I Try To Harmonzie With Songs The Lonesome Sparrow Sings -- or -- Zionism, THE Noblest of All Human Pursuits

These last ten or so days have been murder; as relations with my neighbor have deteriorated to a morass of bloody warfare.

While I typically reserve this space for urgent and or ecumenical matters, I feel my problem may be instructive for the world at large; like they say, all politics is local, therefore, and by the same token, so too are all matters of sovereignty and stewardship local – at least insofar as they are reflected and magnified among nation states.

Unless I preface my description of the most recent events with those that brought us to the present tense, you may fail to see the moral aspect of my intent and the benevolence of my actions.

Once upon a time, there was a poor and very large black family that inhabited the land I now own. Vying against the elements and international commodities markets too eek out a living; salting their bread with the sweat of their brow; breaking their back every day under the hot, southern sun, only to torment it further on a feculent, lumpy mat in the corner at night; praying ceaselessly for the briefest cessation of their trouble; their life was an ongoing travail, and it was hardly a life worth living. This is where I came in -- or, rather, where my grandfather, who left everything to me when he passed on, came in.

Granddaddy (and his progeny) was the wise and fortunate beneficiary of a government program back in 1948. Without exploring the nuance and minutiae of this program, I’ll do my best to describe it briefly: essentially, the law stated that any minority farmer’s land could be purchased for whatever price the government saw fit. It was an extension of eminent domain – a very far reaching extension of eminent domain – nice and legal, sanctioned by a popularly elected government. Hey, don’t blame me, the law’s the law.

Granddaddy was very popular because he was very wealthy; moreover, his popularity was very pragmatic – in that, he only sought to cultivate his popularity among the powerful. As I said above, granddaddy was very wise; but to simply say he was wise in no wise does him justice, he was the wisest and subtlest of all the men of his generation. In fact, granddaddy was so wise that he always won in business; which is not to say that he was ethical or law-abiding, only successful, which is a lot. Now, because of the ruthless way in which granddaddy conducted his affairs and because he rubbed many the wrong way, he suffered a very disproportionate calamity – so disproportionate that even his sworn and most savage enemies pitied him.

Again, for the sake of time, I’ll relate the catastrophe as quickly as I can: an insecure and frustrated little man felt himself slighted by granddaddy; and so, less for revenge and more as a manifestation of his insecurities, this little maniac systematically murdered my grandmother, all my aunts and uncles along with most of their children. My family was, for the most part, wiped out – only a remnant remained.

So renowned was this crime that it made national news; and so horrific was this crime that it precipitated a pervasive pathos, everyone, even those whom granddaddy ruined financially, came to convey their condolences. Granddaddy was even summoned to the governor’s office so that the great man could, in person, express his shock, grief and sympathy. But there was more to that meeting than a simple, “m so sorry to hear about…”, that meeting was to yield a substantial expression of pity; a reparation of sorts, a way to make it all right. The best, if not the only, way to help a wealthy man recover from his mourning is, of course, by expanding his fortune.

In the course of their conversation, the governor asked granddaddy if there was anything the former could do for the latter; and the latter, well appraised of the new ‘minority farmer land law’ (or whatever it was called) as he was, and keen to parlay pity unto purloining a property, posited thusly: “Governor, it’s come to my attention that ole Mr. Ishmael, the crippled colored fella who owns that nice parcel between the river and the county line, has fallen behind on his property taxes. Now, the way I see it, we can either wait for him to default, which he will inevitably do, or we can right the wrong that happened to me and help Mr. Ishmael out of the jam he’s wedged himself into.” The rest, as they say, is history.

Granddaddy, by dint of his clever little coup, walked out of the governor’s office with the title to the most fertile and the most bucolic piece of land you could hope to find in all of Dixie. Benevolent as he was, granddaddy let Mr. Ishmael stay on a part of the seven hundred acre spread he hadn’t any use for. Things were okay for a while; but, soon enough, some of Mr. Ishmael’s sons caught a fever of indignation. They burned granddaddy’s new barn and sabotaged his tractor and keyed his new Cadillac.

Not surprisingly, granddaddy razed their shacks to the ground and burnt all their possessions, annexing what he’d given them, and compelled them into a brutal life of sharecropping – a craven and indentured way of life, no doubt; but, granddaddy felt he was firm but fair, and the governor agreed.

This way of life has continued to this very day; Mr. Ishmael’s sons are now tending my rows, milking my cows, feeding my chickens. Granddaddy tried to warn me; he tried to tell me what these ingrates would do – granddaddy was usually right. The Ishmael boys are savages! They’ve been throwing rocks into my house; gathering in front of my barn to burn me in effigy; making insane claims about their claims to the land; and, most of all, reusing to recognize my legitimate claims.

Suffice it to say, they have gone too far! I can’t have these animals throwing rocks into my CHILDREN’S bedroom! Did you hear me? I said they were throwing rocks into my children’s bedroom…rocks! They could have killed one of my boys! So, finally, I’ve decided to take granddaddy’s advice: last week I initiated a little campaign of sorts; my sons and I took our rifles and started firing indiscriminately into their homes. They’ve been carping and whining about a few deaths or something…who cares; they started it! Like I said, they were throwing rocks into my children’s bedrooms! Also, they are always lying and inflating the casualties when we get into a row – I probably only killed twenty or thirty of them, while they ‘claim’ over fifty. I wish I’d killed more than fifty, as my son cut his foot on a shard of glass from one of their rocks. In any event, you can’t believe a word they say.
My problems with the Ishmaels have been astir since before I can recollect; but with this latest affront, with these rocks and glass shards, I mean to put an end to it once and for all. Every time I make a concession for peace, like the time I told them they could have electricity for six hours every Sunday and they promised to behave themselves, they turn around and do something else to provoke me. I’ve been provoked for the last time. After I bulldoze their homes and kill every Ishmael I deem responsible (which, if you ask me, is everyone of them), I’m going to invite some of my family members to move onto the land, resettle it and purge it of those malefactors forever.

Don’t worry, though; I won’t have to suffer any consequences for my actions (why should I..right? I mean, has a person ever been more justified?). Granddaddy discovered long ago that his wealth and his connections put him far beyond the reach of the law: first, I’ll win in the court of public opinion because members of my extended family own all the media outlets around here; so we’ll just run story after story telling, of course, ‘our’ story, which is the only story – like I said, you can’t trust those Ishmaels. And once you win in the court of public opinion, you have nothing to fear.

Oh, by the way, I’d like to vehemently express my support for Israel in their struggle against the Muslim Terror. They should bomb every school (where we all know they learn nothing but hate and bomb making), every mosque (where we all know they do nothing but worship the devil-god of terrorism), every home(where we all know they do nothing but make bombs and baby terrorists), every hospital (where we all know they do nothing but artificially inseminate their women with ‘the evil terrorist gene’ they bought from the Russians), every garden (where we all know they grow foods that make them want to make bombs), and every place of business (where we all know they are planning their next terrorist act every moment of their work day).

They should also continue their blockade; everyone knows that if these people get things like food and medicine, they’re only going to use them to make bombs and fire them at innocent Israeli children. Thank goodness for Zionism, without it, people like me would feel all alone in the world. It seems that those in power in Israel learned a lot form the Holacaust: they learned how to ghettoize a population, how to control their movements, how to seize their property, how to demonize them, how to drive them to madness with torment so that they will act irrationally, and, finally, how to make the case for genocide and feel nice and pious about it.

These people are undoubtedly God’s Chosen; and if Americans would ever come to their senses, we’d finally learn how to deal with our minority problem. Just think about it: we could start with Mexicans, harass them mercilessly, take everything they’ve earned, dislocate them to a ‘reservation’, build a wall around it (see, now you have them concentrated in a small area where you won’t hurt any of your own, and it’s more cost effective to eliminate them), brutalize them for the smallest infraction, limit their movements, strip them of all autonomy and dignity, and watch what happens. Sure enough, they’ll start to do whatever they can to attack ‘us’, then we loop their pathetic efforts endlessly on every newscast, and, viola, you’ve got all the rationalization you need to grind them into the dirt forever.


you don't tug on superman's cape/ you don't spit into the wind/ you don't poke the mask of the ole lone ranger...

SG