Love Is The Answer

Love Is The Answer

by C.A. Matthews

Light of the world, shine on me
Love is the answer
Shine on us all, set us free
Love is the answer

--From Love Is the Answer by England Dan and John Ford Coley

If you’re reading this, this means I’m still recuperating from a long weekend away to attend my late uncle’s celebration of life. My uncle didn’t want a funeral—he wanted a party. I think it’s a great way to be remembered by your loved ones. To be remembered as a human being embracing life to its fullest and never surrendering to the sadness. To go out fighting for the right and loving others for as long as humanly possible. And he did.

I decided to write this essay before I left town. Since I’ll be without a laptop for a few days, and I have a rather crappy cell phone with a too small screen to read easily, I’ll be in internet withdrawal by the time I return. I’ll probably be incoherent from lack of sleep as well because of the weird early flights I had to take to get there and back again, but it’ll be worth it to see my aunt and cousins and at least two of my siblings together in one place, celebrating our dearly departed loved one as a family.

I realize this piece will probably get zero likes and probably even fewer reads than my recent article entitled The Fight (where in I used the “z-word” once to describe a person’s political viewpoint, forcing Facebook to censor it), but some things need to be said. They need to be said no matter how popular or unpopular they are to the masses. If my worse fault is my bluntness, then so be it...

 

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Baby-Killers Make Lousy Leaders

Baby-Killers Make Lousy Leaders

by C.A. Matthews

I can’t take it anymore. I can’t keep silent and act politely while there are sadistic madmen and inconceivably evil women roaming the face of the planet. I don’t care who I offend with my next statement, so here goes:

Baby-killers should never be allowed to become popes, priests, presidents, or prime ministers.

There. I said it. I’m glad to get that off my chest.

Many studies have shown that a particular type of personality disordered individual seems to rise to the top in business, politics, organized religion, and life in general in this sick capitalist society. This individual’s mental illness allows them to out-compete, out-manipulate, and out-evil (I made that word up for lack of finding an adjective that works in this sentence) all others in order to get ahead. This type of individual doesn’t lose sleep over screwing over others. Heck, if they have to steal, beg, borrow, prostitute themselves and/or kill to achieve power that’s exactly what they’ll do.

No pity. No remorse.

No kidding.

Most would label these merciless creatures “sociopaths,” which means a person who displays anti-social personality traits. I’m growing tired of that word myself. It doesn’t go far enough, so I’ve come up with a synonym that’s more descriptive and easier to understand: I call these creatures simply “baby-killers.”

For those who can’t quite make the connection, here is why I’ve chosen to label these creatures baby-killers…

 

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Scratch The Surface

 

Scratch The Surface

by C.A. Matthews

We watched a mystery program recently where the antique dealer sleuth was asked to solve the puzzle of what happened to an older woman’s inheritance that supposedly was “right in front of her.” As the old woman sat leaning on her cane, the sleuth asked if she could see the cane. The sleuth took a nail file and scratched the head of the cane, flaking off some of the paint covering it. Hidden under several layers of paint was a solid gold ornament—the woman’s inheritance. The sleuth had cracked the puzzle. Scratching the surface revealed a treasure.

If only everything was as golden underneath its surface!

If you scratch the surface of the current crop of duopoly candidates for the White House, you probably won’t like what you find underneath. It’s about as far from gold as you can get!

There’s no secret to the shallowness of Donald Trump. The whole world experienced his narcissism in his first time in office, so is there any need to rehash it? After his recent experiences in court, nobody—and I mean nobody—really wants to see what’s underneath the Trumpster Fire’s surface. We’re all agreed: It ain’t pretty.

The same could be said of Kamala “The Cackler” Harris. Harris has been compared to former president Barack Obama who in a recent biography was described as being “hollow at its core” or an empty vessel. That means there’s essentially nothing underneath those insane giggles and grins of Harris. There’s no guiding principles or firmly held beliefs. She’s held together by a willingness to do whatever the oligarchs want her to do. Mark my words, what billionaires want Harris to do for them isn’t going to be of help to any of us ordinary folks...

 

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Codependent Conspirators

Codependent Conspirators

Or 

“Any Excuse To Bomb, Starve, Maim, Torture, or Rape Will Do”

by C. A. Matthews

Once upon a time there was a violent and spoiled brat named Benji. Benji lusted after his neighbor’s things. He wanted to play in his neighbor’s yard any time he wanted to without asking permission. He longed to beat up and terrorize his neighbors any time he felt like it, particularly one neighbor. Benji held a long held grudge against this neighbor because he coveted this neighbor’s yard and things the most. But he couldn’t go it alone—he needed help in doing so with minimum injury to himself.

So Benji went to his mother, Usa, to ask for her help.

Benji: I need more bombs to blow up the neighbors. Give them to me!

Usa: Okay, just give me a moment to gather them up. Now, don’t do anything foolish with those bombs that could reflect badly on either me or you.

Benji: I will do whatever I want. I’m special. Anything I want, I get.

Usa: Yes, I know, but you have to give a little in return. You have to let me have access to your room from time to time for my purposes and—

Benji: Yeah, yeah, whatever! Where are the bombs? I need them now.

Usa: Hold on, hold on… [The phone rings. She answers it.] Hello. What’s that, Mrs. Icici? Benji has a what out on his head? A warrant for genocide? He’s been allowing his gang to do what to the neighbor’s kids? Rape? Torture? Maiming? Stealing their pocket money and bombing their lunch boxes?

Benji: Hurry up! These people don’t just kill themselves! You’re cramping my style.

Usa: (Still on the phone.) All right, Mrs. Icici. I’ll let him know. But I’ll have you know that I don’t appreciate your tone. Benji and I have a perfectly respectful relationship. I can’t believe all the lies you’re saying about him. You’re just trying to blame him for everything that goes wrong in the world. It’s all the other kids’ fault anyway. They’re all terrorists and monsters. Good-bye!

Benji: Finally! Give me the bombs and then get back to doing what you do best.

Usa: (Handing the armaments to him.) What’s that, dear?

 

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