The Assassination Of Joe Biden

“Follow the money” is a proven method to get to where the truth lies in human motives. Where there is money, there is power, and as we all know, power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. For this, and no other, is reason enough. But there is so very much money involved, and so many pigs feeding from the same trough. They have to make sure no scraps escape, and they have to make sure the damage they do is irreversible. 

If these people can bring down America they can rest assured there will no other entity on this earth to slow the feasting. There will be no alliances that are formed for any other reason than to feed those in power. With nothing that mirrors the will of anyone but the rich, the world may burn, but those being fed believe they can live without it. After all, who is going to stop them?

Right now, all their efforts may be thwarted. Trump has been a Godsend for those with money, and for very good reason; he’s a man with a massive debt load, and far too many questionable business deals. Trump had a place at the table, he was born on it, in point of fact, but over the years, his need for attention, and his gross incompetence, has eaten away at his wealth, and at the very cusp of ruin, he made a run for the White House, and with the help of the Russians, he regained power. But the debt, owed to the Russians, and to many others, remained.

Covid-19 crashed the party. The Stock Market, an indicator of the health of the wealth of the 1% not of America, was supposed to be enough for Trump to ride to the second term, but hundreds of thousands of deaths and millions upon millions of infections have threatened the script. Trump is desperately trying to ignore the plague, trying to convince his entrenched base that it’s no worse than the common cold, and he is losing the election, and he might lose the Senate. The plan so many of those feeding has spent so much keeping in place is falling apart. 

Can they murder a candidate for President in America and simply expect Americans to look horrified right before they check their FB feed to see how to react? 

I think they can, and worse, they think so, too. 

There’s no reason, after losing a quarter million citizens to the plague to believe Americans give a fuck anymore, outside their social media accounts. 

At some point, between now and November the Third, some “Lone Wolf” assassin will step up to the plate for Trump, and those to whom he owes close to a billion dollars, and kill any chance we had that Americans had a voice anymore. There will be a lot of noise, many likes and cares, but there will be no change, for that is what has been murdered, in the end. 

Joe Biden has no chance of living through the next two weeks. That would mean all that Trump had promised has failed, and with it, lost will be those millions invested in his policies, handed down to the people he owes money. 

Worse still, to cover his complicity, Trump is likely to find someone to blame for this, and because political assassination now has the blessing of Trump, the blood will flow. America will become Somalia, with better 5G coverage. 

The next two weeks will very clearly define who we have become, a diseased and formerly great people, now addicted to social media and division, devoid of the capacity or the will for critical thinking. Out of the bloodshed that will follow, whatever will come from it, will never be what we were when were at our best, and is likely to be a caricature of America, when we sank down to our very worst. 

President Biden would not have saved us, oh no, nothing like that. But the death of candidate Biden will certainly doom us. And our inability to know how to be outraged, and what to outraged about, and why it’s important will prove once and for all, we can be easily led two hundred and eight characters at a time. 

Take Care,

Mike

Clear

The task at hand.

This morning was one of those Zen dawns with no color, no real light for a while, but a nice cool breeze and very gentle rain. It felt good to be outside, and not have insects buzzing around and without the humidity trying to kill me. I’ve been waiting for this morning to arrive, because the back fenceline desperately needs attention, and so many things have gotten in the way of me getting back there and getting the job done.

I have to cross over the fence into my neighbor’s property to hack down a bunch of stuff because wild grape wines, as well as a few other species of vines, are getting on the electric fence and that will eventually cause a short. The wild grape vines do not produce wild grapes, tame grapes, wine grapes, or any other grape, but their leaves look like the leaves of grape vines, so that’s where they got their name. 

The vines have partners in crime. American Beautyberries, a waist high bush with small purple berries, grow in abundance in South Georgia. The vines use these bushes as launching pads towards the top of the fence, so the plan is to clear a section five feet wide and go after any bigger vines if I can get to them, and I have a bush hook, so yeah, I can. 

Slow Progress, and more to go!

It’s a cool day, I feel good, it’s early in the morning, kinda, and it feels good to swing hard and work muscles again. I had major surgery late last year, and this is the first time I’ve really set out  to push, and push hard, my body with this sort of work. The bush hook is a great tool for clearing and the best piece of exercise equipment a human can own. 

There’s vines growing up out of the ground that have cut marks on them, where I hacked on them three years ago. The vine will grow from another shoot, not the old one, so I can tell how many times I’ve cut them. None of this stuff is big but it is thick, and it is bushy as hell. I hack, and hack, then push the stuff away from the fence, hack so more, push some more, and slowly, a path is cleared. 

Hacking isn’t just hacking away at a clump of vines or bushes, or both. There’s a system here, depending on where the open part is, where I need for it to be, and how close to the ground I can cut the bushes, or the stems of the vines. Position of the target dictates position of my body, how much power I have to use, how well I can aim, and I can cut exactly where I want the blade to be. I use a slight slicing movement when I swing, and again, depending on what I am cutting and where, that will decide which side of the blade I use; the flat side for thicker stuff, the side with the hook for vines, so they cannot slip away uncut. I’ve been using a bush hook for decades now, and it’s a part of my body when I work. 

The Rescued Tree

It’s work. It’s hard work. The day wears on and I am wearing down. My breath is quicker and heavier. The handle turns in my hands as my strength ebbs. But fatigue and I are also old friends. I know my limits, or I once did, and this is the first test of my strength and endurance since December of last year. I know better than to push too hard, but where is the point I ought to quit? Isn’t quitting just as bad as going too far, when I have already finished more than half?  

The last twenty feet or so aren’t thick but the twenty feet before that is the very thickest. There’s an Oak tree being strangled to death by vines in that mess, so I decide to, at a minimum, rescue the tree. I have to cut wider to get the debris out of the way. Vines stealing the crown of the tree have to be pulled down. The remnants of bushes and the still grabby vines try to bring me down, because they sense my weakness. Stumbling, yet still upright, I swing away, much less able to hit a target, my hands slipping, my breath ragged, yet moving forward, cutting bush and vine, and making progress. 

An After Photo of the very bushiest part, shown in the first photo.

Suddenly, I reach the end. I’m careful now, tired, no, not tired, I am exhausted. Sweat dries quickly because of low humidity and it is still a beautiful day. There’s nothing about how I feel that seems to indicate injury, but oh yeah, I am going to feel this tomorrow and maybe for a few days to come. I climb the fence to get back over to my property and Budlore Amadeus awaits and escorts, his stubby tail wiggling. The walk to the shed to put the bush hook, hat and gloves seems overly long. 

My left hand isn’t fully functional at the moment. It’s cramping up and hurts. My knees ache. My back? HAHAHAHA! That’s going to be interesting tomorrow, certainly. I cannot remember the last time I was this tired. Yet this is exhaustion, my paycheck from swinging a bush hook for three hours. I have cleared the entire back fence line on the back side. I feel good, my body responded to my demands for more when there didn’t seem to be any, and the job is done. 

It feels good. I feel like me again. 

Take Care,

Mike Firesmith