A Brief Take On Your Choices

 

First you escape the hatch, then you need learn to obey in some shit school. So when you get older you can obey for money in some office with a bunch of shitheads for years, with government telling you we can change like some psychopathic marital partner.

Then they fuck you by letting easily swayed, uneducated gomers who believe everything to vote for Liberals who only want to allow more gomers into the country.

Instead of all this crap you could be eating great food, having sex all the time, and taking drugs, along with fine wines, to enjoy it all even more.

And buying my books, you heartless Philistines.

Good job, you wanker. 😀

©Dean Baker

buy my books and put your small change where your twitch is…

…my books http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM

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The Origin Of Names in Certain Russian Characters: Vlad Pootin’

How Vlad the Tooter became Vlad Pootin who now is Vladimir Pootin’

Coming from some deep Russian, Ukrainian, Polish ancestry on one side of my family, I can vouch for the necessity of name change.
Superstition, bureaucracy feeding on its people, a sense of privacy required, and the freedom to begin without the weight of idiots’ prejudice.
Thus we come to the status of world leader Vladimir Pootin’ – and the origins of his patronomic.

As might be guessed, and divined from great Russian Literature, as well as the tiny bit of knowledge of the real world that gets through which the media fails to block, Vladimir is the Russian leader who is ex-KGB, strong, authoritative and prone to eliminating enemies, perceived and real.
He’s kind that way. He does not relegate them to government jobs by which they might snipe at him via malicious gossip. Smart to do so.

His ancestors were likely peasants grubbing the land, ducking whenever Stalin the Sentimental Butcher came a-roving. Of necessity they ate potatoes, beets, roots, and cabbages.
Thus we come to the origins of his familial name.

The family knew – because he told them – when Vlad was young that he’d be a leader, making sure to gather food for them. That sold them on his career; his neighbors helped, and the word spread: support young Vlad and eat well.
However, most people wanted proof so when young Vlad was not stretched back grazing on the family’s jewels: taters, beets, cabbages – he was sent forth on walking trips to spread the proof.

Given that the government wanted to eliminate any challenge whatsoever, a method was devised whereby he could assure the peasants, and keep his name secret.
His many cousins would arrive at each town and set up a table, with a big chair toppled backwards on which young Vlad would make his ‘speech.’

Upon secretly arriving, Vlad would climb the chair, facing away from the audience; who would be greeted with only the aspect of his arse presenting itself for their perusal.
His cousins would charge the audience with statements such as, ‘Who wants to always eat!’ and ‘Trust the one who gives you food!’ and ‘What is the surest faith?!Proof!’
With one more statement, young Vlad would be prompted to begin his convocation of confidence: ‘And in Russia, what is the greatest proof of constant food, since we dine on potatoes, and cabbages?! – nasty farts!’

At this point Vlad would start his toot-worthy attempt to make known the Russian anthem in support of patriotism.
The crowds were swayed. A few fools everywhere though demanded proof that he was not a government plant, and asked him how could they know he was dining on cabbages, and that these were from their areas.
His politician’s brain went to work.
‘You know how there are certain dialects for many areas, variations on a common ground of language? Well just so with vegetables, and their after effects in specific scents!
Come closer and smell the proof!’
At this time, anyone looking at the many spectacles taking place with each meeting in the small towns would be greeted with the sight of a line of small children, old women and bent–over men lining up as if to kiss an anonymous ass, then walking away with smiles of satisfaction. Claude Lévi-Strauss would have been stupefied in his attempts to detect the origins of such a habit.

Thus Vlad’s fame and authenticity passed.. so to speak. His anonymity was guaranteed. This did present a problem of how he might gain electoral office if he wasn’t known, yet his identity disguised.
A clever peasant, Bilary Clintoniak, was who employed to snatch the fleeting will-knots off Vlad’s butt – lest they harm the townsfolk – came up with the minor disguise of changing the last name Pooting to Pootin’.
She fully expected to assume the throne, as well, although rumor has it she merely got hit by a stray will-knot as she attempted to snatch a few and market them as gems later.

Thus in their efforts to disguise this great pretender to the Russian throne, a certain essential and inescapable reality was missed.
Vlad had named himself after his activity. The media had translated his name with a ‘u’ rather than the more common ‘oo’ after the P.
The fact that it was not his name at all had been lost.
Small clues began to emerge when ‘Vlad’ was heard muttering ‘Just watch me,’ and ‘Fuckez vous’ and ‘ Le Pierre, c’est moi’ (although to be fair this was mistakenly heard and translated as ‘I am your peer.’*), despite the fact that many English speaking people will swear that he said, ‘I shit in your ear.’

And so began the myth of old dead bloodsuckers being dug up and assuming office, pooting their way through the land and the people as some complained, some exclaimed, and all were unable to smell the trees because of the breeze.

©Dean J. Baker

*Disclaimer: this is not Pierre Elliot Trudeau, former Prime Minister of Canada, who is verifiably, and really and truly, dead as can be attested to by the long lines of Ontario residents que’d up to take a dump on his grave at $100 a ‘shot’.
Far be it for the editors to imply that they have heard rumors that the governors of La Belle Province have been heard to be thinking about turning the incurring piles into apartment buildings for ‘ce foutu anglais, le maudit anglais’ in a misguided attempt to erect a shrine to their former leader.

When poet Dean Baker was asked his opinion, he said, ‘A shrine to Turdeau? made of vacationers’ dumps? I like it. It has a certain ‘je ne sais quoi’, but let me not repeat myself.. so to speak.’

It is not recommended that you purchase the following:

Baker's Bad Boysch1ch2_tm2<–and most certainly not

BIOGRAPHY

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Europe, and Other Disasters: Our Lost Neighborhoods

I’ve enjoyed Europe. I’ve even considered returning for a visit. Not now.

The first time I went to Europe was to embrace the life of poets, writers, musicians, and artists originating from ‘there:’ that mythical place of ancient and new ways seemingly distanced from North America due to the ‘reality’ of life here, and the possibility of an intermingling of reality and Romance there.
I wanted Europe to stay in Europe. More so now than ever.

First time in England I was sitting with the family I rented a room from, with the BBC news on. The talk was of Chile and Pinochet in September, 1973 with a widely discussed notion that any time soon the USA would go in there, shoot Pinochet and set things right.
The mood wasn’t one of triumph, but a mood of mild discontent since another of the world’s stepchildren needed to be set right by Big Brother whether or not anyone else agreed. A sort of disenfranchisement, with the unspoken idea that this was something England ought to be deciding alongside America.

Obviously the disenfranchisement has spread, with the origin being that of a spoiled child soiling itself in revenge against the better judgment of the grown-ups.
And now that the coming election has resulted in a lot of flailing about in regards to the candidates, Europe’s enjoying the discomfort, as they imagine it.

Meanwhile they’ve had their early warning, first from Melanie Phillips in Londonistan in 2006/2007 after the tube and bus bombings. And still other countries ignored the warnings, and what was revealed about the European infestation by Islamist terrorists.
It’s been exactly as if there was an incipient death wish amongst all the countries.
‘Let’s ignore our reason and go with the notion of our idea of fair play having more influence than nationalities, and their religious/political machinations of world domination.
Especially Germany. What perversity caused that nation to basically say, ‘Hey, over-run us. We miss it.’ Quite similar to the Canadian notion of cultural diversity working itself out as Multiculturalism as a symbol of just how advanced and good the incubating nations could be. Never mind the realities of importing people who were definitely not of a European caste of mind.

Examples of how this did not work abounded everywhere, as well as why it did work at other times. It worked when the host nations were serious about including those being absorbed; not having to consider the idea that they just might not want to acclimate, might not be grateful for a new life free of the troubles of the homeland.
Imagine during the late ‘60’s and ‘70’s if Irish immigrants decided it would be a good idea to openly organize themselves along the lines of the IRA. Fortunately the only morons doing so were the over-privileged so-called ‘negres blanc’ of the upper middle class and above in Quebec (FLQ), and assorted countries like Germany (Baader-Meinhof gang) and Italy (Red Brigade).
They aligned with the murderous anywhere, all the poor mistreated whiners in Cuba, Quebec, the PLO, etc., whose means of influence relied on indiscriminate killing and slaughter. Terror. Their useful idiots in North America were always and will always be empty heads whose need to feel alive is apparently only felt when they can inflict drastic change on others.

‘Useful idiots,’ as Stalin would say, because they are the unwitting tools of unacknowledged armies making backroom deals with the economy and the world as its run in whatever country at the time.
Sometimes it’s the smoke-filled rooms, other times it’s the blood wet sands. One usually leads to the other, though, in connections vague but traceable.

The world as it stands seems to have morphed into a fluid mass of black and white. Simpleness, for simpletons who cannot and have no interest in the differences between that, and a reality-based simplicity.

In the USA there are the bobbing heads of a carousel of broken-legged horses led by the circus barking of Donald T-Rump, the Populist. People believe T-Rump can win, will win, ought to win, fervently.
He couldn’t possibly have been slotted into the race by the masters of war as the 99%’s placating puppet, while other forces of greater influence as usual go to work less directly.
Europe laughs at the blatant and indulgent lack of sophistication of a Trump, and thus the USA. Meanwhile, they’ve been invaded and the ‘alien pods’ are set to germinate.

All this while Canada, and the USA accept Syrian ‘refugees.’ So from world Cop to world Babysitter. And no serious ideas of how to deal with either aspect: just enlarge the debt and spend.

The entire idea of going to Europe – England, Ireland, Greece, Italy – was they weren’t interchangeable.
You’d go to London with the idea it was London, not an anglicized version of Toronto, or New York. Thus, the reverse: when you returned home, it was your home.
Customs, appearances, eccentricities solely belonging to your country, city, town. And if you wished a reminiscence with concrete reminders you could always visit whatever part of the city contained those other countries’ ‘neighborhoods’.
But you didn’t lose yours in doing so.
To me that was the essence of visiting Europe – it stayed there.

Otherwise you’d lose your own unique country/city identifier, and in doing so become disoriented, lost.

Maybe that’s why what is occurring in the Anglo countries seems so at odd with what is expected. We’ve been displaced. We find ourselves strangers in a ‘lost neighborhood:’ our own country.
With the world pouring in, in physical realities and/or moods and influences, we’ve become the ‘dp’s’, displaced people. And there’s no place to go: we’re already here.

The invasion has already occurred through the ‘notions’ of a people lost between the idea, and the realities that constantly seem to intrude.

©Dean J. Baker

https://deanjbaker.wordpress.com/all-print-books-links/

http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM

Tormenting The Monkeyprose/political satires
The Lost Neighborhoodpoetry