Sweet are the ties that bind

Dear George,

Sweet are the ties that bind in the Corporatist State. Here there are no hob-nailed boots, but only designer pumps. Here there is practiced a sweet oppression that soothes as it restrains with a hug. Show me a man behind the wheel of his BMW, with his iPod™ pumping acid rock into his ear, and I will show you that most pliable of creatures, the slave who thinks he’s a rebel.

What a glorious time it is to walk the corridors of power, to live in an age that is seeing the condensation of history’s madness into a potent brew. How wonderfully you play the role with your strutting imperialism and your deluded belief that the world is a chessboard you can arrange to your liking. You are heir apparent to decades of the deviant thinking that has created the gossamery bubble of prosperity upon which our unstable economy sits. To have nothing to live for other than the infliction of pain and suffering to the glory of the few is the good life.

You have elevated neocolonialism to the status of low burlesque as you have devastated economies in the name of the Washington Consensus. But what the hell good is power if it doesn’t destroy. Only through destruction are the fear and paranoia that are power’s products put to rest, until they return and cry out for more destruction and more suffering. The missile and the bomb are instruments of economic stimulation. They are democracy’s handmaiden, carriers of freedom and prosperity for those who love and nurture them. The gods roar with laughter as we drop them on the innocent. Each fireball is a burnt offering upon their altar; charred flesh is their incense.

In the shadowless glare of the florescent bulb maps are unrolled as the wheels of commerce swing into motion to grind more bones into dust. The soothing tones of the spokesman drown out the cries and screams of the liberated. Death is the ultimate expression of peace.

O, George! I can’t believe it is all coming to an end. Soon your vacuous smirk will no longer light up the Oval Office; soon the boredom of decency will smother us. My prayer is that you leave a mess so rancid that it will stifle decency and render it an anachronism to be trotted out for marketing purposes only.

Your admirer,
Belacqua Jones