. See links to the torrid tale at the conclusion of this piece.

As fate was determined, you go, and oddly, missing in action. It's ostensibly a "training mission," but it's the combat aviator understanding the difference between flying in training and then flying in combat. 

The only difference is the but slight increase of stuff in the air to hit... canopy breached, hot metal flashing through the plexiglass faceplate of your helmet and taking out a side of your facechurning your brain in the bucket of your headgear and then flopping down over your remaining good eye. It happens in training. 

As it turns out, the evidence would point to you flying into some alternative training, Special High- Intensity Training, seriously strange and more terrifying, even, than that alluded to encounter with shrapnel... or an enemy for which one is trained. You didn't sign up for this, even if you would have.

Big sky, little bullets, sure, but then there is the unknown unknown really filling the void of one's unspeakable and imagined loathing! See, you had never trained for what it looks like you were sent out to face.


Actual telegram received by the family...


Ultimately, your folks get the dreaded telegram, a well-known horror of the gold-star family saved like it was written on the skin of you, their loved one... and it rather was. ...Notification that their son or daughter was missing and in dire straights or dead. 

There can be literally no amount of gold stars making the slightest difference... then add that they're never getting a hint of the truth, your memory for them having been "the dead guy blamed for his own misfortune" and needless demise.  An errant pilot, erring. This writer was a military Master Aviator. No pilot wants that as their legacy.




All hopes, then, are coal to a mourning Newcastle... your folk's misery, abject. Then they hear from a man in support of those responsible for what has all the appearances of an Air Force cover-up...



After the board examination of the military, there would be this small stone, quickly forgotten and overgrown. Beneath it lay forgotten dreams... and a sacrifice which has been demeaned.




After the Air Force had washed their hands of him and later on even denying his very existence to Field Investigator Frank Feschino (in two separate inquiries to different agencies trying to get to the bottom of the strange affair), he found the grave and family of Lieutenant Jones.  




Later on, and after many years, Feschino would return to the grave site and plant a few flags for 2018's July fourth. He would have to give the plot a spruce up and then brush time's detritus from the engravings...  remembering. Respecting.



Here lay not the man, one is reminded. His bones, aircraft, and radar operator were never recovered or seen again. Presently, he is but a memory wrongly remembered and dishonored for the convenience of suspicious secret keepers. This writer says true. Feschino would aspire to put that to right.


Frank C. Feschino Jr. would pose plot-side with a Newspaper article chronicling the 1952 affair. This affair would give even retiring Stanton Friedman pause, among significant others. Friedman would provide Feschino support, assist in the investigation, and write the fore an afts of all Feschino's books. 

One wonders why one couldn't be moved to call this an endorsement as close to a death-bed confession as respect and "an appropriate" allows, forgetting... live long and prosper Mr. Friedman! My point is that a guy like Friedman with an unargued reputation is all in on the premise. Stepping down now as rather undefeated champion... ...seems he'd be more careful with a respected legacy... unless...

Regardless, Friedman would agree, I believe, pointing out the supremacy of the directions data takes... data... unspun, it is truth.  That should mean something.


Respectful remembrance at the grave
of a forsaken hero betrayed by a
supposed need for secrecy. 


Seriously? Full-on air to air combat? An undeclared and secret air war with ET? ...Endeavoring not to presuppose, the perspicacious follow data for its leadership, it's shown. 


READ THE FULL STORY

Part I of VI


Thinking you know, and knowing not, but pretending you know not when you do know are likely equally egregious, societally toxic, and just no way for sentient humans to live their lives.

Read on.

Saturday, June 02, 2018

..On Topic...



"Your writing's off topic on matters of politics"!
"Your subjects distract and, at best, just annoy"!
"What do you gain as you bad mouth our Nation"?
"Where is your loyalty, and where's it employed"?

It's "political" matters that bear obfuscation.
It's your sullen disgust where the UFOs hide.
You'd feel much different were you born in Burundi,
I'm loyal to self.  With the self, one must ride.

"What's all this blather regarding 'conspiracy' "?
"Why do you brood on old history gone passed"?
"How do you qualify "others" from space"?
"Why do you dwell on the miserable past"?

ICE/GOP/RNC fill the papers!
Our history's GONE, *we* don't KNOW what occurred!
Life from some stars are conclusions of science,
And I "dwell" so the "past" will, at last, be preserved!

"What is your profit, if what you say's true,"
"And too few have the rest by the balls"?
"Your success is deterred, as you gain further notice,"
"Even death's more 'assured'—can't you hear its dark call"!

...Not in it for profit—I write what I feel.
I don't want you confused that your care's in their heart.
It's the writing itself that provides me a wage,
And my death will become them that, each, take their part!

"Work's more impossible, the word will go out."
"How shall you teach to a classroom of kids"?
"How will you square all the 'lies' and the 'dissonance'
"To collections of young minds who don't know what's been *hid*?"

I'd be teaching in classes of kids who "don't matter."
My students don't read, or divide, or subtract
I'd have tought them the truth as I felt that they grokked it?
But the point is now moot, folks. In all truth, I was sacked!





Very highly trained militarily, a summa cum laude college graduate (Did you check that, RRRichy?), I'd taught in "special ED" classrooms.  While I did teach... (heavy sigh) ...I would go to bed, every night, knowing, unquestionably, that I was doing a GOOD thing!  

The obligatory shaving the following morning was never a problem like it was on active duty. In a self-mending mode, perhaps I was on the way to forgiving myself for my participation in Viet Nam...

Viet Nam? Let me tell you about Viet Nam. My participation in opposition to that nation of people was a rook, a farce, a sham... and a complacent atrocity.

Since the beginning of their time, I'm betting, those unarguably astonishing people have beaten back every attempt to subvert or enslave them. And with success, reader! Success!

Decades ago, right after the first world war, Viet Nam (believing our own press releases?) came to us for association and aid. Wilson, Truman, and then Eisenhower rebuffed their every extenuation... ...fueled by callous, indifferent, and inhumane racism when the period is read to!

It figures. The United States is legendary in racism's regard!  Where did Hitler get the idea for his Final Solution?  The answer's not comforting.  See, the US was hugely successful clearing out its own native population of "undesirables."  Quite an endorsement for an observing extraterrestrial, eh?

Back to Viet Nam, the French tried to continue their exploiting and unethical colonial imposition, ongoing for decades, until the "little brown men," tired of the abuse and disrespect, ran imperialistic Frank's fat froggy bottoms from their Asian soil like squeaking white roaches! In a pique of punctured euro-centric pride, read "white pride," the United States tried to bring Viet Nam to heel... and was in turn driven from the land squealing like Ned Beatty in "Deliverance".

Once we were gone, the Vietnamese let the Soviets know where the bear went through the buckwheat, and then, not to be outdone? They kicked Chinese BUTT, friend, when Peking started to make its incursion from the North. Verily, Viet Nam has resisted ALL historical attempts to treat their sovereignty with anything but the most profound respect…

These people beat back the late 20th-century WORLD, and SURVIVE to tell the tale, reader!!!

...Too, left alone? They seem to be leaving their neighbors, and the rest of the world... astonishingly... ...alone! That's raw idiosyncratic credit right there, yea and verily!

...It rather paints them as UBUR-MENCHEN—doesn't it!

I respect them.  Anyone with a sense of fair play should.

Again—years later... after decades of misery, tragedy, and recovery from destruction... the people of Viet Nam are once again making overture for association and aid. Hopefully, this time, we will bind ourselves to them with bands of honesty, trust, evenhandedness, appreciation, and the love of respected brother/sisterhood.

Why, we should try to mix our essence with theirs ... the only people to squarely beat us in a war, we better make them friends! Hell, if they'd have us? We'd do well to offer them a Statehood!

We tried, stridently, the alternative, and it blew up in our arrogant faces. The people of Afghanistan and an outraged (because we scare the hell out of them) middle East will likely serve us up a second helping for our arrogant effrontery...

For my part, forgive me, people of Viet Nam, I knew not what I was doing… I do now.

Know that you have my support, my admiration, and my respect. To the survivors of those lost on our side—read a new book, become informed, cop to our hideous, unbalanced, and contrived nationalistic blunderbuss of purposeful shortsightedness... ...the utter waste of the lives of husbands, brothers, and fathers... sisters, mothers, and wives as grease for the wheels of an entirely unrestricted corporatism! COP!  Then we can move on.

We were "beaucoup number ten" and "tres dinky-dow" to the Viet Namese et al at the whim of reptilian corpocracies! Let's admit, and get over it! Demand our government give Viet Nam the recognition deserved.

It's just the way to get UFO's to come out of hiding—probably the only way, and an illustration why I always write on topic. You have to drain the swamp (excuse the metaphor) to even SEE the corporate alligator shredding merrily at your butt-cheeks.

Why do I "hate America"?

Why, you witless hypocrite and flatulating gasbag! I love America to a depth and breadth you have forgotten or have never known... I'll bet EVER known! Moreover, you scurvy wing-nut bigot, I've proved my love with decades of volunteerism and real service while you have likely sent others off to fight a war YOU started... but wouldn't fight yourself! Coward! Hypocrite! Swine!

You can kiss my unwashed ass right after you tell me why YOU hate America!

You know who you are!

I'm just getting warmed up...

Read on.