SYMPATHY (one)     James Bauhaus

People may notice from my writings that I don't get much sympathy from the government. The government hates me for very good reasons, just not the reason that appears on that phony little paper that says murder life. I never murdered anyone in my life, or wanted to, for myself or for the government, which is the most common way for people to become murderers. No, I don't get any sympathy from the government because I don't respect it. One instance in which I disrespected government occurred at the naval air station in Grand Prairie, Texas. My swabs had backed up a truck to a pile of lumber that belonged to the marines and were loading it up for their own purposes. They wanted to build a miniature golf course with it. Halfway through the loading, a big, angry marine spotted this activity on his side of the boundary and began jogging over to see what the navy was up to. I was just walking up as he finished catching his breath and began bellowing his inquiries. My men hadn't thought to plan for this scenario, and simply looked terrified, withering under the marine's demands for answers. Then Seaman Krueger noticed me arriving. He gave me a pleading look. I had no idea that they were stealing lumber, but I guessed quickly enough. Also, the marine's bellowing had risen to an annoying pitch. He still needed an answer, and I needed the truck and my men. The marine was getting hoarse. During a pause in his shrieking, I shouted, "Get that shit unloaded! We need that truck!" Finally, the marine had his answer, and, of course, he did not like it. He began a new tirade, even louder than the first, "You damned gobs can't store your crap m our yard! Get that shit out of here. now!" It took someone on their side almost a month to notice that their lumber was missing. It took another month for their investigation to trace the disappearance to my men and our track. If fell to me to explain to the C.O. how a marine had come to give us their lumber. My C.O. thought it was funny; the marine's C.O. was more embarrassed than angry. Instead of punishing me, they decided to simply requisition more lumber. They still gave me a black checkmark on my record, despite the fact that I had tried to give the wood back and that the marine outranked me by a grade. This was only the first time the government gave me no sympathy. The next time it happened was when I was night manager of a Village Inn. My second man was running a little gambling operation while I ignorantly looked the other way. It was only a football pool. It didn't add up to any real money, so how could it be illegal? The trouble wasn't that it was illegal, but that it attracted trash. After a few weeks of this, I began noticing a lot more hippies hanging around, even after closing time, at two AM. One of my bus boys, a young kid still in junior high school, seemed to be spending a lot of time with one of the freakiest, most outlandish hippies that I'd ever seen. He wore a gold-threaded acid suit, with flamboyant collars, intricate designs, mirror buttons, tie-tack Laid cufflinks. He was a Caucasian, but his hair was a four-inch deep, rustyred afro and Fu Manchu mustache. He never smiled, his eyes were never dilated, and he only spoke quietly to Tom while watching everyone else with the intensity of a cop instead of a paranoid. He'd show up half an hour before Tom got off work, then drink coffee until he could leave. Whenever I asked Tom about this guy, who had to be at least ten years older than him, he would give evasive answers. It wasn't my business. but I warned Tom against this guy, but was ignored. Late one Saturday night, while doing the paperwork for the night's drop, there came a banging on the front glass. It was past 3 AM. Everyone, customer and crew alike, had been locked out for almost an hour. I ignored it. and then the pounding moved to the back door. When I finally had to leave anyway for the bank, I found Tom waiting for me beyond the glass frontage. Soon as he saw me trying to unlock the door. he began asking for a scoop of margurita salt before I left. We had it by the 50 pound bag. He raced in and got some while I waited. He came out with about 5 pounds in a thick plastic bag; far more than I expected he'd want for his party. It sparkled like diamonds under the parking lot lamps. That much would cost us about fifty cents, only because it was so pure. Tom thanked me all the way to my car, and then seemed to loiter as l drove out of the parking lot. Across the street. partially hidden among shadow and other cars, I noticed Freaky's car and Freaky in the driver's seat, watching me as I drove away. Tom didn't show up for work the next night, and, next day after that, a pack of pigs broke into my home and kidnapped me into then secluded windowless lair for interrogation. These idiots had somehow gotten the idea that my restaurant was a hub of illegal activity from gambling to drugs to prostitution. These sly cops would not answer any of my questions, so we could clear this up, such as, "Who told you this nonsense?" Then they really pissed me off when the rat-faced cop called my waitresses a bunch of prostitutes. This made me so angry that I told the whole pack of them that the interrogation was over, that they could stick all their opinions up their asses sideways, and that I was calling a layer, immediatelv. This was in 1969 and the lawyers' system was so inefficient that it took 'til the hearing, a month later, for all of us to uncover what kind of imbecilic shenanigans that these cops and prosecutors were up to. Soon as I worked out who their first witness was, I was able to put together what happened. He had his wiry blob of red hair greased back and had lost his fu Manchu and acid suit, but it still was Freaky, wearing a cop-suit now. Tom had given these morons my rock salt, calling it uncut crystal meth, and absconded with the cops' $60.000 in buy-cash. These idiots had let a 15 years old kid swindle them out of their money with a promise to hand them a shadowy Mr. Big; me! They actually thought that I had their money and dope, which is why, while they had me kidnapped, another pack of pigs were busy ransacking my home, scaring the life out of my wife and kids. They found nothing of the sort, then got my boss to let them ransack the restaurant, which got me fired despite their finding no dope or marked money. The monumental scale of this nonsense was not to be suffered an instant longer. Soon as I deduced what had occurred, I interrupted the prosecutor's little verbal dance with his witness, shouting al the judge, "That clown doesn't have any dope! That crap is margeurita salt!" The prosecutor froze; so did the cop, Freaky. The bailiffs began rushing over to silence me. My lawyer gasped and tried to silence me. The old judge flamed bright red in the folds of his face and neck He began shouting and banging his little hammer in such frenzy that it looked like his fat head might explode. When I tried to talk sense to them and explain, they all shouted me down. After more than five full Families of uproar involving the judge making threats and explaining how their courtroom rituals will be observed, my lawyer was let to speak He said exactly what I was trying to say, but he said it in courtroom legalese: "Your Honor; I make a motion that the drugs be tested..." Simply testing the cops "drugs" was too simple of a solution. The hearing must go on. Fortunately, it fell apart quickly when I forced my lawyer to question me on their little witness stand. This blew their minds that their target would insist on making record on his defense at a mere hearing. Unheard of, apparently. But they would figure no way to stop me. I caused another uproar by naming the cops' secret informer and asking them why that little bastard wasn't here. They didn't want to hear me tell them what the pigs were trying to pull, and they seemed to almost soil themselves when my former boss barged into the sacred lair with a 50 pound bag of "dope" clearly labeled "margeurita salt." When he testified that the cops had stolen the open bag of salt during their search of his restaurant, the prosecutor's eyes began spinning. When he tried to say that the cops knew full well that their "dope" was salt, yet continued to pretend it was dope, every member of the courthouse crew combined instantly to shout him down so that the court reporter would have an excuse to miss the essential part of the proceeding. To prevent more of this same type of damning information from possibly escaping into public knowledge, Judge Dewlap clacked his little hammer, declared that he had heard enough, and that the evidence was sufficient to bind me over for trial. Then, like a rat chased by a cat, he bolted for his luxury chambers and that cool drink of ten-high that he had been craving since I first interrupted the smooth flow of targets down his conviction chute. This unabashed buffoonery never went to trial, but the prosecutor (and his law-rat cronies) did manage to keep me in limbo for 15 more months before quietly dropping his accusation. The watchdog media was hiding under his bed, or I'd have been able to kick the law-rats off me much sooner. We didn't have any blogs, tweets, or Facebook in those days; we were unwitting captives of the gov-media alliance. Fifteen months is the amount of time that it took Tom to waste $60,000 in Mexico and come back to live with his mother as if nothing had happened. The cops blundered across him in one of their illegal crime-search roadblocks. The only reason I got away was because this was prior to the cops whining, en masse, to their legislative tackles, "Our hands are cuffed behind our backs! We need you to give us a law that lets us sell drugs as well as buy them! And, uh, we need you to throw in another law, one that makes it the same, horrible crime to sell us fake drugs as real drugs. That would be great if you would get on this right away! Thanks!" Obviously, the government, composed of dim or sleazy people such as I've introduced you to here, has no sympathy for any of its citizens. This revelation caused me to have no sympathy for government when one of my daughters wrote, complaining about how her rich, privileged absentee landlord would not have his collection of 55 gallon drums hauled off despite this having been a condition of the leasing agreement. Her kids, along with the neighborhood kids, could not be kept from playing in them. She was very worried that they would begin bringing home rashes, allergies, and cancers as had happened at many other toxic waste sites. The city put the problem on the county. The county law-rats told her it was a state problem. The state agencies both put it back on the county or sent her to the fiends. The federal agencies all pointed at each other or sent unsigned form letters promising action that never came. The local, state, and federal politicians all did the same; huff and puff a good public relations game, backed with no action whatsoever. This situation continued for months, and none of my suggestions worked either. Finally we got tired of acting like good, patient little citizens. We decided to grow some teeth. Since she had to live there, I had to do most of the heavy lifting. A friend of mine let me use one of the untapped phones in this prison. This got me an address I could write that was loosely connected to some people who I call the xenophon society. They are a collection of folks who also have no sympathy for the people who ran our various corrupt governments. I explained the problem, suggested a solution, and then smuggled the letter out. Less than three weeks later I was decoding the answer and the price. It was quite reasonable. I wired the money from my friend's phone that same day. Cheryl wrote soon thereafter about a nice young man who roared up into the yard on a shiny new Japanese racing bike, He were a full helmet with an opaque, black visor, which he never took off or raised. She showed him through the back acres with the barrels. They talked for about an hour while he worked, pasting various toxin warning stickers on random barrels that said stuff like "Chlordane!", "Dioxin!", "Hexa-valent chromium!", "Poly-chlorinated biplrenyls!", "Biphenyl-A!", "Phthalates!" Some even had radiation alerts. All of them had the grinning skull and crossbones or the biological hazard symbols, or both, for the benefit of the uninformed. Next, he up-righted selected barrels so that they could catch rainwater, then decorated their rims and sides with blood red silicone ooze that looked like your generic Hollywood zombie scenery. All that was lacking was the sinister babbling. The next week there appeared on the net various blogs and other postings, near-hysterical accounts of a secret toxic dump site uncovered at the landlord's back forty. As days passed, this story was expanded upon. A study claimed a spate of birth defects and other maladies had been traced to it. The landlord was ousted, along with the names of tens of government officials, politicians, and agency heads. TV and newspaper flunkies were sent out and, seeing the work, joined the hysteria instead of ignoring it. Three weeks after their reports, a county haz-mat track pulled up. Some space-suited figures poked about in the dump, taking soil samples, then quickly left before a true mob could gather. The TV people heard about the haz-mat team and decided to do a follow-up, which they called "an in-depth investigation." It consisted of one visit by Perky Coiffure and her cameraman, using the dumpsite as their backdrop for interviewing local attention-whores, After only three months of this, the landlord arrived with a crew of Hispanics, fleet of trucks, one dozer track hoe and one environmental protection agency inspector. They spent two days digging those barrels out of the ground, hauling them off, plowing white powder into the soil, grading it flat and laying sod over the naked dirt. The media played Cheryl's landlord to be a hero, but you couldn't tell it by looking at his sour puss white he worked his crews. He had no sympathy for anyone, at least not until he performed his "saving the babies" speech on TV. For myself, I could sympathize with him, as it was a lot of overkill for a small problem. Still, too bad we can't do the same for our parasites in government who are bleeding us dry!

SYMPATHY  (two) By: James Bauhaus

There's just not much of it circulating toward America's captivity centers. This is, of course, because we are the least deserving of sympathy. E.g., we just suffered a massive harassment and torture campaign at this super max because the Indians are at war with the Mexicans. The slow-death camp bureaucrats decided that the best way to avoid losing stock and profits off us human cattle was to shuffle us all around, creating several mini-prisons just for caging Indians away from the Mexicans. Caucasians and African-American s still can go from the tiny, two-victim cages to the big cage, but the Indians and Mexicans have been tightly crammed in their separate cages for over two months now. They don't get any sympathy simply because two Indians attacked two Mexicans, gashing one's skull with a crude edged weapon carefully cut out of a plastic food tray. My own lack of sympathy for them is monumental, primarily became I don't do drugs, and I don't steal. Even if anyone did steal my drugs by failing to pay for them, I would swallow the loss. Why? Because my goal is to get out, not get high. Like Donald Trump says, "A good businessman never risks his entire fortune on one deal." I suspect this is what these Indians did, to make them go so far off the hook. It's not good to be impulsive, but, in Oklahoma, where the prosecutors take away so many lives for their profit, there is no incentive for prudence. A good, typical example of this is a guy I call smashed-rnouth. He is the epitome of the product that these prison-mongering politicians create. Their recent antics in regard to an education bill illustrate this. The citizens, fed up with greedy, sleazy, incompetent governance, forced a people's initiative petition on them that, if passed by a statewide vote of the people, would force our worthless, nay, harmful politicians to fund education at the average of funding by the surrounding five states. Oklahoma is in the bottom five states in just about everything good, such as education, living wage, quality of life, etc., and among the top five states in the union in everything bad, such as tax burden, number of politicians and bureaucrats, infant deaths, government corruption, etc. So, what was our politicians' response to citizens wanting smarter kids? Our governor and a senator actually said, on television, in front of every thinking person, "We can't fund education; we need this money for more cops and prisons." In their luxury-filled back rooms at the capitol, where only they can hear, they say, "The last thing we need is education! Education just makes it too hard to get re-elected!" They also put up their counter to the education bill; a bill that, if passed, would raise dramatically the number of signatures required for the people to mount any other initiative petition to correct the politicians' lack of component governance. Such overwhelming political arrogance, over recent decades, has led directly to Oklahoma becoming the nationwide leader in producing unnecessary prison violence and in creating the underclass of smashed-mouths who populate these places. Atypically, smashed-mouth is a Caucasian, but this advantage evaporated swiftly due to a series of assaults attributable to poor governance. His father couldn't get a living-wage job here because the politicians sold out their citizens. To attract jobs and "growth," (a tax base), our politicians gave tax breaks to corporations to move here. Sometimes they even stole the land to give to the corporations. Our politicians also helped destroy all significant union activity. By doing so, they helped attract many jobs that paid very little. Later, our shiniest governor, Frank Keating, made it official by taking advantage of this "no education" state by cleverly duping us into accepting his plan that made us a "right to work (for nothing)" state. With no real wage, smashed-mouth's father couldn't support his wife. He paid high taxes, but churches and charitable foundations had to help him and his wife eat, get clothing and shelter. When smashed-mouth's mother became pregnant, she could not get much prenatal care, but it was easy to get cigarettes, alcohol, and drugs. When smashed-mouth arrived, there was not a whole lot of nutritious food after the first two years, but there was plenty of lead paint, asbestos, dioxin, polychlorinated biphenyls, bis-phenyl-A, car fumes, secondhand smoke, and industrial soot in the ghetto where they lived. When he reached school age, smashed-mouth and his attention deficit hyperactivity disorder cohorts were not ready. (AD/HD merely meant undisciplined parenting, back then). By this time, spanking was outlawed in schools, and, as everyone knows, instruction requires discipline. So, these barely educated youngsters ran wild until they learned how to get banished from school, at which time they turned truly feral. Smashed-mouth's dad ran away, finding real work in a far state. His mother remained trapped in the welfare cycle, unable to escape Oklahoma's clinging embrace. Smashed-mouth became a sneak thief, burglarizing to support his vile habits and repeating his crimes until he got caught. The state gave him every break, even finding him low-paying jobs so he could pay them their fines, fees, penalties, and surcharges. With so many suckers attached to his minimum wages, smashed-mouth continued to subsidize his dope and sex addictions with money he made selling other people's property to other people. His sticky fingers got his front teeth knocked out. This development made him briefly entertain the idea of perhaps not stealing so much stuff and working at better jobs for people who were not stealing his wages so much. Smashed-mouth realized this dream by following his mom, brother and sister to Utah. The whole family suddenly kicked off their Oklahoma parasites and lived much better lives in a less backward state. Smashed-mouth even attained a position of some authority, leading a crew of Mexicans in putting roofs on homes. His mom even paid to get a dentist to fit her son for some fake teeth. Things were looking up. He got measured and molded; the dentist pasted and sculpted a temporary set of teeth for him that felt like, and worked like, the real teeth that he'd lost so long ago. Best of all, these new teeth made him look like a man rather than like someone to run from. For two weeks, he noticed people treating him very differently. Sought after, or at least smiled at and encouraged, beats the hell out of being avoided. Despite his unsightly tattoos, he was dating. He was having good times again. He celebrated a bit too much. Alcohol was involved, and a girl. He spent too much money. While drunk, he went scrounging for more inside other people's cars. He woke up in jail, got mouthy. A guy punched his face in. He lost his temporary teeth and three more. He's back in Oklahoma's prison, and his smile is rare, because it is so ugly that it makes people want to heave upon seeing it. I had to live with this varlot for almost a month, and though I would not want to spend five seconds talking to him, I do possess an ammount of sympathy for him. I have sympathy for him because I understand that he had a lot of help in becoming the vile creature that he is. This guy is 44 years old, and, after what he has been through, it is a miracle that he is as socialized as he is. He has suffered every disadvantage, plus be bas been tossed in with other piranhas like him to synergize their evil misconceptions as to what polite society is about. But I don't have much sympathy at all for our elite "leaders" who are supposed to know what their antics create. They are begging for some auditing and some quality control. I pray they get it.