The Bloody Hand That Points The Blame At Putin

I agree that Putin should not have invaded Ukraine. All war is wrong. But that America should raise its blood-soaked hand to point the finger of blame is beyond disgusting. And that average Americans should embrace the propaganda pumped out by their war machine is an embarrassment. I can only imagine what the sight of a sanctimonious American wearing a Ukrainian flag pin would look like through the eyes of an Iraqi widow, a Syrian orphan, or a Libyan being auctioned off in the slave markets that have popped up after U.S. and NATO intervention in their country.

The American way of life is fueled by the blood of its victims. The fuel your cars run on are pumped from Iraqi wells at the cost of dead Iraqi children. Your clothes are made in slave-labor conditions in countries whose governments you have overthrown. The precious minerals used in your cell phones was mined by children in countries where puppet governments were installed by your government. The very timber with which your house was constructed may have been taken from the Amazon Rainforest, permitted by the fascist leader you helped pave the way for. As Elon Musk said, “We coup who we want to coup.”

Your cars are fueled with the blood of the victims of your wars, fueled by the Saudis who even now continue waging slaughter against Yemenis, using weapons sold to them by the U.S.A. Your cell phone screens are smeared with blood, your clothes are wet with it. Blood drips from your rooftops. But your ears do not hear the dripping over the droning of your television sets, which cry out for further interventions.

You virtue signal and share memes created by military intelligence think tanks about how only the U.S. can save the children. But you don’t truly want justice, what you want is comfort. You want the comfort of watching TV without the war propaganda that makes you feel terrible inside. And the only way you will ever silence the war propaganda will be to accede to the screaming war mongers on the television, to attune your pitch to theirs so that it does not rattle your insides. Give them what they want, give them your consent to go kill some more and they will give you your own personal peace. Give them their wars and they will return to you your pleasant brunches. Scream along with them and perhaps you will begin to believe it is YOUR voice that is speaking, that you are not some hollow vessel through which the Mighty Wurlitzer reverberates.

And when they have at last received the required amount of consent, they will permit you to go back to your programming. You need not worry, they will never trouble you with the screams and the corpses and the destruction of THEIR actions. They will spare you that far greater, far bloodier unpleasantness. And then, after you have given them your consent for wars that last decades after you’ve stopped thinking about them, you can return to living in peace.

Until the next time.