I do, from time to time, get political on this blog. My goal is not to stir up a rowdy debate. Anyone who seriously disagrees with me is welcome to leave, and may be politely banned by the Fickle Finger of Fate. But I MAY get political, because it’s my blog and I have a very low maturity level. I like the sound of my own rants. Deal with it.
I live in a quaint region of America which is proud of the fact that it is just about as close as you can get to living in Canada without leaving the USA. I live in St. Paul, Minnesota. Right next to Minneapolis, where a certain trial of a certain man recently came to a conclusion. And I am damn glad that the jury convicted him on all counts. Not just because I was afraid that I would have to watch Charelton Heston in The Omega Man again to brush up on my survival skills, but also because this verdict was needed. Really needed. It does not matter if Mr. Chauvin was reading The Hungry Caterpillar to Mr. Floyd under his breath as Floyd died from having foolishly swallowed his entire drug supply the moment he saw the cops. A hard rain had to fall.
It does not matter that this trial would not have taken place without a video showing the grisly details being smeared all over the internet. It does not matter, because Chewbacca, an eight-foot-tall Wookie, has no business living on Endor with a bunch of three-foot-tall Ewoks. It does not make sense.
Here’s what does not make sense. George Floyd died a measely, foul and nasty death on public display over twenty bucks, because he was a big, scary man. A little white guy who is a blue-collar criminal at Wells Fargo or some other bank, large or small, can make twenty thousand illegal dollars while he swings his golf club and nobody is going to hold his face to the filthy pavement until he dies from multiple causes. A few electrons are inconvenienced, and some guy makes enough loot to buy a new car while brushing his teeth with the latest whitening powder.
Shama-lama ding dong. God it feels good to be a (blue collar) gangsta.
The real criminals get a few months at Club Fed, IF they ever get caught. Meanwhile, they depend upon attack dogs like Chauvin to keep the scary people under control, choke them down if needed, and send them off to horrible, privately owned prisons to re-enter slavery, only this time they work as “customer service” for airlines or cruise ships while being paid a few cents an hour so they can buy candy at the prison canteen.
It’s a foul and corrupt system. Revolution must happen, fast or slow but it’s coming. We must end these insane drug laws that wage a War on Black Men, not a War on Drugs. We must make it okay to be scary at Walmart. I’m sorry if you can’t handle scary people at Walmart and you want to know that an attack dog is always right there to make sure that you can buy your motor oil and ammo without the possibility of having to interact wtih people who are not like you, and may have different values. The world is a complex place. Some guy may try to pass a phony bill at your register. Do not call the sharks with lasers on their heads because you are the rapidly melting snowflake of outraged European Culture and Civilization, especially since you are probably from Pakistan.
Right now, America sends in the Marines as soon as anybody drives funny, pulls out a joint or grins too much. A phony bill gets the Marines and the K-9 squad to chew a hole in the evil perp. But if you blow up a bunch of giant buildings in Manhattan, then send the country off to war and kill hundreds of thousands of innocent people for nothing but lining your own pockets and those of your cronies– then Jane Pauley comes to your house and talks about your paintings.