The storm is coming, but it's not what you think. It's not what those Q morons think. The storm will be an electrical storm; it will be an evil cleanse. You think the billionaires aren't talking about how to get rid of the rest of us, so they can live lives of joy, freedom, and excess?
You think Elon Musk is too dumb to realize that global genocide would stop global warming in it's tracks? There are only so many resources left, and you can't expect him to share. He will save the rich and the beautiful. The regular uglies like me will be an afterthought. He won't lose a minute's sleep.
The smartest thing we could do would be to go after them before they get organized. The window is closing. Of course, this will never happen. We normals are too busy trying to keep roofs over our heads and food in our stomachs. Plus, most of us have some empathy and respect for our fellow man.
It will be interesting to see how all this plays out. Starving makes people desperate. Desperate people do desperate things. The billionaires are outnumbered and them some.
Something to think about, maybe, Mr. Musk.
Space reserved for Mr. Mader's comments.
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ReplyDeletePart 2
ReplyDelete“You’re the plan, MVP,” Forty-six said. “We’re just your backup dancers. Anything you want, any firepower we can throw your way, memes we can make, consider us all at your disposal.”
“Well, thank you. All of you. I have some of the best people you could have in a foreshortened campaign, but as the elder statesmen and women of this country, you each have your unique skills to bring to the table.”
“And I always have cough drops,” Forty-three said.
MVP looked at Forty-four, and he said, “Little joke he has with Michelle. And we appreciate that, Forty-three.”
Forty-three set his glass down hard. “Okay! I’m sorry about Iraq. Why do you think I paint? Can we stop not talking about that now?”
“We weren’t—”
Forty-four put his hand on Forty-six’s arm as if to cut him off, but MVP took the lead. “I think we’d all do better to put the past behind us.”
“We’re not going back!” Forty-two exclaimed. Forty-six echoed.
“Hells, yeah, we’re not going back,” Forty-three-and-a-half said, hoisting her glass. “If I have to testify for one more minute about my emails, I may have to start shooting laser beams out of my eyes.”
Forty-two gave her a curious, and somewhat tenuous look, as if she might actually possess that superpower. “I am so glad you’re on our side,” he said to his wife.
MVP stood. Lifted her wineglass. “Here’s to all of us being on the same side.” She paused. “Wait. There nothing I should know about any extrajudicial hanky-panky going on in this little club, is there?”
Quiet fell around the table. Eyes met eyes, silent conversations had.
“As long as you don’t read my fan fiction,” Forty-three-and-a-half said with a rueful smile. “Where I—I mean, my protagonist—kills a certain person in about seventeen different ways.” Her husband again turned to her with those eyes. “What? I published it under a pseudonym. You’ve all given me ideas at one time or another. Don’t act all high and mighty now.”
“Maybe it’s better for all of us if I’m not part of this little sewing circle,” MVP said. “Wouldn’t want to have to sic the Justice Department on you or anything.”
Nervous laughter went around the table. The food arrived, and for a while, they were too busy eating to talk. Forty-three-and-a-half turned to MVP and said, “You know it’s just a joke, right? I mean, you can’t think we consider ways to commit murder, here.”
MVP’s eyes lit, and her smile broadened, and she laughed. That wonderful joyous laugh. “You know I’m just messing with y’all, right?” She put down her fork and said to Forty-three-and-a-half, “I hear the Russians are working on some fierce untraceable stuff you would not believe.”
The conversation was much more relaxed now. After they were finished,
and the coffee delivered, MVP lifted her mug, toasted them all, then said, “Forty-seven. I like the sound of that.”