Saturday, July 17, 2010


At one company that I worked at as a Q.A. inspector, there were cut-backs and of course my department was one of the first to suffer lay-offs. Although I still had a job, I was approached with the offer of transferring to sales. I refused the offer stating that I wouldn't be any good at selling something that I wouldn't buy myself. But there are those that can. That is the nature of sales, I guess. The 'is-ness" of business. Sell, sell...sell. There are people out there that could sell gold bricks...and do. I have met many. The good ones...the ones that are top sales reps in their field, the "salesmen of the month" types have always fascinated me. They are cut from a different cloth. They have a portable conscience. They have no problem lying, cheating or fudging records to keep the sales coming in. And if you are selling a product that is relatively what you say it is, I guess there is little harm in it. If a car salesman tells you that you get the window tinting on your new vehicle included in the price, only to find out later that it isn't and you don't...and he doesn't seem to remember saying that or even who the hell you are...well, buyer beware, I guess. You know he is a liar. You knew it when you made the deal, if you were to analyze it. But you signed on the dotted line. You are out a couple hundred bucks. It isn't going to break you. No one is injured or killed. Pay the money and cut your losses.
But what about the salesman? How can he do that day after day, year after year, accept award after award?

He likes it.

You cannot excel at anything that you don't enjoy, at least on some level. So these two-dimensional people that don't care if you get what you paid for, enjoy that feeling of having taken you for the fool that you are. Somewhere in their heads they see their misdealings as some sort of game. A game that if they win, they get money. I wish I could work at something that enjoyable and lucrative. If only. If only I could put away my conscience and tell teenagers about the wondrous career that awaits them in a "man's " army, for instance. That must be a tough sell. Hard to close. Death, dismemberment...insanity. It must be difficult to get that signature on the paper. You gotta do a lot of bald-faced lying. You have to voice-match, "buddy-buddy" and "let-me-go-ask-my-manager" till you're blue in the face. And it must be getting tougher. I almost feel sorry for those types of salesmen. Almost.

I mean, how do you sell something like that? Haven't most people been alive on this planet long enough to know what war is really all about? Surely they have seen the ravages of is everywhere. Where is the disconnect when a young man or woman signs those papers? Do they, like Scarlett O'Hara say to themselves: "oh, I can't think about that today, I'll think about that tomorrow"? Can people do that? Can people who know that they are about to join a group of killers and kill with them, ever sleep well again? Clearly they can. And have been doing so since time immemorial. And they are always nothing more than children when they join. Ah, there's the rub.
During the Viet Nam war, we "children" would stand outside recruiting offices offering those thinking of joining the armed forces, copies of "Johnny Got His Gun", or a pamphlet containing the poems of Wilfred Owen.
Anthem For Doomed Youth by Wilfred Owen
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, --
The shrill, de
mented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

These offerings were fly-bys to most of those lining up to die in the humid jungles of a foreign land. They were for the most part, incapable of understanding not only what they were doing to their own lives, but the lives of those that they were invading. Cannon fodder. They are always there.

Along with many others throughout history, Mel Gibson(damn, and I said I wasn't going to mention him again) is reported to have said that jews have started all the wars in history. Well, that might be overstated, but in my opinion...not far off the mark. We all see the hand of the Rothschild in most conflicts throughout the world and have for at least 500 years, in one way or another.

I actually went to a movie not long ago, in a theatre. Go figure. During all the previews, came a commercial for war and death. All dressed up and looking intelligent and purposeful and dedicated, these actors and actresses were selling their death, dismemberment and dementia. Not a word of protest from the audience, as if they somehow agreed with it's purpose and ...ok...let's get on with the movie. It is still part of this world. The filthy wandering jew still peddles it from his rag-bin with his pornography and usury and hatred... ...and we are still buying. I dunno...when you get older, you just kind of assume that all you have learned over the years...the world has learned. Not so. We continue to sign our children away and thank god that we live in a country where we are free to do so. In the small Midwestern town that I reside in now, they are burying their dead as they come home from another foreign land. They are heroes. They are not the bodies of children that were taken for fools by some salesmen. You will never end war as long as you glorify it. Perhaps this all
sounds naive and simplistic and hackneyed...but still... It makes you weep.


warnipple said...

All these successful wars the war against terror (t.w.a.t.), the war on drugs. The military-industrial-big oil complex loves it. The prison-militarized police complex love that sparkling success story known as the war on drugs. Drugs are hard to find the quality is low and the price is high (not really). Is there a war against war?

Anonymous said...

Ya know, not too many job opportunities for our young folks these days. This economic downturn assures the MIC a fairly constant supply of cannon fodder. Very sad, very true. Keeps the meatgrinder fed.

chuckyman said...

In my youth I was keenly aware that the occupants of the uniforms of our oppressors were simply normal lads like ourselves. We still wanted them dead. What a bloody mess war is.

Those who run the machine know that but do not care. The meat for the grinder is not human but merely the goyim. Only one tribe is considered human. How simple their hatred is written but they have taught it and instilled it young willing ears – and yet again the broken souls return once more.

I learned my hate on bitter streets. Fighting is not always wrong. Beauty sometimes blossoms in the darkest of corners. That is the light of free souls. It truly shines. I hate no more but I stand still against tyranny. Any other stance would betray the fallen.

Wilfred Owen fell almost within hours of the armistice. This was, for me, the one poem that illustrated how cattle are led with fine words like democracy and defending the weak.


Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime9 . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

8 October 1917 - March, 1918

1 DULCE ET DECORUM EST - the first words of a Latin saying (taken from an ode by Horace). The words were widely understood and often quoted at the start of the First World War. They mean "It is sweet and right." The full saying ends the poem: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori - it is sweet and right to die for your country. In other words, it is a wonderful and great honour to fight and die for your country

chuckyman said...
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chuckyman said...
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chuckyman said...
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Dave said...

Love to read what you write because so much of it's
from your life experiences.
Growing up we lived next door to a family of
which the father was a salesman - in general a jerk
and mostly self-involved- not really a "neighbor"
at all. His son, a year older than me, grew up to be
a salesman as well. We never stayed in close contact
but when he calls after the queries about how I and
my family members are doing there is usually something he needs - help or a favor. Work experiences with salesmen are the same - it's always about what you can do for them.
Don't know psychologically how you would define
this behavior ( self-centered ? ) but it is troubling.


chuckyman said...
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Timster said...

Warnipple, I couldn't agree more! Love the (twat)...

Chuckyman...Thanks for sending my favorite W.O. poem! His ironic. I remember I had a recording of Richard Burton reading his work...VERY dramatic.

and Thanks for the comment Dave. Yeah, what is it with salesmen? They seem to lack something...compassion? depth?...

veritas6464 said...

Hey Timster,...So true; cannon-fodder and nothing more. Here in Rothschalia, we have had a few KIAs in Afghanistan recently. All the bullshit pomp and ceremony, with the ‘H’ word being bandied around like air kisses at a jewesses wedding-shower. I have been using a rather controversial tactic lately when someone mentions our brave fallen – I say; “I don’t care - why should I care if some dumb fuck throws his life away guarding heroine crops and protecting an oil & gas pipeline for rich jews? This interrogative statement is usually followed by that politically correct ‘group gasp’, you must have heard it, if you say anything in a crowd containing PC droogs you’ll hear that gasp whenever a truth is expressed that contradicts the media-based meme. So, here’s the thing: I then go on seamlessly to state that “...with all the information available to our children regarding the illegality and downright crookedness of ‘the (alleged) war on terror’ you cannot expect an intelligent adult to feel sympathy for these suicidal fools; if after ten years of this scam kids are still signing up for this shit and dying, we have to blame their parents”.

The last three Aussie kids to die for jew banksters were all too young to sign up when it started! No excuses, no sympathy, there are hundreds of genuinely concerned bloggers out here providing an alternative to the shyte MSM peddling BS Bagels to ensure a balanced opportunity for reasoning on the part of our communities – to the sheeple parents: I don’t care about your kids getting minced by IEDs because you don’t care about my children continually losing their freedoms and rapidly approaching the realisation of an Orwellian nightmare.

I was a Soldier, I was wounded twice in combat, I have had recurrent Malaria for twenty-five years(longer periods between attacks now though) and a bout of Denge fever; once laid low (very low) with septicaemia due to the distance between place of wounding and sanitary medical care.

Here’s a favourite of mine... the last stanza of 'Suicide in the Trenches' – Siegfried Sassoon: WW1 British Infantry Officer (related to that German ‘Haus Frau’ that does English queen impersonations in London). Regarding the First (there were two of these slaughter-fests!?!?) Battle of The Somme...

“You smug-faced crowds with kindling-eye
that cheer when Soldier lads march bye;
sneak home and pray you’ll never know
the hell, where youth and laughter go!”


Timster said...

Exactly! You have to blame the parents! If either one of my sons would have come to me saying that they wanted to join up, I would have kicked their butts. I don't care if they ARE bigger than me. There are few things that we parents are responsible for after they come of age, but that is the most important. I didn't raise cannon fodder!

chuckyman said...

Sorry for multiple posts folks. Blogger kept telling me the post was too long but they were posted anyway.

Good post Veritas

Timster said...

Yeah, I'm getting a lot of that lately