• Ron Throop

The Truth About Tories

Painting: "These Adirondack Forest Creatures Want Murdock to Expire Promptly" 2010. Acrylic on poplar board, 13 x 22"

From now on any money I make from my paintings I am going to trade for silver or gold. It’s value will not go down in the long run. Playing this FOREX market in a pandemic is like playing catch with an ice cube in August. The money is going to disappear. Paper currencies all die. The only reason ours and much of the rest of the world’s are still at play is because my rogue government is puppet of a powerful, billionaire mafia. And the puppeteers want yachts and affordability for the high cost of sex with attractive girls. They need the illusion of money, lots and lots of money, like millions of humanoids feel the need to spy both Pringles® and bananas in a single day, else the economy be doomed. Unlike bigots in pick up trucks, I don’t think power is Jews or old money WASPs, but I do think all power is psychotic. I openly condemn Oceania, because I still have the freedom to say it. I can declare that Rupert Murdoch, is a wrinkly, psychotic media mogul, whose reign I could end in seconds with a snap of his vertebrae. But he would have to give up his paid-for protection, walk out the mansion door alone or off the private plane, and approach me unarmed. I know I could overpower his weak, frail, decrepit form, snap his neck, gouge his eyes for all the pain and chaos he has sown. I know this because I am a man. I could write you a song about it, paint a picture, rack your brains for agreement over beer and beer nuts, for a sane man needs another to share his observations. But I’m afraid that I am only part man, though a slightly bigger piece than our paid-for visionaries, because I have not yet seen a book written on what we need to do to save the race—just one spittle fairy tale after the other, longing for yachts and attractive girls and boys to sex with. We have molded our lives solitary, and that is one reason to collect silver and gold. $20 paper money might be worth a sheet of toilet paper in a year, but an ounce of silver will trade on the darkest of black markets. I sell very few paintings, and no one buys my books. But if they are fool enough to try, I shall turn it into precious metals—Ronaldstilsken be me—and I’ll retire to some tumbleweed camper trailer to watch safely from a distance my human family eat each other like starved rats. A friend of mine confided that I am either an angel or hopeless curmudgeon. Both met in the park today and sat down on a bench beside the playground. Curmudgeon: Look at them (children playing). Innocent and harmless now. At least one of them will die in prison. Angel: Yup. Curmudgeon: Rape somebody. Angel: Maybe. Curmudgeon: Hold up a gun to somebody's face. Angel: Yea. Okay. Curmudgeon: And some become do-gooders to try to prevent all the bad from happening. Angel: Yup. Curmudgeon: And it won’t do a damn bit of good. Angel: No, it won’t. Curmudgeon: Hey, why are you agreeing with everything I say? Angel: Because you’re talking to yourself . Curmudgeon: (in a whisper) Don’t turn around, but who’s that guy listening in on us? Angel: That’s you too. Curmudgeon: Am I schizophrenic? Angel: No. But you aren't much fun anymore. Curmudgeon: I am too funny! Angel: Really? And that hilarious bit about murdering a billionaire? Cur, most times when I laugh, I am crazy laughing at you. Curmudgeon: Listen Angel, he is not an innocent man. If he promotes fear on air, day after day to ignorant workers and grandparents who lived through a propagandized Cold War, Vietnam and Iraq, who learned to trust television more than their best friends and mothers, then people die and nature is compromised. Real people die in made-up wars, mass shootings, negligence, malfeasance... Species become extinct, the atmosphere warms, humans think on nuclear weapons an actual reality. When fear is propagandized, indifference, even mockery and disdain to normal joys is nurtured, until arrogant ignorance arises and thinks itself superior to all. Like our truck drivers who know more about global warming than our climatologists. Like our Presidents who know a little bit of everything, and all about nothing. Angel: So who says who should go? Not the laws of men. Not God. Both have failed. You know that. Curmudgeon: Vigilantes, for lack of a better word. Angel: You mean sociopaths. Curmudgeon: No. Men and women with nagging conscience. And look here Angel, you’re spinning me around. Laws against propaganda can be written in the government books. If its not news, then it's opinion. Headlines must reveal the disclaimer, “Advertisement” so the people will know that it was Exxon-Mobile, and not the crude-soaked seagull who wrote the article about the oil spill. Laws are made against petty theft. But theft of conscience? Never. Propaganda is a state-sponsored tool of aggression, like an aircraft carrier, and used on its own people. Goebbels was an official adjunct of the state. Rupert Murdoch is an unofficial, multi-state Minister of Propaganda. Today’s media moguls have more reach, and know huge profits with thought control. Jimmy the purse snatcher goes to prison because he’s ignorant or desperate. Ted the media mogul replays a video of a busted pipe pouring crude oil into the sea for eighty days in a row, sells cereal and normalcy, and has the freedom of a lone wolf because people can be controlled like millions of sheep with just one media dog in the fold. Angel: I agree. There is something to that. 1984? Cur: Worse. The people’s docility in that dystopia was open fear and practiced dread. Most knew they were doomed and life was gray and dust everyday. Our present system entices with goodies and fun. Everybody wants to be a millionaire, stuck in their work patterns like serfs, thinking they are free, owning comfort but never comfortable, sensing the potential for lifelong health, yet making themselves sick pretending to be millionaires someday. No one has the slightest inclination to upset the system. It just wouldn’t make sense. Every thing is here, right before our very eyes, and practically attainable. Even new kitchen counters. A tragedy occurs. The propaganda spins it, normalizes it, and then after a week has you forget about it. Its total power is that we listen today and tomorrow obey. We are like these little children playing in the park. When daddy says it's time to go home, we all go home. When mommy gives us macaroni for dinner, it's macaroni for dinner. Just like these kids we are helpless and hopeless to exaggerated power, and assume individual success and failure is made by our own volition. Even the king of the monkey bars will get diabetes one day and think it's his fault.

Angel: What about the title?

Cur: What?

Angel: The title. To your post. "The Truth About Tories?" How does this fit?

Cur: I was going to write about the new revolution. The Tories would be the very few who sided with the 2,000 billionaires on our planet. A couple billion of us were going to round them up and try them and their masters with the guillotine in the public square. It would only take a few days, and then nobody would want to be a billionaire anymore. Many would opt out of millionairedom too, for fear of portfolio growth and their heads sliced off into a box.

The truth about Tories is that there are so few having too much power. And it would be easy now, in COVID springtime, to not only nip rising power in the bud, but to cut the little tree down to the ground.

Angel: You're a hopeless Curmudgeon, Cur.

Cur: And you're a pathetic angel, angel. And that's the truth about Tories.


© 2019 by Ron Throop