single-payer

I Made an Anger Painting Without Hurting Anyone

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kentucky1

“A Kentucky Senator With A Dynamite Auger Drilled Through His Neurocranium” 2016. Acrylic on canvas, 8 x 10″

Not too long ago at a poker night excuse to drink beer I was stuck in argument with an economist friend of mine about the U.S. tax system. At the time I knew a young man, just a year out of high school, who, upon graduation landed a job in a local factory making shoe boxes. It was the first year he had to pay federal taxes and Uncle Sam was expecting 17% of his income (it already took a big piece bi-weekly, but wanted more to make up the difference). My friend the economist thought that 17% actually might not be enough and suggested that maybe this young dude shouldn’t complain so much.

I was nonplussed. All I could blurt out was something like “That’s a lot of rent money to extort for another aircraft carrier!” I would hope that my friend got my meaning, but I believe it was lost to him. I don’t think he knew offhand the actual percentage of U.S. budget getting doled out to the military (few facts are surmised these days without iPhone back-up), but I’m sure he knew from private living and teaching experience that it comprised an eye-popping chunk of the treasury’s mother-load, and then some.

Worse, he probably went home and thought dualistically about my politics, as many often do—that I must side with evil if not the good. The “either/or’es” —you’re either with us or against us. The people who despise the out group and distrust those within. A very lonely club devised long, long ago by the first man to ever use the goodness of another for personal gain.

What I meant to say on poker night was that I would expect to pay 95% of my salary if I believed a government was using this money to help care for my family and yours.

All caps following, and I seldom use all caps:

IT DOES NOT.

The players think they got us by the sneaks. That in order to be good children we must pay our federal tax or else face the consequences. And the super majority of us will pay, no doubt about it. It’s scary not to. Good Americans, like good Germans before them, do not like to break the law. The players assure us it ain’t all that bad—each person is well represented by an incorruptible congressperson overseeing an arbitrary block of 600,000+ people, or, as in the case of one of my senators from New York, a massive baying herd of over eight million people.

I think you can tell where this is going.

Because we have no say in the money and how we are “protected” by decision-makers in Congress, then I declare that institution unlawful and illegitimate.

So, I believe we have an out-of-control state run mafia that does not show the slightest indication that any day now it will turn itself in. What to do…

I do not advocate insurrection—even while Congress legislates to kill off Americans. I do not think enough of us are angry like people of the past who were starving and therefore prone to anger. How many of us have a smart phone contract? Raise your hands.

See? We’re not truly angry resistors. Neither to Trump mafia nor Obama mafia. Actually in the great line of time, the super-majority of us are just ineffectual political wussies. It would be okay if some of us weren’t going out and copying our negligently homocidal legislators with horrific crimes to humanity. That’s what happens with disenfranchisement. The desperate with nothing to loose start hammering away at those whom they think win all the time. Even folks like you and me, working check to check, yet still attempting a check to power, even in the most limited ways.

Both Democrats and Republicans are ignoring a single-payer system—they take our tax money and provide insurance companies with sick, paying, animals. Both are guilty of watching our families get sick and die with our own money. The game being played now is refereed by Big Insurance and Big Pharmaceutical (“Big” is their word, not mine. I believe there are no tinier humanoids in the land).

I can explain this painting and therefore exonerate myself from the partaking of any violent radical acts in the future. I have my alibi, and owe much of its construction to the first career I could obtain while coming of age in crazy county, U.S.A. Whenever I’m given a bloated piece of anger meat, I let it rest for a few days. Then I marinate it in acidic thought and reflection, turn the burner up high, and sear in all thoughts worth keeping. I never take anger out of the kitchen and yet I rarely dine alone (Thank you wife and Internet). Onto channeling my next career as painter, which hard copies an illustration of a bloated Kentucky senator making decisions with the money I put aside for upcoming life and death. I don’t like his ideas. So I paint a dynamite auger into his neurocranium.

Works for me!

I can do this because I’m an artist and not a killer. I wish no final future for this man different from one of my very own mother. A peaceful, non-painful demise. I’ve smeared the end of the dynamite auger with an instant-acting opiate releasing ten times the strength of the most non-lethal morphine injection.

Again, artistic license. What else can a poor boy do?

 

 

 

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The Invisible Invincible Bravery of the Uninsured

Th Invisible Invincible Bravery of the Uninsured

The gulf is wide. Our own neighbors and friends uninsured, or at best underinsured. And yet drone technology advanced and invested in. A chauffeur for your senator. A no-bid contract for Haliburton to help mop up the human suffering in Iraq. Prescribed fish oil entitled Lovaza is for the entitled at $240.00 for a one month supply. GlaxoSmithKline used a golden blender to mutilate its catch from the North Sea. Lucky for me my wife is powerfully insured. So I get it for ten dollars. I have another ten years to live because she was at the right place at the right time when landing the only graphic design job with benefits in a thirty mile radius. Twenty years ago fish oil was quack. Now it’s prescribed. Drops triglycerides, staves off pancreatitis. Of course only the Lovaza is concentrated with 1000 squeezed and wrung out fish per capsule. The stuff in the grocery store isn’t as potent, and who would know without medical counsel that fish can keep diabetes at bay?

We cannot afford this culture anymore. Turn off the radio, the television, the major “newspaper” on the Internet. Yesterday the latter prescribed to the elite of planet earth (Hollywood actors at the Oscars), in order to get more “hits” so Lockheed Martin and Kraft mayonnaise will advertise with it. It was a twitter photo of the healthy and insured laughing in the know that no one they love or like shall ever need for basic care. I watched the Red Carpet pre-Oscar with some friends and alluded to the sham that is the Oscar ceremony. The producers do their best to show the world these scripted humanoids as folks appearing just like themselves on television. The viewers at home don’t see the army of personal aids and body guards waiting beside black SUV’s in the street. I see them. I see my governor too spending our money on his hair spray, the 10 mpg SUV, and sometimes, in moments of state crisis, the trooper chopper trip to the latest online tragedy. I see the waste, the avarice, the fear. I see Angelina Jolie having a double mastectomy and a tanning session on the same day because she can afford to be preemptive. Risk her career at any moment to demand all women that opportunity NOW—ho boy. Never ever.

That is because we, as media denizens of planet earth, are unable to separate the good from the bad. But I will try. The last good Oscar ceremony occurred way back in 2003 when Michael Moore accepted his award for best documentary, Bowling For Columbine; just a few days before our tax money was used to shock and awe (euphemism for “shrapnel imbed”) other people’s children several thousand miles away, Moore found the courage to speak out among a populace of fantastically immoral and ignorant human beings—not only the crowd of lowly actor Cro-magnon men and their tanned-cleavage women, but an entire nation of tuned-in bored and slothful enemies of its own species. Later, that incredibly talented, renaissance man sleazeball Steve Martin, boasted of his ability to act under pressure as MC and sweep under the rug our immense national shame—a wealthy American, Michael Moore, burdened with a stinging conscience.

The cats above are of a species without universal health care. Damn spoiled sports. What do they expect? They don’t pay taxes to support a congressional staff of horrible human beings. They should be happy with what they get from trickle-down medionomics. A diabetes-making diet from Purina and a night at the Oscars with any Barbie doll ding dong of the human comedy.