Twelve Worthy Cylinders
by Sam Pierson
They put a noose round Saddam's statue, put the Abrams tank in first gear, and released the clutch on twelve worthy cylinders. They dragged the thing to the ground. The cheering drowned the sound of the engine, but not the hollow clang of the tin statue on the concrete.
Hollow tin that ruled flesh & blood only by fear. Hollow, consumptive tin, that ruled by perception, by lies, by twenty foot of air-brushed face selling itself on every street corner, airport & place a public might be. Except for in the dirty bizarre. There, one was free of them.
A self-respecting person knows they cannot lead by pretend. That flesh and blood is only alive when it does not pretend. That real means liberty. That pretend is always a tyrant.
No self-respecting person builds statues unto themselves.
Hollow tin lives only to fill its unbounded emptiness with even higher levels of pretense, even more outrageous lies and the most extreme expenditure, of any kind, to maintain its self-delusion. And it finds a kind of satisfaction in the smiling faces returned by the shell people it gathers round itself. It knows they only smile because they're scared. And it has no qualms about doing what it takes to keep things that way.
Thus it leads the true consumerist lifestyle. Consuming flesh & blood & psyches and giving nothing in return.
What do you do in response to it? Three warnings, then you cut off its head. Perhaps two.
A smothering, vaccuous cloud that survived only by the blood-method, has been lifted from another of earth's people, by the conviction, brains & sleeves-up grit embedded in the only Western countries that count for real civilisation. Damn France. Damn the UN. You are not for us men, as men.
Let Iraq now become a place for flesh & blood. That's America's home. That's Man's rightful home. That's the only home I know.
Vive the can openers!
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