The dark underbelly of Democracy's belly

It’s been said that a democracy is nothing more than two wolves and a sheep deciding what to have for dinner. Everyone pretty much agrees that a democracy is the best form of government because it displays “the will of the people” or at least “the will of just over half the people.” Obviously this can cause some issues when the mob mentality takes over and right or wrong, decides to screw over the minority. If you find yourself in a minority, you can then either a) just shut up and take your lumps or b) try to convince the mob that you shouldn’t be screwed over or c) some other option that I haven’t thought of.

Democracies are not all they are cracked up to be even though they often portray themselves as representing a caring society. After a few drinks, Democracies will also portray themselves as wealthy architects with wives that “don’t understand them”. In short, Democracies can be douche bags. But even when they are sober and they’re standing around staring at other societies’ breasts and telling them how much they care about people, Democracies ignore many of the problems that plague us all. To illustrate this irrefutable stance that I’ve taken (my stance is usually one foot up on a chair and smoking a pipe) let me point out two major issues that have yet to be addressed by these so-called caring societies:
1. Homelessness
2. Abandoned missile solos

I posit that we can solve both of these problems in one fell swoop. You guessed it, all we need to do is round up all the homeless people and stick them into those huge underground missile silos that the US government shut down. Apparently those silos are mostly radiation free and can hold a huge number of people and shopping carts. It seems like a no brainer to just hand out a packet of seeds and maybe a few chickens for them to raise and then voila, no more wasted space or smelly homeless people on the streets. Granted, many of them will not willingly submit to being helped, but that’s where caring societies are so efficient: they will care for people regardless if they want to be cared for or not. That is the measure of how much they are loved. Just like people living in faraway countries are often “freed” by having “bombs dropped on their heads.”

Another possible solution for homelessness is to move them all out to the country. It seems that homeless people tend to congregate in cities and have deep urban roots. You don’t often see them hanging around corn fields. Maybe they do, but farmers may be just as loving as Democracies and shoot them and bury their bodies in fields when no one is looking. In any case, if we just transposed the homeless out to the boonies, then they could possibly get work as scarecrows or just laze away the day next to every 1976 Buick Skylark every made that are currently parked near the highway and adorned with hand painted FOR SALE signs. That would be gainful employment for homeless people. Or some farmers can shoot them.

I know what you’re thinking though, “That alone will not solve the abandoned missile silo crisis!” And you’re absolutely right; it wouldn’t take care of that problem at all. If we are too squeamish to jam a few thousand homeless people into massive underground crypts that possibly contain more than acceptable levels of radiation, then maybe we need to take a good hard look at ourselves and ask, “How would you “round up” homeless people anyway? Cowboys with lassos?” Because if we aren’t prepared to do the dirty work, to get our hands dirty and probably quite smelly too, to care about homelessness enough to darn well do something about it, then people, all I can say is that we ought to be ashamed of ourselves. Since I never want to be ashamed of myself for anything, my plan (sketched out on a napkin) is thus:
Roughly 45% of grown up type people vote so all I have to do is convince 23% of the adult population to adopt a law that states, “All homeless people will be rounded up and either dumped underground or sent out to a field somewhere, probably to die.”
“Ah,” you say, “Not even 23% of adults would vote for that. It’s unjust.” And that is where I would pat you on the head in a patronizing fashion and gently coo, “You are a naïve twit.” I would have a slick advertising campaign and have good looking celebrities make ads for me in which they smile and say, “Anyone that doesn’t vote for “Proposition Kill All the Homeless” is not cool or attractive.” Then hoards of people (23%) would say, “I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m not cool or attractive, especially after all that work I put in at the gym. I am going to vote for “Proposition Kill All the Homeless”, whatever that is.”
That would be democracy at work.

Condominiums! That’s what we can use those empty missile silos for. Or shopping malls! Underground missile silo malls! There, one problem solved.

Children are our future janitors

The other day while I was making sweet love to myself, I came across an article that stated that kids are much stupider than they were a generation ago. I’m not sure that I can agree with that bold declaration even though I have always felt that all kids are morons. Consider these alarming made up statistics: 2 out of 3 teenagers do not know how to spell their own name. 90% of all children under the age of 14 eat their own nose mucus. 4 out of 5 children born after 1995 hate their grandparents. I could go on and on about these startling figures but perhaps the greatest and most disappointing statistic is that three quarters of all kids under the age of 30 haven’t the foggiest idea what “three quarters” means. Of course, I could grumble disparagingly about “kids nowadays” like every other person over the age of 29 does but I just don’t buy into that kind of generational outlook. To listen to those grumblers you would think that they did their homework between shifts at the coal mine. I don’t believe the argument that kids nowadays are any more idiotic than any other batch of miscreant children from generations past. I can supply an example from my own past that begins with this shocking quotation: “Don’t go boogieing off.” Those were the words of a 12 year old bully, tormenting a future devil of handsome proportions, namely, me. Now that I’ve reached the ripe old age of maturity (roughly 19 and a half years old) I can look back through the years and face those awful, smelly memories of my youth. I’ve harbored a great deal of resentment toward that nameless bully who could turn a phrase so majestically. Maybe it was the threat of being pummeled by him and his gang of pre-pubescent thugs or it might have been simple jealousy over his grammatical skill, being able to turn the word “boogie” into a gerund. In any case, the scars run deep my friends, the scars run deep. Even though I’m not a day over 20ish, I can recall that fateful day with frightening clarity. The kind of gruesome clarity that makes for expensive therapy bills. I was a lad of 9 or maybe 10 and I’d just gotten a new bike for my birthday or gentile bar mitzvah or something. Come to think of it, I’m not sure the bike was new. But I do know, with shockingly accurate clarity, that it was summer. Or possibly autumn. I can swear that it wasn’t winter, because I was riding a bike. Anyway, there I was, young and carefree, riding my bike around the block like a young (9 or 10 years old) Steve McQueen, breaking all the rules and thumbing my nose at “the man”. (As a child, I was deeply opposed to “the man” – “the man” being authority, not necessarily that man who drove a van slowly past the elementary schools. That guy was OK because he had candy.) Anyway, all of a sudden a gang of ruffians appeared out of nowhere and the leader of the gang blocked my path. He demanded to know what I was doing, riding my bike with awesome skill around his neighborhood. I believe that my reply was no doubt witty and probably laden with subtext that would astound anyone who heard it but that ruffian was not impressed and after an exchange of delightful banter (witty, thought provoking, chock full of unique observations) he pushed me and my pant leg got caught in the bike chain and I fell over backwards. He and his gang of future Mensa candidates laughed and left me in a state of bloody elbow, torn pant leg and a lasting belief that kids are idiots and ought to be locked up. In any case, the moral of this story (because apparently you need one of those for everything you talk about) is that kids are not any getting smarter and something ought to be done about it. So get to it.