The “Overthrow America Party”

The “Overthrow America Party”

– – – OPINION by Bass Manski – – – SHARE if you agree – – –

The Democratic Party has become the angry mob carrying torches and preparing to lynch the wrong man, all the while never knowing they’ve been manipulated by rulers unseen and nefarious, devoid of humanity and attaching no value or sentimentality to human life, unless it is their own.

For them, the means justifies the end, and that will be their downfall, for they have no soul to fight for and no substance in this life to live for.  They destroy with envy, because they cannot create.  They are pathetic and hateful. It is the hollow feeling experienced by a child who wins at a game by cheating. It is the hollowness experienced by an adult when they no longer recognize their image in the mirror, and their world implodes around them.

We all hear the voice inside of us that differentiates wrong from right.  We all know, and we all see who is trying to help America and who is hurting America.  I suggest to this new “Overthrow America Party” that your credit card is maxed out; both in politics, and in life.  Time to get out of town.

The Honor System

The Honor System

We rely upon the mass belief of intangibles for the survival of society. That which is not believed in, does not exist. The fragile line between civility and anarchy, between good and evil, between love and fear, depends almost exclusively on the honor system.

We wear clothes in public, because we believe it is the thing to do. We don’t punch our neighbor, because we believe it would be wrong. We try to share a common belief about the meanings of wrong and right. We are on the honor system to maintain those beliefs. For most of us, since early childhood, we were taught the meanings of right and wrong, and those teachings became our beliefs.

Consider the game of checkers, where you move your pieces only forward and diagonally per the rules of the game. Your opponent however moves his horizontally and backwards, and captures your pieces at will. You both may be playing a game, but it is no longer checkers, for it is only a set of intangible rules that made it checkers in the first place. Your opponent did not share your belief.

It is only through the honor system, a mutual agreement to respect intangible rules, that we can survive as a nation; otherwise, our nation will become something else. Like the checker game, it will no longer be America.

Businesses, games, competitions, elections, and democracies survive on the honor system. Play the game fairly, and respect the outcome. The organized and heavily funded obstructionists, rioters and slanderers who have abandoned the honor system and are hell bent on sabotaging a government that serves 324 million Americans are not doing so because they hate our new President. They have devoted years to changing the beliefs of the young and building a different government based on moving the checkers horizontally; a beta site that was poised and ready for implementation upon the election of its chosen candidate. But the election did not go their way, and now the leaders of this “deep state” are in mortal fear of a president who, unlike them, believes in the honor system.

I believe that several powerful people currently dedicated to the obstruction of our government and the destruction of our President have been involved in heinously immoral and criminal activities, and our President knows this. The “deep state” is desperate to shut him down, and hence we are witness to the most elaborate and destructive smear campaign perhaps in the history of politics.  You will of course believe what you will.  I guess time will determine if whether in the future we move our pieces diagonally or horizontally.  With God’s help, may the honor system prevail.  Peace.

Rioters For Hire

Rioters For Hire

 

The same group of masked, hooded rioters “show up” at every protest. Is this not yet obvious to everyone? Their purpose is to give the (false) impression to the TV audience that ALL of the protestors are violent. This threatens free speech and freedom to protest for all of us.

If our law-enforcement (at least those not “employed” by George Soros) don’t snuff this out, I’m guessing vigilante groups soon will. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a group similiar to the Guardian Angels mobilize and also begin showing up at these events as a counter-balance. That said, fighting violence with violence may add to the chaos and be just what Soros is hoping for. Time will tell.

In the meantime, if we don’t prosecute these felony-rioters and “follow the money”, this shit ain’t never gonna stop. Peace homies.

The Popular Vote

The Homie Perspective

On a very dark night, Mayor Wrong, the sinister power-lusting mayor of Small Town, stealthily snuck outside and dug a gigantic hole, eight feet deep, on the east side of town. Soon the East Side residents began to fall into the hole, until the entire East Side population, 51% of Small Town, was in the hole.

“We have to climb out!” proclaimed one resident.

“Yes!” agreed another. “The West Siders are all working and travelling and enjoying their lives, and we’re stuck here. Yes, let’s climb out!”

Mayor Wrong loomed overhead, looking down from the edge of the hole. “People of the East Side,” he began. “I came as soon as I heard you were stuck in this hole. I’ve consulted my administration, and I regret to tell you that you will not be able to climb out on your own and must rely on me and my team to…

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My Endorsement for President

I unwaveringly endorse Donald Trump for president. Unlike every other candidate, he speaks his mind unscripted, he is not bought by and beholding to special interests, and he’d rather see America become a powerful nation again than an apologetic weak link diluted in a global chain. Yeah, he fucks up big time when he speaks, but he’s being honest and spontaneous, and when he trips on his words, he explains his meaning afterwards. He doesn’t hate Mexicans. Anyone who thinks that is a puppet of our corrupted media. He explained that just as Cuba did decades ago (remember Scarface), the Mexican govt or whoever runs that country, seeks to expel many of their unwanted into our country. I have no preference or aversion to skin color or national origin. I judge people on their character, attitude and BEHAVIOR. Illegal immigration is illegal. Do you want it to be legal?  Do you want there to be no border control? Ok, then say so! Start lobbying for that. Reply to this post stating that you wish to abolish border control and our current imigration system.  I DARE YOU!  And better yet, why don’t you try sneaking over the border into another country? See what kind of amnesty and sanctuary city they give you. Trump has proven he can get things done.  The fact that he pisses people off, proves that he is not paralysed by “fear of offending” and vote mongering.  Our president and our Congress and their culvert puppeteers have proven they cannot do the tough jobs, at least, not for us and the America we remember and love. Go Donald! You’ve got my vote. You want hope and change, homies?  Well finally, you may have a chance.  Peace, love, dove!

Political Correctness

The Homie Perspective

I’m cursed to be always thinking; always trying to problem-solve; always trying to figure out the unfigurable; always believing that answers are out there camouflaged in the landscape. The need to sleuth hits me every night around 2:00 AM or so, and I start pondering, when what I really want… is to go back to sleep. So I turn on the TV and start flipping through the cable channels, seeing screen after screen of people talking. Is it too much to ask for one damn 50s science fiction movie? When did talking become such national entertainment? Do people no longer do it face to face? Doesn’t anyone like giant insects rampaging through the city anymore? On the late-night cable-carousel, peppered amongst the talking heads, are people exercising, cooking or getting shot. I’ll usually pause on a Spanish or Chinese station where I can’t understand what the talkers are saying, and I can…

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Performance

He felt imprisoned; in his house and in his head, and each day the walls moved in a little tighter until the claustrophobia began to squeeze the final memories of living out of him like blood from a sponge. People would tell him, “You’re retired. Man, you’ve got it made. Free from the rat race, do whatever you want.”

His wife was the bread winner now, and he was the servant; to her, to the kids now teenagers, to the dog, and to the cat. He would clean-up their messes, and do the chores, and feed the pets. An HGTV fanatic, his wife was constantly hiring contractors to redo “stuff”; refinish the cabinets, retile the floor, swap out the curtains, change the counter-tops… She could afford it, and he would stay home and baby-sit the renovations; a servant to the house, the next Winchester Mystery House, he thought.

He went about his days with a boa constrictor wrapped around his body, gripping until he couldn’t breathe. But on those days when he was an inch away from giving up on life, he would break free and escape; to his place, the place in which someday he would live, the place in his dreams.

It was a small house on the Nevada desert, off the grid, yet only a twenty-minute drive to Las Vegas. It had two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a porch on which he would sit in the evening and stare out over the desert. It had a parlor with a large widescreen window from where he could see the lights of the strip. He had a motorcycle, a hybrid for street and desert riding. In the afternoons, he would strap his guitar to his back, cycle over to the strip, and earn a simple living playing in the casino lounges.

“Did you pull the weeds out of the garden like I asked you to?” His wife’s voice startled him from the dream, and the drone of the TV news trickled back into his head like water finding its way down a rocky hillside.

“Yeah” he said dryly. He sat in a chair in the newly remodeled family-room; his wife’s most recent and precious project; a work of white. White carpet, white chairs, white vases; she even found a white TV. Behind his back, she looked at him with disgust.

He ventured deeper into the desert in the days that followed. With tall leather boots to fend off rattlesnakes and scorpion stings, he’d drive his motorcycle across virgin acres of cacti, yuccas and desert lilies where he’d build a fire and sleep under a panoramic dome of stars. On one of these treks, he brought cans of florescent spray paint and, surrounded by eleven-foot tall cacti, he began to spray: orange, pink, violet, and amber. Like an urban graffiti artist tagging a highway underpass, he made the desert his own.

“What the hell did you do!!!!?” His wife’s voice literally rattled the vases in the family room, now painted in florescent shades of orange, pink, violet and amber. He sat in his usual chair staring at the TV news. She moved in front of him and screamed into his face, “I SAID, what the fuck is wrong with you!!!!” But he wasn’t there anymore. He was gone.

Years passed. The wife, kids, dog and cat advanced unscathed along their respective paths as paved by destiny.

A small crowd of “alternative looking” people, you know… tattoos, piercings, ripped jeans and leather, loiter outside the Apache Hotel on the old Las Vegas strip. Arriving on his motorcycle with a guitar strapped to his back is a thin man with white pony-tailed hair and a denim vest draped over a black t-shirt displaying a skull wearing a top hat. His skin bears the weathering of days and nights spent under the desert sky. The crowd follows him into the lounge. They’ve been waiting for what felt like a lifetime to hear him play.