At the Tables of Swine -- Careless Page

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Date Posted: 18:27:03 02/28/05 Mon
Author: Richard
Subject: At the Tables of Swine

Hunter S. Thompson was born into a world where the sole lesson learned from WWII was that the Nazis' biggest mistake had been annoying the predator gods with their constant goose-stepping and propensity for error in the face of decisive battles that were to shape their very future. What sane man could look into the bloodshot eyes of those canine warrior dieties and compose the utter madness that would destroy the Third Reich in no more time than it takes to carve the heart from a poached elephant, and let its tusks rot along with the carcass in the hot African sun?

Imagine growing up in the safe, sanitized postwar culture, where every White man stood at the gate of tremendous opportunity, and around every corner lurked a deadly Communist, ready to make off with the daughters, and tempt the sons of our great nation, with a steady diet of dope, homosexuality, and bad tone-poems that could enslave the minds of capitalists with repetitive, meaningless drek. Who would save us from this swill? Who could prevent the occupation of America by depraved foreigners, anxious to turn stately homes into desperate hovels of disease and filth?

Obviously the job fell to the swine that reveled in the drunken all-night orgy that was the swearing-in ceremony to the power elite in Washington, and in the capitals of states all across the country. The army of freaks that had discovered the key to survival lay in controlling the masses with fear and pestilance; that group of grave-robbing ghouls who singlehandedly placed the heads of their forefathers on a pike, as a reminder to all that passed what awaited them should they fall out of step with the cold, grim reality so carefully painted by the terminally uncreative.

This was the world Dr. Thompson was born into, and at some point, he had to ask himself, "who are the watchdogs of this great cacophany of thieves and murderers?" and in some likelihood, he would have had to wonder if it weren't in fact, the Press. What is the divine purpose behind journalism? Is it to be an unseen fourth branch of government; to keep the people safe from the unchecked power of madmen and would-be kings; men bred for their office through careful selection of mutated genes; chosen for the raw degeneracy that would enable them to make the really big decisions without the unfortunate shackles of conscience, decency or morals?

How uncomfortable he must have been then, to witness the phony sucking up of those who had sworn an oath to truth, only to spend their free hours knocking at the doors of power; trying to find that fat free lunch that was available only to swine and those who handled them. How disquieting it must be to determine that no matter how much LSD one imbibes, the disconnect of sound and light could never paint a picture of Hell anywhere near the stupendous nightmare of the present landscape of bodies, secrets and broken dreams. What happens to a man's brain when he realizes that no matter how he soaks it in chemical overindulgence, he can never reach the level of murkiness attained by not only the population at large, but even more so, those who control them?

"Ye gods," he had to have thought to himself, "not only do these swine have our very lives in their bloody hands, but there will never be anyone who can stop them."

Stop them? And stop the party? That has to be the decisive blow in all of this. When the choices before you are the right to eat the food of the gods with gorgeous prostitutes or to hang from a tree limb in the public square, most will choose the obvious, and all who choose differently will have their sanity dismissed by the masses; possibly even themselves. Who can make the sacrifice that is truth? And if one man, or woman, makes the right choice, the larger question becomes "who will listen?"

Only that rare bird that can read between the lines, and find that deeper meaning lying right outside the door to madness; only that person who has courage, integrity, and not an ounce of common sense can make such a journey. No one who dines with diplomats and rich industrialists will walk so fine a path, nor will anyone who understands the meaning of fear. Look for your heroes wherever you can, but do not make the mistake of starting that search at the long wooden tables of the ever-feeding swine, who won't even bother to cook you.

Better to die alone in the darkest woods than to expose your throat to a pack of Hyenas. Let them take me after I'm dead, and not a moment sooner.

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