The Imagination Assassination of the Propagandist

The Adirondack Creatures Want Him to Expire Pronto

From Moonlight In Groundspruce Woods:

Some NPR celebrity anchor was interviewed by our local radio station yesterday afternoon. I was alone in the car, choring around town. I always listen to NPR to get ahead on the national propaganda. I want to know what current events Pentagon radio deems appropriate for its doting serfs. I can easily relate our connections to Mother Russia, Mao-China, recluse North Korea. It’s the same line, albeit a more sophisticated nuance, since most of our informed public is listening from a carpeted automobile.

In Russia the news came from a bullhorn. In China from its honorable state media. In North Korea, clubs crack skulls sounding off the daily news.

So the NPR celebrity anchor was seated in the studio a mile up the road, chatting about the grand, immense love he has for his adopted Chinese daughters, and I was on my way to a corporate warehouse for some windows and caulk, when the thought struck me, “Now is the time.”

I always pretend quietly to myself that whenever the chance arrives for an easy assassination of political celebrity, to grab at it, to save millions from the suffering which censored and misleading information wreaks upon the world. My mind tells me to take out the lobbyist, the senator, the news anchor in order to freak out the rest enough to abandon their endangering trades—to let the guilty know that not everyone is supportive of such lucrative careers in “misinformations”.  A strong, underlying fear invades the days and nights of all accomplices awaiting their turn at inevitable justice. What sane man would not choose a profession in floor sweeping over one of brainwashing, when to choose the latter eliminates the freedom to go out alone for a midnight snack? Could Rush Limbaugh enjoy his New York fine dining experience fearing that the cook and the busboy have a surefire plan to fry up his fat ass?

I have the same assassination dreams for all kinds of positions of power. The general, the chief of staff, the chief executive officer, the physics professor entering the private sector… If these very able criminal types had daily viable threats to their freedom, their lives, then I believe NPR might one day live up to its democratic acronym. There would be no more “debate” about mountain top removal. The billionaire coal god would have his throat slit at a Wendy’s drive-thru, and all the auspices of “clean coal” would shoot down the memory hole soon enough, following the next five or six mindful assassinations. Big oil would dry up fast if one of these self-proclaimed patriots of the NRA could work that automatic beauty he treasures most while the private jet is boarding. Strafing a few greedy and greasy monsters would directly result in massive fossil fuel reduction. Who can stand being filthy rich in a war zone anyway? How much should an eager oil lobbyist expect for pay when the job description includes “very probable death, very soon, and anywhere, anytime…”?

They don’t allow our right to free assembly and direct us to break down individually. So much easier to control that way. Some city cop stiff infiltrates the antiwar librarian club, and sends illegally obtained information out to headquarters. His cover is broke, the news is out, but no paid employee of the corporate media reported on it.

“This ain’t cool, man, I quit!” declares the secretary of the club. The group breaks up, and the Police Benevolent Society is free to scramble the next nonprofit group of informed citizens burdened with a Jesus conscience.

The G-20 meeting has begun and Meeshell Norris will interview the rock star French President while Susan and Bob, the minimum wagers, are tasered in the parking lot for the crime of being angry, organized, and moral.

No write–up in the media.

A man pours gasoline on himself beside a downtown Chicago off-ramp, lights a match and burns to death in protest of the invasion of Pol—I mean, Iraq (a hangable war crime for the governments of Germany, China—every nation of the world in fact besides the U.S. and Israel). NPR reports the next morning on the historical significance of Samuel Barber’s “Adagio of Strings,” conducted by Toscanini, the avowed antifascist of the wildly popular American classical music scene of 1938.

From NPR, November 4, 2006:

 The year 1938 was a time of tumult. America was still recovering from the Depression and Hitler’s Germany was pushing the world towards war. Toscanini himself had only recently settled in America after fleeing fascist Italy. The importance of the broadcast performance during this time is noted by Joe Horowitz, author of “Understanding Toscanini”.

What a stirring bad-ass, that Toscanini.

So of course the guy who sets himself on fire today, protesting the American fascists Barack Obama, Robert Siegel, and General so and so, the fly-by-night, baby bomber from the skies, won’t even get a “boohoo” by the national propagandists.

My current problem lies with this distorted “chain of conflagration.”

Who today would chastise the memory of an Abe Sharon, the fictional German citizen of 1938, struggling with a moral conundrum?  Remember, he’s the hero who chained up a gasoline soaked Joseph Goebbels on New Year’s Day, and lit him on fire at a secret Berlin meeting of the “Jewish Society of Political Proactivity”. Nazi radio refused to cover the spectacle at the time, but as any twelve-year-old German  knows today, it forced Hitler to privately rethink his Final Solution, fearing internal insurrection might compromise his lofty imperial ambitions.  Later that year the Night of Burning Nazis began a reign of citizen-sponsored terror that brought the fascist regime to its racist knees.

Wow, the carnage those Nazis could have wreaked! Thank God for Abe Sharon!

The man burning up on the Chicago off-ramp wasted his poorly thought out suicide. Couldn’t he have accomplished so much more, and also gained incredible national impact, while hugging a popular congressman? And if his progressive methods caught on to all severely depressed peoples with a conscience, who wanted more than anything to punish themselves and the rest of the cruel world with creative suicides? All of these good people, thousands nationally, perhaps a couple million worldwide, who all know they will personally become toast by the end of the year… Could they at least secure for posterity some heroic conflagrations for the international archive?

Unfortunately no.

I have a theory that the great percentage of suicides are inherently sensitive and pacifistic peoples. None would think of harming another soul. It’s the homicide-suicides that must be convinced. The demented ones who mow down innocents of their communities before firing the bullet through their own rotten craniums. Somehow we must get into these numbskulls knowledge of the real guilty parties. The people who truly deserve punishment. Those who kill and are free. The bomb makers, the drone drivers, the folks who vigorously promote and maintain the bomb-making and drone driving. The fascist community. The secure and grossly comfortable billionaires and most millionaires of our planet who push for the establishment status quo until it reaches the point of the abyss. How many millionaires do we know who vigorously protest the military-industrial-medical-educational complex? There are a few, but most likely have reached their positions of wealth and popularity via the virtue of their politics.

Michael Moore for instance insists we slaves use the master’s tools to dismantle the master’s house. That didn’t work too well for the majority of strong men and women on the plantations of yesteryear. Actually, it took some very big caliber artillery, radical improvements in the rifle bore, and giant armies of crazed homicide-suicide men to release the darker skins from their 350 year bondage.

Human establishment avenues for change have never brought change on the scale that all life needs change.

John Brown could have begun a popular trend in those more innocent, racist times before satellite spying and retina I.D., if he hugged a drunken Jeff Davis at a D.C. bar while setting them both ablaze.

So why don’t these irate homicide-suicides ever affix the proper blame? Old buddies at work? Children at a welfare check pick-up point? Strangers at a fast food restaurant? Ugh! Man these ignorant psychopaths have got to get a grip! There are true, flesh and blood evildoers in their midst. But yet again, how to convince a psychopath of the potentially positive future for the common good whilst he struggles alone on his internal warpath?

The self-igniting suicide fails to see. Likewise, the homicide-suicide must be way too messed up in the head. One cannot rely on this hapless, pathetic mass-murderer to sustain a safe future for our children…

Hence my moral predicament with the propagandist. He is sitting in the air-conditioned studio, a wealthy, well-traveled vocal promoter of the establishment. Never has he interviewed a man or a woman of peaceful significance. As if our poor, burning Chicago suicide had not a living soul to carry his torch—to let on to a national audience the horrors that plagued the man and his country.

What forces drive the national radio personality? He talks about his giant love for his daughters and his wife, and yet Saturday morning will come again and again without revolution. Not even the tiny, personal kind, when our anchor sneaks out the news uncensored, for the love of his wonderful daughters, that his government’s helicopter gunship fired 56 rounds through the body of an Iraqi man’s beautiful, wonderful, smart, kind, gentle and caring daughter, hugging a plush stuffed pheasant while crossing the street.

He won’t tell who fired from the helicopter gunship, what very distant distance he fired from, what company manufactured the devil’s flagship, nor even what its deadly power is capable of in a country dispossessed of anything that flies beyond the single desperate arm launch capabilities of rocks and refuse.

His respectful Chinese daughters are safe at home listening to Dad never in a lifetime mention the guilty of the earth. He is one audio/visual celebrity in fifty who gets paid by the Goebbels machine to pontificate daily events that may be true, yet are profoundly unnecessary. The sophisticated sound of his voice is all the proof we need, as proud Americans, to not question the profound love he has for his precious daughters. A forty-hour work week, lunches daily in fine D.C. restaurants. Dinners too, most nights. A book tour this summer. Fly back on Sundays to cherish his incomparably special adopted daughters, to drive a Mercedes, to fly to our town’s humble airfield, and carry personally the one man circus propaganda to our middle class and middle-class wannabes. Their fifty dollar annual donations allow this daily reaffirmation of national bloody aggression—and proudly fund this Goon of Goebbels the ability to reach 100,000 of the most dangerously educated morons in the listening area. He loves, loves, loves so much his miraculous, heavenly children. He is any man just like you and me, making a living the best way he can, working hard and sober, dreaming of good, clean things, like the glorious love for his perfect babies, saved from a tortured childhood in that horrible rot of humanity China…

His broadcast power has made me a first-rate coward. Huck Finn thought himself the nastiest, low-down, vile-ist creature when he decided not to turncoat on Miss Watson’s slave Jim. I know the feeling. I am the devil’s spawn too, the rottenest, dirtiest pig of a cheap excuse for a man. The wealthy news anchor sits in a leather chair, a relaxed professional liar. A man who tells what he is told, by the powers that whip a desperate mankind to death eventually. I have gasoline in the trunk, and matches in the glove-box. I know the layout of the station like the back of my precious daughter’s hand. There’s no lock on the door. The rental car would be parked by the lake. It would be almost too easy to set him on fire…

Then I realize, after all the proud outward justification, the countless nights dreaming of assassination, that I will never become the murderer that needs to be. I am a coward through and through. The creeping fascism which threatened our country during the past two generations has settled in now for the duration. Sixty-eight million Germans let their government destroy whatever, however, whenever, and whomever it wanted.  They were just too darn safe and comfortable to ignite the guilty. The powers that were had control of all annihilation. And the propagandists faithfully reported its agenda.

Nothing has changed. Our celebrity anchor got up from his chair to shake the hand of our local, admiring interviewer. I got my windows from the corporate warehouse and spent the afternoon installing four upstairs in the rooms of my glorious daughters. And another sweet, adoring angel child was murdered by a gang of the Führer’s stormtroopers.

On Saturday morning our national reporter got word from his remarkable, intelligent daughters that U.S. troops are raping little foreign girls like themselves on location.

Our intrepid Goon of Goebbels took the news very seriously from his lucky, smart, and informed Chinese perfections, entered the studio somewhat grave and determined, and received very stately the paper outlining the 9:30 a.m. installment for the day.

An interview with the author of the book entitled, Old Jews Telling Jokes: 5,000 Years of Funny Bits and Not-So-Kosher Laughs.

   So I am a grand coward of the informed. How about you, dear German of late?

 

 

 

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