WELL, IF THAT DOESN’T TAKE THE CAKE

by Neville Raymond 

There’s nothing like the big picture for showing up how small-minded people can be. 

Look at the baker who wouldn’t bake a wedding cake for a same-sex couple.  
In America we made a federal case out of it!  
Have we lost all sense of perspective?  
It’s not that such an idea lacks legs or that it won’t take us far.  There are no limits to what we can accomplish by refusing to put our skillset to work for people or causes that offend our moral, political, and yes, religious sensibilities.  
But we do have to pick and choose our battles. 

In the scale of things, many things ought to strike us as abominations on an epic, if not a biblical scale.  
It would be understandable if we refused to lay our creative gifts at the feet of those who poison our air, pollute our ground water and exhaust the earth’s ability to renew itself.  
Now that would make a whole heap of sense.  
Imagine if groups of tens or hundreds or thousands of people withheld the fruits of their industry and ingenuity from those who jeopardize our collective health, darken our children’s future and imperil our planet's very existence.  
That might just mark a sea change.

It would be understandable if we refused to place our services at the disposal of those with blood on their hands.  
Now that would make a whole heap of sense.  
Imagine if we forged a group consensus to withhold our labor and craftsmanship from those who routinely offend our core belief in the sanctity of human life.  
Imagine if jewelers refused to make wedding rings, florists refused to make wedding bouquets, caterers refused to cater wedding receptions, photographers refused to visually document the occasion, and priests refused to officiate over wedding ceremonies on behalf of those who choose to send solders to maim and kill brown-skinned people in faraway lands or to militarize cops to shoot unarmed black teenagers like mad dogs on the streets. 

It would be understandable if we refused to serve at the beck and call of those who use their monopoly of money to swindle and enslave the rest of the world.  
Now that would make a whole heap of sense.  
Imagine if we formed a grassroots movement to withhold our time and energy from those violate our core belief in the preciousness of every human life.  
Imagine if we refused to make our clerical help or administrative support or managerial know-how available to those who use their control of the banking system to trap an entire class of people in dead-end jobs, bankrupt entire countries with odious debts, or impose drastic austerity budgets that drive people from Buenos Aires to Bangladesh to destitution or suicide by making it impossible for them to feed, clothe and house their families. 

But to play the boycott card with gay sex?  
That is what we see fit to target with our outrage?  
Not those who batter or rape their partners but those who consensually sleep with partners of the same sex?  

Just think of it.  
Here we could refuse to perform a vast array of vital services for those who use their monopoly power over money, oil and pharmaceuticals to plunder and exploit, prey on and poison our fellow man.  
We could refuse to pick their food, wait on their tables, pilot and chauffeur them hither and thither, answer their phones and emails, clean their mansions, mow their lawns and trim their hair.  
We could refuse to act as their security guards, fight their legal battles, keep their computer systems running, advise them on strategies to get away with murder, and circulate any number of falsehoods and slanders in the mass media to befuddle the majority of people and turn them against their own best interests. 

But heaven forbid!  

All that doesn’t offend our deepest moral sensibilities and cherished spiritual values!  
It doesn’t violate our freedom of expression and trample on our constitutional right to liberty and equality.  
For when it comes right down to it, the one thing that really goads us into making a political stand is two men having sex! 

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.     

TIGER MOMS, LION CHILDREN AND LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER 

Neville Raymond 

In school we are drilled to remember the minute facts of history.  

In real life we are conditioned to forget the momentous feelings of childhood. 

Indeed, it is almost a marker of adulthood to forget what it was like to be a child. 

Ask any child what animal they would associate with their ideal mom.  

 A mama bear?  A cuddlesome chimp?   
 Not one child in a million would say, “I want a tiger mom.”  

The qualities associated with a tiger – ferocity, wildness, bloodthirstiness, cruelty – are hardly the       
 kind of qualities children need in a mom.  If anything, children need mothers who can protect them  
 from people who embody these tigerish qualities.  

Raised in Calcutta, and sent to boarding school at the age of seven, I realized late in the arc of my therapeutic process that I was outmanned and outgunned by the forces arrayed against me.  I was beaten down, cowed into submission and robbed of my voice.  

Every March I would go through the same ritual.  A black banged-up trunk, with my name stenciled on it, was lugged out of storage.  My belongings were packed into it.  And the countdown began to the dreaded day when it would accompany me to Howrah station where both trunk and I were loaded on a train bound for Sherwood College in a hill station called Nainital. 

In one of my sessions, I realized a vital part of me had also been packed into that trunk.  Since my mother made no room for my hurt, my despair, my fear of abandonment, I had to shove all these feelings into a box and slam the lid on it.   It was a lonely place to be locked away into and hidden from the light of day - like being stuffed into the trunk of a car and abducted far from home.                                               

 The remarkable thing is I didn’t struggle. I didn’t pound my fists against the walls of the trunk.  I didn’t wear myself out yelling and screaming.  I didn’t let out a peep.   

In fact, I was a perfect little lamb to the slaughter.  

 And you know what kinds of mothers turn out little lambs to the slaughter?  Tiger moms.  

 They are fiercely invested in developing the child’s talents, industry and intellectual aptitude.  

 In the name of providing the best education possible, they subject the child to any number of   
 indignities and ordeals. 

 They are as tone deaf to the cries of the heart as they are indifferent to cultivating the heart as the 
 seat of emotional intelligence.

Talking to my mother was like banging my head on a wall.  Obviously that left a huge stockpile of anger in me.  But to whom could I turn to release it?  Certainly not the one whose failure to listen was responsible for causing all that anger to pile up in the first place.  

So my mother never got see the troubled, angry boy she raised.  

 She was spared having to deal with that mad side of me.  

For all she knew, boarding school had done me a world of good.  

I learned to make my bed, wear a blazer, stand tall and self-sufficient.  Above all, I  placed at the head of my class.  

 Talk about vindicating her decision to send me away!  

I was now one of those polite obedient boys who, when approached by an adult, said, “Yes, sir, no sir.  Good morning, sir, good evening, sir.”  

My mother was proud of her good little boy, so soft-spoken, docile, and well-behaved. 

At some point in adulthood I realized I couldn’t go on like that  

 I had to let the angry beast out.  

 And I needed just the right kind of Mother to do it.  

In the course of reparenting myself, I had worked through a succession of Good Moms.                                                           

 My real mom was flustered by the smallest things, and couldn’t abide the sight of my distress.    
 Roxanne was the first Good Mom I conjured up for myself.  She was calm, kind, infinitely  
 understanding.  She let me lay my head on her lap and cry my heart out.      

 Then there was Rowena, my Playful Mom.  Unlike my real mother, who never had time to relax with 
 me, Rowena spent the whole day with me, reading me stories, hanging out with me in the park, 
 strolling with me on the banks of the Hooghly, taking me to Keventers for a milk shake and  
 accompanying me to the Lighthouse or Metro for a matinee show.

 And finally, there was Ramona, my Protective Mother.  She would stand up for me and be my 
 advocate when I was blamed for things I did not do, and shamed for being just who I am.  She was 
 the mother I turned to when I needed to show my raging side to the world.  Hers was the image that 
 came into my head when I needed to play Leo the Lion in a full-throated growl.  She would make it 
 safe for my buried anger to spring into the open and give out in a ferocious roar.  “Grrrr…you can’t 
 send me away!  GRrrr…listen to me!  GRRRR…don't act like my feelings don’t count!”  

It was a liberating experience to make myself heard in thunderous tones.  To assert my right to speak with a voice long forgotten and buried.  My right to reclaim the deep, primal energy of my being and cut loose like a lion on my way to becoming a fully developed human being.  

The boarding school masters into whose hands my mother entrusted my fate may as well have been trained gladiators, closing in around me to put the leonine part of me to death.   

Don’t make a scene.  Don’t raise a fuss.  Don’t rock the boat.  Keep your head down.  Don’t let your voice be heard.

 The end result was my MGM lion had become an MTM pussy cat.  Remember how in Mary Tyler Moore TV productions the roaring MGM lion was replaced by the logo of a mewling kitten?  

 That was me as a child.  

 That was hundreds of millions of children like me whose tiger moms had cruelly imposed their will on them, and set out to crush their spirits and break their hearts, the better to teach them the enduring lesson of life.  

 Sit on your anger.  Bury your rage.  Tame the leonine magnificence of you humanity until you sound like a kitten.  

It was a rule of thumb.  Tiger moms raise MTM kittens.  

Kind, nurturing moms raise children to be roaring MGM lions.  Lions who are in touch with the source of their primal energy.  Lions securely grounded in the strength of their being. 

What an incredible world it would be if parents could let their children release their pain in full-throated roars.  

It would give parents instant feedback when they were doing something wrong!  

I’m hurting my child.  I’m scaring my child.  I'm driving my child mad!   

Parents often whine that their children don’t come with a manual.  The truth is that they come with something more infinitely precious.  They come with a system of instant feedback.  If they are hurting they cry.  If they are angry, they scream!  All parents have to do is to pay attention to these signals and modify their behavior accordingly!  

Instead of doing that, parents can’t wait to crack down on their children’s right to indulge in tears and tantrums.  

 Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about!  

                                                                          

And how do children adapt?  They learn to become two-faced little dissemblers.  They act like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, while inside them is a furnace of rage that would melt tempered steel.  And so the hostility they cannot express in straightforward ways comes out in all kinds of devious, crooked, perverse, and passive aggressive ways.  

Who can count all the ways in which suppressed feelings are dramatized and unresolved pain acted out?  

We take a ghoulish delight in horror movies and murder mysteries.  

We are convinced it OK to batter an unruly child - or bomb an unruly country into submission.  

We push clients into buying things that are not right for them.  

We routinely carry out orders that cause untold suffering for millions.  

We are thrilled by strong leaders who brutally impose their will on the world. 

That Saint Augustine sure had it right. 

 Give me other mothers and I'll give you another world.  

What if children were allowed to be more up-front about their buried caches of pain?  

Would we have to worry so much about the wild beast lurking behind the civilized facade? 

And what if children were free to roar out their primal anger and trumpet their primal grief to the world?  

 Maybe the world wouldn’t be such a jungle, after all.

IS TICKETING DRIVERS THE BEST WAY TO GO?

Neville Raymond September 1 2017 

In its headlong rush to punish, our society loses track of the human values we all share in common.   

Thankfully, one police officer in Louisville, Kentucky, did not lose his way.  He was suspended for turning in traffic tickets with fictitious names.  His baffled superiors asked him why.  His answer was as simple as it was stunning.  It was his way of disguising the fact that he could not bring himself to give tickets to real people.  “I had a conscience.  I had a heart.  I started seeing the human beings behind the drivers wheels (D. Johnson, “Police Looking Close at Unarresting Officer”) 

The narrator who included this anecdote in the footnotes of his book on altruism is a famous author.  He conceded that this sort of fellow feeling is laudable in itself.  And it may even be heroic to the legions of drivers who feel they have been ticketed unfairly.  But then, contrary to form, the famous author goes on to state that if we believe that ticketing unsafe drivers can save lives in the long run, this police officer is guilty of letting his feelings run away with his reason.   

Say whaat?  Is this from the same guy who wrote another book that cited scientific study after study that rewards and punishments do not really work?  Is he actually being two-faced enough to say, If we believe that ticketing is the way to deter unsafe drivers.  That is one mighty big IF….Who says that ticketing unsafe drivers is a credible way of saving lives.  Maybe it just makes drivers mad that their insurance rates will go up.  Maybe it makes them hate cops and hyperventilate at the sight of a squad car.  Maybe their resentment drives them to act out in other areas, on and off the streets, and take unnecessary risks when they think no one is looking.  Maybe it even fuels road rage.   

The whole idea of ticketing people rests on a rather antiquated notion.  Punishment is a valid deterrent.  Punishment works.  We slap people with a punitive fine, which may or may not cause their insurance rates to go up - and voila!  we expect them to grow a halo around their heads and go merrily on their way!

In what universe?  It is human nature to resent punishment.  And resentment has a way of making the best person lash out in ways that are not good for puppies and little children.

You want to deter a speeding driver?  Why not just stop him and find out why the rush?  Is he late for an appointment.  Maybe a call to the person waiting for him would do the trick.  We had to stop Bill here for speeding - and since we know that nothing is worth jeopardizing his life or the lives of other drivers on the road, would you please understand and be a little patient and forgiving when he arrives late? 

Who could resist an appeal like that from the cops?

Or what about giving a neck and shoulder massage to speeding drivers?  Wouldn't that destress their bodies and allow them to drive in a more relaxed manner?  I believe they actually make a practice of this in Malaysia.

Something stronger needed?  What about the cop pulling out his iPhone and showing the driver graphic video content of a crash that occurred just a few days ago?  Perhaps on the very spot she is passing through?

Or, taking the opposite tack, what about handing out fresh roses to drivers in appreciation of the fact that they desperately need to stop and smell the roses?  

Of if the cop decides that the reason for speeding is truly urgent, why not just turn on the siren and give the driver a police escort?

You see, there are myriads of ways of dealing with unsafe drivers.  The only limitation is our imagination - and our capacity for fellow-feeling.  The only option that should be off the table is punishment.  Penalizing people by extracting money from their pockets should be regarded as a non-starter.  The money could be used for so many more practical and productive things - like food or curtains or toys or babysitters.  Why should it go to a faceless bureaucracy that is known for wastage and corruption? 

As long as punishment is off the table, we could take a survey and ask people to write in their suggestions.  What are some of the non-punitive or even loving and supportive ways of helping unsafe drivers slow down and become more aware of their surroundings and more conscious of the need to drive defensively.  I guarantee there would dozens of practical ideas that could be put into effect right away.  Here are some right off the bat.  

The peace officer sees an offender making an unsafe lane change?  How about taking him to the nearest park and setting out a couple of mats for doing fifteen minutes yoga?  

Or how about popping a CD into car and sitting down companionably to listen to a Chopin Nocturne or a memorable aria from a famous opera to remind us what life is all about?  

Someone running a red light?  What about using the calming power of touch.  The officer takes the offender’s face in his hands and and looks into his eyes and says, “You are a child of the universe.  Who are the people who would miss you if something happened to you?  Can you imagine if I had to call them and tell them you were an accident?  Would their world not crumble?  Would their lives ever be the same?  Think of all the years you have ahead of you.  All the fun things you still want to do with your family and friends.  Go, hug your loved ones when you get home.   Open up your heart to all the joy that awaits you.  Be safe.”

  No one gets up the morning thinking that this will be the day they are going to be injured to killed.  But there is an abiding need within all of us to live our lives to the fullest.  Imagine if there was someone to call timeout when we forget that basic truth and lapse into driving practices that jeopardize our lives or the lives of others on the road.  

Maybe the cop could give us a homeopathic tonic to soothe our jangled nerves and calm us down.  

Maybe he could give us some wise perspective on how our lives would change if we were to hit another human being who is someone’s father, mother, child.  

Maybe he could pull some variation of It’s a Wonderful Life and drive home how sad and empty the world would be without us in it.  

What if, instead of asking for your license and registration, the first thing a cop did when he stops you is to help you look at the underlying reason why you would break the rules of the road. Maybe you are depressed, angry, hurt.  Maybe it could be resolved by referring you to the appropriate resource center.  

What about if cops went around with the phone numbers of A-list celebrities in their cellphone.  When they find a driver guilty of texting and driving, they get the offender's  favorite actor on the line.  Imagine hearing the voice of your favorite celebrity speaking to you  personally.    “I’m so happy to talk with you today.  In fact, I am honored to be chosen to make a difference in your life.  Im here to remind you that you are important to those who know you and love you.  I’m sending you a couple of tickets for my next movie.  I want you to be around for it!”  

Are you getting the picture?   Do you really think that a bureaucratic piece of paper with a scribbled court date could ever be as effective in making us take stock of unsafe driving practices as all the thoughtful, sensitive, loving ways in which human beings can change hearts and minds?

Do we really think that a punitive option can ever compare with the transformational power of an empathic, compassionate approach?  

Who says that we can’t just tear up all the ticket books and give our peace officers a heart-warming array of options to choose from to get people to be mindful of their actions behind the wheel?  

 

        After all, the motto on the squad cars does say to protect and to serve.  I defy anyone to show me where it says to punish.  

        

THE BLACK-OPS MYTH OF SHEEP, WOLVES AND SHEEPDOGS             

                                                                           Neville Raymond 

 

       

       There is a scene in the film, American Sniper where a father sits around the dinner table and pontificates to his sons about three types of people in the world.  Sheep, wolves and sheepdogs.  Sheep don’t believe that evil exists and are helpless to protect themselves from it.  Wolves are predators who use violence to feed off the weak.   Sheepdogs are those blessed with the gift of aggression who use it to protect the flock.  

The sheep are the mass of humanity.  The wolves are gangsters and mass murderers.  The sheepdogs represent a rare breed of men - the cops and soldiers who live to confront the wolf.  

The entire scene is one heaping dollop of black propaganda - bogus information that purports to come from the good guys, but is actually coming from the bad guys.  Before we get into that, observe how the camera cuts away from the dining table to a schoolyard scene.  The wolves are represented by a bully pummeling his victim.  The sheepdog is the boy who steps in and starts punching the bully in a way which is indistinguishable from the bully punching his victim. Thus a phony duality is set up between sheepdog and wolf.   It is not supposed to occur to us that the circle of children, shown egging on the combatants, could just as easily have used their superior strength in numbers to intervene and stop the fight.  No, no!  That would have taken them out of the sheep role - and completely dispensed with the sheepdog role to boot!   

  At the end of this little charade, the father delivers a stern warning.  We are not raising any sheep in this family!  He then goes through the motions of removing his belt as if to thrash his kids.  The guy could be trapped in a time warp.  You would never know from his parenting style that western democracies have banned corporal punishment for its brutalizing effects, and research increasingly shows that the motherlode of violence in the world is violence in the home.

Leaving that aside, let’s unpack the black-ops nature of this analogy.  As analogies go, it blazed through military and police circles and took the rightwing blogosphere by storm.  Not because it is an accurate representation of reality but because it reflects the gun-toting, war-crazed, militarized mindset that thrives on a politics of fear.  The tripartite division into sheep, wolves and sheepdogs is no metaphor at all.  It is an obsolete reality that once described a pastoral society.  But once it is twisted into a self-serving metaphor, it applies to the kind of society that cannot mount an authentic defense against evil because it has founded its very existence on it. 

   

The basic flaw in the analogy is its failure to ask the obvious question.  

Who do the sheepdogs answer to?

Obviously sheepdogs do not operate in a vacuum.  They may be an intelligent breed of canine, but they are no match for the humans who breed, train and put them to work.  And by humans we mean not only shepherds but those who employ their services.  The shepherd is the most critical component of this tripartite model.  Without the shepherd, the whole analogy of sheep, sheepdogs and wolves falls apart like an elaborate snowman in the desert. 

So if the sheep are people, wolves are evildoers, and sheepdogs are warrior-cops, who exactly are shepherds?  A quick look at the shepherd’s business gives us the answer.  And just what is this business?  You don’t want to ask.  And people like Dave Grossman - who popularized the sheepdog analogy in a book on the psychology of deadly combat, and goes around the country like a hysterical huckster of doom, hyping a militarized police force - don’t really want you to know.  Because the business of the shepherd is an ugly business.   Like much else in the Bible, the Good Shepherd is a myth.  The practical reasons why the Shepherd is in the business of caring for his sheep is to fleece them, milk them dry, castrate them and butcher them.        

So who in society corresponds to the shepherd’s predatory role?  Well duh, the ruling class - the plutocracy, oligarchy, power elite, Wall Street.  Whatever name you assign it, this class exists in relation to the majority of the human race exactly as the shepherd exists in relation to his sheep.  As a predatory class that feeds off the people as the shepherd feeds off his flock.

Its banking system systematically fleeces the people.  Its corporate system depresses their wages, deprives them of their livelihoods and depletes their life savings.  Its mainstream media dumbs them down, much likes its education system, and distracts them with three-ring celebrity circuses that rob them of their thinking, critical faculties and cause them to undergo a kind of psychological castration.  And lastly, the plutocratic power structure maximizes its market share and its lion’s share of the world’s resources by sending them out to be butchered en masse in battle.

Thus Sniper Dad gave us kids three parts of the story.  The last and most important part is left out.  Now that you know the rest of the story, go ahead and wear T-shirts peddled by Sheepdog Inc, sporting slogans like “Shirts for heroes who hunt down evil”.  Go ahead and wallow in a gun culture and learn self-defense from “Sheepdog Seminars Churches.” Just don’t go telling half-truths when it comes to revealing the sheepdog’ s real function.  Sure, it is to fend off the wolves - but finish the sentence, for goodness’ sake!  It is to fend off the wolves so that the Shepherd can be left in peace to guzzle his sheep’s milk, keep warm in his sheep’s wool, and wolf down his mutton pie.  

Truth to tell, many social commentators have exposed the Good Shepherd analogy as the sordid piece of propaganda it is, from Thrasymachus to Aldous Huxley.  It still keeps turning up like a bad penny.   Perhaps this time we can melt it down and bury it in a slag heap for good.  The takeaway lesson is not that there is no Good Shepherd.  Or that the sheepdog is no warm, fuzzy friend of ours.  It is that people are not sheep.  It is precisely because We the People are not sheep - precisely because we rebel and revolt and every so often mobilize to rise up and protest a rapacious regime that treacherously preys on us - that the sheepdogs put on their body armor and snarl and bite to keep us in line.  For the sheepdog’s role is not to confront the real enemy but to provide it with every aid and comfort to be able to sleep well at night.  It is to provide tactical and logistical support and security so that the predacious class can keep on getting away with murder, as it has done for thousands of years.  

  And that is why the Sheepdog Myth is the ultimate piece of black-ops propaganda.  Those who disseminate it purport to be on the side of the people, when in fact they are valiantly trying to pull the wool over our eyes.  They go around acting like they deserve our gratitude for serving as our guardians, saviors and protectors, when in fact they have one job in life that trumps all the others - and that is to safeguard the monopoly of those who exist to prey on us.

IF YOU ARE GOING TO STEAL, STEAL BIG

                                                     by Neville Raymond

             One time, when I was a kid of five or so, living in Calcutta, I was out with my mother in the New Market. 

            As we stopped to browse at a little toy stall, I fingered the tchotchkes on display and managed to slip a few of them into my pocket. 

            Little painted cars, airplanes, submarines - objects worth a few annas at most.  

            On the way home in the car I took them out of my pocket and showed them to my mother.  

            She immediately bade the driver to turn around and return to the New Market.  

            And then she walked me back to the shop in question and made me give them back to the owner. 

            It was a lesson in stealing I was never to forget. 

            But then, starting at the age of seven, my mother would make a practice of driving me to Howrah station, putting me on a train, and bundling me off to a boarding school some twelve hundred miles away, at the foothill of the Himalayas, for nine months at a stretch.  

             She did this over and over, year after year. 

           

            She stole my joy, my trust, my security.

            She stole my happy-go-lucky childhood. 

            She stole the stars out of my night sky. 

           

            And no one ever took her in hand and made her give them back to me.