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D. Fitzgerald ©.

 

Everyone hears of a better way, a better life, and a better world; however, that world has become a dream.  Reality is corrupted by violence, painted in gore and hidden by lies.  That better life is a world within ourselves, within our hearts and within our minds.  We all agree, yet fail to be free.  It remains a concept…an idea we cannot share.

The real world is ruthlessly beyond some philosophical notion…it is inundated with images of blood, endless acts of senseless terror, and murder is measured with a daily tally.

Hate is hard to kill…vicious ideas survive, for fighting words needs a universal truth, and that truth depends on what you believe.  As long as angry murderers poison young minds with their invective, that ugly attitude will persist.  Murder begets murder: a vicious cycle.

Reeling from shocking images of death…acts of human anger prove their is no global brotherhood…we are a world adrift in darkness, our existence marred by a religion of revenge…a religion of death.  Perhaps an alien intervention is the only alarm that might show us we are of one race, and therefore of one mind.  Another unrealistic dream…or one that is suppressed and denied, letting the industries of war profit on our dreams.

Instead of peace we see war…instead of kindness, we see malice.  CNN reports what is relevant, and bad men command media attention with acts of brutal insanity; actions that inflict suffering, and kill innocents.  Instead of love, we only see hate…a hate that leaves a vision of bloodshed ripped apart our righteous souls.

Brutal violence becomes a poisonous tonic fed to children…kids that grow with hate and mature among lies.  Blinded and taught murderous passions, they are schooled in death, and taught to destroy.  They are instructed to kill on a massive scale.  No man an island, they scour continents, their souls twisted into murderous machines intent on maximizing their kills.  Extermination becomes their goal, and their minds are manipulated to harbor disgust for non-believers and distaste for mercy.  They never forget and never forgive.  They maim and kill with no regrets…they live to hate and hate to live.

Through hate filled eyes, they hide behind children and wives…with blinded views and lying tongues, they seek to kill and use their young.  Steered and controlled by leaders in loss of life, the fatalities mount as new bombs are found, indoctrinated, and re-programmed. Names are replaced by explosive potential.   Their goal becomes the annihilation of angels.

Bloodshed burns their inner soul, as demolition delights their angry eyes; to kill the blameless, to burn all bystanders, to lay waste to the innocent and free.

The desolation of abomination begets a vivid image…an image that controls minds and forgets the words of God…the will and grace of God.  The world must follow their hearts and fight all brutal bands of bullies; of prime importance, do something to protect the children of the world, for only love can cure hate…only peace can stop war.  Throughout the world, our future will depend on what our children learn: hate falters when fighting love.

Teach a child to love and it will spread; train them to hate and war will remain a way of life. They hear what they are told, and see what they are shown…hence, they will never perceive love, nor will they hear compassion.  Brainwashing, molding, and influencing morality, words and ideas erase a soul…replacing all with aggression and deadly delight.  Only Man can value wickedness…a hate that inflames Earthly passions.  Inversely, only God has the power of His word….words that create moral strength, bestow grace, and allow the righteous to mount up with wings like eagles.

 

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I do declare the following: on this day, November 27,2014, in response to the new Facebook guidelines and any other claim by blog sites and RSS post sites, under articles L.111, 112 and 113 of the code of intellectual property, I declare that my rights are attached to all my personal data, drawings, paintings, photos, texts etc… published on my profile. For commercial use of the foregoing my written consent is required at all times.
Those reading this text can copy it and paste it on their Facebook wall. This will allow them to place themselves under the protection of copyright. By this release, I tell Facebook and other blog sites that it is strictly forbidden to disclose, copy, distribute, broadcast, or to take any other action against me on the basis of this profile and/or its contents. The actions mentioned above apply equally to employees, students, agents and/or other staff under the direction of Facebook, and other RSS style blog sites and other posts.
The contents of my profile include private information. The violation of my privacy is punished by the law (UCC 1 1-308 – 308 1 -103 and the Rome Statute).
All my post are the exclusive property of myself, and any unauthorized copying or reproduction without my written consent is against copyright law. This includes all blogs, comments, posts, samples, or any and other pictorial media, such as paintings and photographs, are the sole property of Artidan/Artidan007, and the original author, myself, my name excluded for confidentiality. Several posts are from published books and are only shown for sample purposes, and possible sales. All material is subject to copyright, and any and all mention should be done with the author’s permission, or it is a breach of the copyright act. I’m not Shakespeare, but then again, he was an amalgamation of Elizebethan writers, and I dare anyone to prove otherwise. Again, copyright Artidan, and IdEgo Creations, Inc. 2008

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Marcel’s critical eye scanned the canvass. A homemade easel secured his painting at a rakish forty-five degrees. The background was spattered and roughly daubed in dusty lavender, accenting the random blue and red lines of various heights and lengths. His artistic eye probed the piece for that decisive coup d’oeil that would satisfy his artistic soul. This was how he finishing his abstract paintings. No one would notice any difference, but his artistic muse and inner Weltanschauung needed to be sated. Using a two-inch flat’s chisel edge, he added a straight line, blending the rough stroke with a fan brush. The purplish red complimented a series of similar slashes in the bottom corner. He felt an ethereal contentment that triggered a creative closure. The painting was concluded. His artistic essence was fulfilled; its form and function satisfied his strict creative principles. He would have to write another paper on form and function. He would share his unique insights with the uninformed masses that were unaware of the proper utility or art. Ravenous audiences could appreciate art with his inspired guidance. His convoluted thought process began to whir, as he scribbled a quick outline.

After capturing some brilliant insights, he got up and surveyed his work. The colorful mishmash of haphazardly placed lines atop the dappled background was agreeable. Everything seemed in proportion, and the finishing tangle of geometrically opposed lines seemed acceptable. He jotted down more notes about his methodology, adding them to a growing stack of notes on his creative processes. Writing, he believed, verbalized the artistic experience, and could teach a great deal. After he conducted his business at the bank today, he would finish the paper at once. Marcel’s apartment housed a great deal of writing, but it did not generate the paltry income his paintings received. His Magnum Opus was incomplete; when finished, it would reverberate throughout the art world and stun the ignorant critics. He was adamant that people that who enjoyed his art would agree with his opinions.

Mixing a watery black, he added his well-practiced signature. The buyer should be here with his cheque in an hour, and the quick drying acrylic would be dry in half that time. He hoped the man would show up; the money would help him pay his rent. The cramped quarters under the bar were dirty and rat-infested, but provided a base to promulgate his enlightened ideas the world desperately needed. Displaying his work near the Chicago Museum of Art, making a sale was always a financial juncture, as he was constantly on the move, being told to pack up and never come back. One day, he mused, my ideas and creativity will transform the art world.

The burdens of genius were onerous indeed. Strict bylaw governing sales without a vendor’s permit was a mere inconvenience. He could rant on about Van Gogh and the treatment of starving artist’s in general, but without a permit, the constables were limited in the leeway they could allow the poor artist. Explaining creative confluence, with the museum’s august location as its focal point, fell on deaf, bureaucratic ears. His overbearing attitude and promises to write scathing attacks upon the degeneration of society did not encourage pity.

His self-assurance predicted this misunderstanding would soon be settled. Upholding his principles and invaluable insights on the creative process would stand him in good stead when upscale galleries recognized his genius and clamored for the privilege to showcase his creative masterpieces.

His eye drifted back to his painting. The colors were soothing and peaceful. It was a creation he enjoyed. He did not want to venerate the piece. He was sufficiently detached from his useful handiwork; his creation could impress a viewer without disturbing his stubborn definition regarding the function of art. He adamantly endorsed Oscar Wilde’s view of art. Art is surface and symbol, and that it is the spectator, not life, that art really mirrors. He loathed pride and excess, believing that only humility could provide someone with an acceptable moral center. Like Wilde, he forgave a man for making a useful thing, provided he did not admire it: obversely, the only excuse for making a useful thing was to admire it intensely. All art is useless. Yes, he felt creating this piece propelled him to write a brutal attack on modern mores and aesthetic values. Like his art, they had become debauched. The world needed his advice to re-evaluate artistic values.

His significant daydreaming was interrupted by a knock on the cellar door. The buyer he thought, scrambling to the door. He had a subconscious fear that his client might change his mind. That happened to him several times. He threw open the door, and was relieved to find the well-dressed gentleman that commissioned liked one of his works, but asked if Marcel could change the background colors. He disliked customers critiquing his inspired work, but dismal circumstances taught him brilliance endures darkness before illuminate artistic appreciation. Also, money excused many mistakes. He greeted the man warmly, brush in hand, and returned to his easel.
“Come in Sir,” he said”, I have just completed your painting, and was taking in the overall influence the piece displays. It projects a warm, almost morally soothing ambiance, but that is just my impression. Come, come, have a look and tell me what you think.”
The tall stranger ducked under one of the ceilings many pipes, working around the clutter to catch the light from the room’s grimy window. He rested his chin on his hand and appeared lost in thought.
“Yes, I can see what you mean”, the man agreed, “it does have a somewhat calming affect upon you – I wouldn’t say it had a moral effect, but it does reveal a sense of ease. You used the colors I suggested beautifully. I like the way it demonstrates a warm and engaging situation that gives straight strokes a sense of vitality.”
He moved towards Marcel’s kitchen table and pulled out his chequebook.
“Indeed sir,” he continued as he filled out the cheque”, I’m so impressed with your work that I shall give you 100 dollars for the piece, not the five we agreed upon the other day.”
“Oh thank you sir”, bubbled Marcel”, that is most generous of you. I could tell you had a fine eye for artistic display. Perhaps I can interest you in some of the essays I have written on the nature of current artistic appreciation. Art, along with fine writing, are the two mediums we artists have that can shift emotions, even return a soul to its moral center. The great masters enthused viewers from bouts of bathos to the pinnacles of joy, captured by the aura their work aroused. Marcel held up a thoughtful finger, formulating the thoughts that were swirled about his cavernous mind
The stranger noticed he was preparing another long-winded speech and quickly interjected, “No, thank you, I quite agree, but that’s okay, perhaps some other time”.
Marcel looked down, his crushed soliloquy draining from some mental orifice, realizing his brilliant visions were sometimes hard to grasp in verbal form. “I’ll just shuffle off to my shipping department”, managing a grin,” and wrap up your painting”. He disappeared in a portioned area that showed the edge of a bed peeking out.
The stranger glanced around the dingy apartment, noting stacks of dusty printing paper and thick books crammed in any opening. A flood of brushes and paint surrounded the strange easel, the overflow contained in a circular area around the stand. Several finished paintings leaned against the wall. The rest of the residence was being slowly crushed by the weight of numerous alphabetized binders and precariously balanced paper towers. The wide kitchen table held a series that had some sort of order. Every inch of the place was multifunctional; the kitchen acted as paint station and canvass stretcher department. Everywhere showed the signs of writing, reading or painting. He imaging the bed was the shipping and wrapping department.

Prominently displayed on a blank wall was a three by two foot sign of black lamacoid with engraved white writing. It was a quote from somewhere, some tidbit of wisdom that Marcel obviously held dear. He quickly scanned it.

The artist is the creator of beautiful things.
To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim
The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression
of beautiful things.
The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming.
This is a fault.
Those who find beautiful things mean only Beauty.
There is no such thing as a moral or immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.
The nineteenth century dislike of Romanticism is the rag of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.
The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.
No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved.
No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.
No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.
Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.
Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.
From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor’s craft is the type.
All art is at once surface and symbol
Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.
It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.
Diversity if opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital
When the critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself.
We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it.
The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.
All art is quite useless.
Oscar Wilde

The stranger saw the sign echoed the comments on life and art Marcel had enthusiastically explained when he first met him and bought one of his paintings. Indeed, this odd view of art and morality clearly formed Marcel’s inner core. He felt as if he had peeked into Marcel’s soul. Deliberately placed near the door, Marcel probably read this whenever he left this hovel. He looked around at the prolific stacks of essays. Long, pedantic inscriptions indicated theological and philosophical issues, with frequent references to modern morality. He noticed the source: a closet-like area embraced a rickety desk holding an ancient computer and ink jet printer. The painter would make an excellent subject for study.

He enjoyed a moment of detached anticipation; this guy was committed in more ways than one. Morality was a big part of his life. As the bubbly man returned, his now wrapped painting under his arm, an incisive gaze bored into Marcel, piercing his very essence.

“Here you are sir, Marcel exhaled, “not proportionally exact – Christmas and birthday presents were not my forte - but it is protected from the elements”.
“Thank you Marcel. I will enjoy it on many levels. I must take my leave now, I have much to accomplish by tomorrow.”
Marcel had hoped for more insightful banter, but was thrilled that the extra fifty dollars gave him more than enough for his rent. He could only hope this might become a repeat customer.
“As you wish Sir. Feel free to call on me again, or look for me around the museum sometime if you might want to make another purchase. Thank you, and I hope to see you again.”
The stranger paused as he opened Marcel’s door, and replied, “I’m sure you will see me again. I bid you good day.” The door closed, leaving Marcel with his swirling thoughts.
He did not feel like venturing out today, he had made the month’s rent, and sat down to write more on his great vision.
The stranger squinted in the bright sun, his eyes accustomed to the gloom of Marcel’s dingy basement. He walked towards his BMW chirping it as he juggled his keys and his new painting. Fitting the painting in his back seat, he removed a digital voice recorder from the glove box. “7 Oct. 2007, Marcel Dupris, psychotic schizophrenia. Believes he is a successful author and painter and collect assorted magazines that he imagines contain his writing, art critic reviews and other signs of success. Marcel is entrenched in this world of delusion and believes he will soon be given a showing at the Chicago Museum of Art. I discovered the subject selling his worthless art on the street and commissioned him for a piece. I confirmed my analysis when I picked up my “masterpiece” today. The subject is self supportive, self reliant and self deluded.

***Stranger is Dr. Victor Fiske, famous TV psychiatrist, who sees an unorthodox approach is needed to help Marcel. Perhaps hired by a rich family or friend of Marcel’s. He sets him up, then shows up at the station to explain that Marcel is his patient and is being treated for psychotic schizophrenia. The police release him into his custody and he explains that Marcel needed to be jolted out of his delusional writing and painting fantasy, that the magazines didn’t have articles by him and reviews about his art.
He will do a paper on him.

The next day broke sunny and warm. Marcel decided the grubby sunlight making its way past the built up dirt was inspiration for a new painting. Securing a new canvas to his homemade easel, he pondered the blank space for a moment then began mixing paints. After several hours, most of the background was sketched in, and Marcel had an idea for the overall painting. Noticing the time, he began to prepare himself for the trip to the bank.

Tells him what bank he uses and what time he likes to show up.

The old turn-of-the-century structure made a formidable bank.
He loved these old purposely-designed buildings; modern glass towers, in his artistic eye, were tasteless glass rectangles that projected height and size over form and function.

Tastefully chiseled in a neo-gothic style, the large granite blocks gave the building redoubtable dependency and impenetrable strength. It offered a perfect fortress to safeguard your money. Tom Surrey climbed the broad front steps, firmly stacked to support the bloated, beautifully fluted columns, thoughtfully carved in the Doric tradition. In his early art studies, he had studied classical sculpture and architecture, and appreciated the older sections of the city for its eclectic array of Victorian and other, more time consuming styles of construction. Minimalist towers of glass with no taste had replaced early aesthetics, the modern shrine of capitalism.

Tom eased into paycheck Friday’s lengthy line and leaned forward to grab a deposit slip. He had sold four paintings this week, an influx of cash that would help him barely meet the month’s rent.

A quick take on the crowd ahead of him reminded him he should have brought a book. Unlike other waiting rooms, the only reading a bank offered were glossy pamphlets advertising financial services for which he had neither need nor any money. Cashing several cheques was a lot easier when you could take your time and use the check counter. He fumbled for leverage as he used the back of his chequebook to write on. A quick head count confirmed he had not missed the lunch hour crowd. His watch read 11:45: the bank thought it was 11:58. Damn. He reset his watch. After finishing his deposit slip and signing his cheques, he fell into the watching game, guessing how long each customer would take.

He remembered the difference had something to do with the entablature at the top of the column. Some were plain, scroll-like or ornately carved. As an artist and old building enthusiast, he should study up on some of the city’s more colorful districts, the ones were he loved to go walking.

Ionic capital, column and entablature.
Doric: plain, first style.
Ionic: scrolls at the top
Corinthian: elaborate carving around top.
Gothic: elaborately carved, fancy flying buttresses etc.
Roman: arch, functional, solid.
Greek:

The soaring columns supported a stretched triangular frieze.

Chiseled granite blocks showed neo-gothic accents and regal Ionic columns.

A man that hand him a zippered leather folder joins him in line. He does not return. When John gets to be third in line, he opens the heavy folder to see if it is a gold brick or rolled change. He puts his hand on the handle of a gun. Fingerprints are now only his.
There are two letters. One to him, telling him to rob the bank, or be shot by the brown car he can see parked in front of the side door. The other letter is to be given to the teller and instructs her to lead him to the end of the counter and open the small door and lead him into the vault. He is to fill the case with the bundles of fifties on the shelf, have the staff lie on the floor, and lock the vault as he leaves, gun in hand. He is to then get into the car with the stranger.

The stranger is a robber, but a psychological nut who likes to push people to their moral limit and see if they will rob the bank or risk getting shot, or getting caught with all the evidence leading to him. The stationary is from his apartment/studio, printed on his printer, and probably has his fingerprints or other incriminating mark, and other personal trace evidence planted there by the robber.
His choice is to rob and leave with the guy, or shout out and hit the floor, in which case the robber would just drive away-it would be his word against the evidence…maybe he does that and gets thrown in jail, as the police find a plan written on his computer that shows he might not have the nerve to carry it out.
So, either he robs the bank, or gets set up and sent to jail for attempted robbery and conspiracy.
If so, he gets a letter from the guy at the end explaining why, or a visit or something.

Have it a surprise ending, like he yells about the guy in the car that is not found, but goes to jail when the police find all the evidence against him

Or, the guy calls his cell phone and tells him to do it or face the consequences…and just tells him he will go to jail, that he’s arranged everything so all he can do is go through it, get shot if he leaves, or goes to jail if he yells frame up.

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NEAT line OPENERS

Ultimately, you are what you believe. Questions hold half the answer. To question is to explore; recitation, while somewhat trustworthy, doesn’t explain the quotation. True understanding can create alternative answers, all relevant to the question, but demonstating there is more than one solution. Truth will stand on its own; impervious to alternative answers, able to withstand an examination of past convictions, producing an assurance of the moral imperative at the very core of our soul.

It can be a figurative slap in the face, to finally understand what you have become; something that you detest, something you are inherently ashamed of and something that rebukes your inner soul. These are discoveries that enhance depression, further an already burning hatred of yourself and don’t give you that necessary pat on the back you need to help you combat the world and become tough enough to withstand the ups and downs of everyday life.

To push through and become what you respect is a prerequisite for positive growth; an upbeat attitude will get you through the day and give you the foresight to plan a future you can live with. Self-respect and fortitude are essential traits to really change your personal outlook on life in general. To enjoy life, smile at the sun and have a spring in your step are the little things that help you appreciate your day; obversely, lingering doubts and a constant wariness of your environment complicates life and enjoy the present, and hopefully plan your future. Post Tramautic Stress hit when you least expect it, and can intantly ruin an otherwise plesant day.

When today’s troubles are overwhelming, when life itself is an unpleasant chore, foreseeing a happy existence is dubious, and carefully laid plans seem like uncertain attempts to accomplish a goal that is unattainable. Today needs a cause; tomorrow a future. You see your future as a continuation of past mistakes: life becomes a tumultuous merry-go-round of despondency, a state of progressively painful emotional torture that becomes horror without end, precursors of an ultimate and inevitable horrific end. To worry over tomorrow is an unwelcome burden, for today’s troubles are sufficiently troublesome in themselves. Your life generates a sense of hopelessness that never leaves – a recurring, doleful nightmare from which you never wake, so absorbing it mingles with your overall outlook and sense of reality.

Ultimately, depression and fear control your life, while happiness and joy are abstract concepts enjoyed by other people – people with families, people with jobs they love, people that have a full and happy life. I’ve become an observer, someone that can only watch a joyous crowd, while vicariously experiencing the good things in life…the things you want but have sadly passed you by.

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The pharmaceutical industry makes an exorbitant amount of money on brand name drugs. After proprietary patents run out, the rest of the drug companies can make their own generic brand of the drug, using the formulation of the original research company. The way things stand, the research company gets to market its drug at an inflated cost for up to fifteen years, recouping the research dollars, they put into the development of the drug, and then the drug becomes available in a generic version. The generic version is generally 50% cheaper than the original.
 
The Ontario government suggests some changes to this time honored and carefully controlled market. They suggest generic drugs should be available for 25% of the initial brand name drug cost. This upsets the old boy network of pharmaceutical sales – BUT would greatly help the consumer and put less of a strain on health care costs.
 
If they are going to change the system, they might as well make some more changes that seem inevitable. Drug stores complain about the amount of money they can make: they have a set rate of eight+ dollars to fill a prescription, plus the mark up they add to the price of the drug. The bottom line should be how could we reduce the amount of money a sick person has to pay to stay healthy. And drug stores should lead the way.
 
Pharmacies would never willing give up that “eight dollar dispensing” fee, but when the entire process is looked at in a modern, more productive light, certain inevitabilities are exposed. Why do we need a person to count out individual pills: this is a less sterile environment, the pills are subjected to human contaminants and any airborne contaminants in the store, plus human error when counting drugs. I’ve personally received incorrectly processed prescriptions. When you pay for 120 pills, the only way to know there are 120 pills in a hand-counted pill bottle is to count them. I sometimes divide my pills in half, and have found shortfalls over 20 pills. This becomes a real problem when you bring it under sight to a pharmacy’s attention. You’ve paid for the full dose, and they claim they’ve given you the full dose, but you only received 100 pills. It your word against theirs, and no one ever wants to admit to an error.
 
Standardization in manufacturing would end this problem, ensure the drugs are counted under sterile conditions and make sure the amount is computer checked. Certain drugs are always prescribed by doctors in standard doses: it’s a redundant system that costs the consumer too much money.
 
It makes too much sense, which is why it will be a long time before they surrender that old method of making money. Everyone talks about modernization, but it runs into roadblocks when old money making schemes are threatened with new, safer and cheaper solutions.

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Banks don’t even enjoy art…they just look at the price tag…like a Monet, Turner or DaVinci…they know the price of everything and the value of nothing.
I recently had a revelation: I now understand the significance of starving children holding out tiny hands for food and the shiny brass plaques on the door of a bank.
They don’t need handouts…all the uninformed line up to deposit money in their coffers…the banks turn around and invest this money, make a killing in interest, then charge you whenever you need to withdraw enough to buy food to live. A capitalist might think that’s a normal attitude, but a realist understands it’s the same way rich people have been sticking it to the underdog since the days of Babylon and the building of the Egyptian pyramids. The shivering, starving, and huddling masses have the upper classes walking all over them, getting them to wash their cars, and then not even paying them enough to get a drink of water. Bottled water is not cheap…next time I blow a buck on a bottle of water, I’ll make sure it’s a Perrier.
I don’t like getting walked on, but I have so many footprints on my bad back I look like the path to a beer stand on the fourth of July. I can’t afford a bank account…they don’t pay interest, and they have fees for every transaction I’d ever make, so it’s basically cheaper just to keep the money under my mattress. Cash only…sorry, no cheques. No wonder the ruling classes are trying to institute a cash-less society…if your money is in the hands of a greedy bank, you don’t have as much as your little booklet states you have…even if you close your account, they charge you for that…it’s easier to withdraw all your money, then never use the account again. Unfortuntely, that will work in reverse…they automatically withdraw monthly expenses, and if you have nothing, it shows up as a negative amount…after a few years, they’ll come knocking, demanding what you now owe them…and you don’t have to do a single darn thing.
No one ever said life is fair…it’s nasty, brutal and short…Edmund Burke made that comment a long time ago, and it’s as true today as it was then. It seems the moral of all this is you should stick it to your neighbour before he gets a chance to stick it to you. Never trust anyone with a smile and an Italian suit…and, stay away from banks with shiny brass plaques on their doors…those brass standards are a domineering, commercial group of investors…investors that need your money to make them more money, and you won’t see dime one of it…but you will see them taking dimes a plenty for the priviledge of letting them use your money to make them more money. Life always goes around and what goes around doesn’t always come back…it ends up in the luxuriant pockets of those bankers that always smile when you make a nice deposit. Need a loan? We can help…you’ll pay it off for the rest of your life, but we’ll lend you a few bucks…banks were created by someone with lots of money, and they will continue as long as money is a class symbol, and turns life into a endless fight to get your fair share…an oxymoron, as your share is never fair. Too bad, so sorry…we’re closed…use our credit card…only 15% for each transaction.

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