How The Flat Earth Society Got Rolling

by Neville Raymond

Two Illuminati were in the middle of a debate. 

The more worried one was having second thoughts about bamboozling the people.                                                            

         “Look”, he said, “people everywhere are catching on.  They no longer buy the official version of 9-11.  The numbers who question the moon landing increases every year we don’t return.  And even the Holocaust doesn’t command the blind faith it used to.”

            The more cynical of the two two pooh-poohed the whole trend.  
        “The people are and continue to be as dumb as ditch water.” 

“How can you say that”, protested the Worrywart.  “People are growing up too fast on the internet.  They are no longer buying our sophisticated iterations of Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.  It’s harder than ever to make people believe in the impossible.”

“Don’t be a silly goose”, replied the Cynic dourly.  “People are as gullible as ever.”

Thoughtfully stroking his chin, the Cynic brightened.  

        “Tell you what, let’s put our money where our mouth is.  Let’s place a wager, shall we?  Pick the most preposterous idea you can think of, and I bet we can make millions of people believe it is true.”

“Like what”, asked the Worrywart.

“Well, how about the old medieval chestnut that the earth is flat.  Now there is an idea that was mothballed hundreds of years ago.” 

“Well”, reflected the Worrywart, “at least the literal-minded theologians will go for it.  Doesn’t the Bible say the earth is as flat as an IHOP pancake?”

“No, it says the earth is God’s footstool.  Same difference,” chuckled the Cynic.   

“At least it doesn’t say the earth is God’s medicine ball.  

         
          The Worrywart perked up.  "So shall we get the CIA on it?”

“No need.  Some English nutjob published a pamphlet on the flat earth back in the 19th century.  Later, in the middle of the 20th century, the space race had barely got going when some American crackpot picked up the cue and founded the International Flat Earth Society.”  

“OK, so how much do you want to bet?” asked the Worrywart.

“How about a nice round figure.  Ten million bucks.” said the Cynic.

“You’ll bet $10 million that people are that stupid?  Fine by me.  So how will we know who wins the bet?”

“When the membership rolls of the Flat Earth Society reaches a million true believers.”

“You got it”, said the Worrier.  “If we can get one million people to believe the earth is a flat disc, you’ve got yourself ten million bucks.  It’s worth my peace of mind, your know.  Who cares if more people than ever are seeing through 9-11 or the moon landing or the Holocaust. If a million people can be made to doubt the evidence of our satellite eyes in the sky, I stand corrected.  The masses can be made to believe in anything.”

And so the Flat Earth Society was launched, or rather, re-launched with little fanfare.  
            With membership down to a hundred diehard members as of a year ago, the Cynic is roundly losing the bet.  

           But the Worrywart is more than happy to lose just so he can regain his peace of mind.

CRAPPY NEW YEAR

                            Neville Raymond

 It’s like a bucket of cold water poured on your head as you sit in a warm bath.

With just two minutes to spare to the final countdown, the network cameras swing back to Times Square.  Amidst a tsunami of revelers, a groundswell of good cheer, the glittering ball drops.  

We turn to each other to hug and embrace, full of high expectations for the New Year.

And what do we hear?  

The lilting strains of Auld Lang Syne?  

The bittersweet nostalgia of remembering old friends and past acquaintances, of celebrating the passage of an old year with high hopes for the new year?   

Oh no, no, no!  That would be out of order!

We hear the flinty voice of an old-school icon singing “New York, New York”!

Who hijacked the sweetest moment of the year?  

Here is when we clasp our loved ones in an unforgettable embrace.   

Here is when we brim with nostalgia for lost loves, departed friends, broken dreams, looking forward misty-eyed to a future where we can translate our good wishes for a happy New Year into a state of happiness for the whole human race.   

Instead, what do we hear ringing in our ears?  

A paean of civic boosterism to the home of Wall Street.

A musical tribute to the capital of world finance and central banking. 

An anthem to a city that is the epitome of the dog-eat-dog jungle…If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere. 

A valentine to a city where you are expected to claw your way up the ladder of success until you become king of the hill, top of the heap.

Forget about raising that cup of kindness to our renewed solidarity with the human race.

Forget about oozing with warmth and camaraderie towards mankind.

Here is what we’re not supposed to forget.

We are at ground zero for the Money Mafia and its financial crimes against humanity.  
   And to drive the point home we have to listen to a crooner notorious for his ties to organized crime!

They don’t waste a New York minute, do they?  

No sooner does the newborn Year pop out than they have to rush in and kill the festive mood by brazenly singing about the very thing that makes life so miserable for everyone else - the cutthroat scramble for top dog, the sleepless will to master the world.

Not content with their claims of world domination the other 364 days, they have to pick the last night of the year to muscle their way into the last sanctum of wistful longing for universal joy and peace, and shove their Crapitalist mantra down the throats of tens of millions.  

Happy New Year Everyone?  

Good luck with that. 

Crappy New Year Everyone - except for the Crapitalists?  

    You can bet on it.