Forty percent. That’s a wonderful number. Most people have a sense of what that means. It’s a large percentage but it’s not quite a majority. If you are a Major League Baseball slugger and you get a hit 40% of the time, that’s a lot! That puts you in rare company.
So, when President Mush Melon says forty percent of Medicare calls are fraudulent, that’s a lot! You quite understandably think: What’s wrong with an organization that deals so badly with fraud that 40% of the calls are fraudulent?
And, you might also quite understandably think: What’s wrong with so many of my fellow Americans? Forty percent of them try to cheat the medicare system!
But you know what? It was a lie. It wasn’t a hitter like Ted Williams or Ty Cobb or Aaron Judge. Not at all. It was instead someone who wouldn’t even make the farm team because they were batting worse than .001
Maybe there’s something special about baseball. Well, there is of course. There’s something special about everything. But it isn’t that there’s a big difference between 40% and less than 1%. That kind of difference is important almost all the time.
Let’s say you work for a company and you are reasonably satisfied with your job. Then, one day, you get a call from a recruiter who says:
“Say! Instead of working for the ABC company, we’d like you to come work at the XYZ company. Furthermore, we are offering you a 40% pay raise! What do you say?”
Presumably, you’d do some research, but you’d likely end up accepting the offer. Now imagine that you quit your old job, move across town, say goodbye to your old friends, start your take your new job and then you discover that you actually got less than a 1% raise. Would you just say, “Oh, well any raise is good.”? Maybe, but I doubt it. Most of us would be very angry to leave our job and our work colleagues under false pretenses.
Let’s take another example. Your “friend” will pay you ten million dollars to play Russian Roulette once. He shows you twenty ‘six-shooters’. He tells you (and you verify) that only one of the twenty six-shooters has any ammo in it. That one has one bullet in the cylinder. You’ll be blind folded and then choose one gun, spin the cartridge, put the muzzle to your head and pull the trigger once. If you live, you get ten million dollars. You might think of all the things you could be you and your family for ten million dollars.
You choose to play. But then, your “friend” loads every gun with two or three bullets. Are you still going to play? Would you be upset that he misrepresented your odds that blatantly?
Please understand that these are not “innocent mistakes” or “slight exaggerations.” That is the difference between 39% and 40%, not between 40% and less than one per cent. To make that kind of mistake, you need to have evil intent or suffer from gross incompetence.
Not an actual photo from hell but an AI-generated image.
But this President Mush Melon isn’t just someone setting out to destroy the American government and the confidence of people (though some snowflake liberals would say that’s quite bad enough). No, he’s also in charge of cars that are supposed to drive themselves. Would you want someone who has evil intent to be building cars that drive themselves? Oh, maybe he’s just grossly incompetent. Well—same question: Would you want someone grossly incompetent to be building cars that drive themselves? Oh, by the way, this same someone can download new software so that your car behaves differently!
No worries! The Cybertruck only has a top speed of 130 miles per hour and only weighs between 6600 and 10,000 pounds, so what could possibly go wrong? It’s not as though it could run over you in your driveway. Over and over and over and over.
AI-generated to the following prompt (keep in mind, AI technology is supposed to be driving your self-driving car). “A Tesla Cybertruck that is a dumpster fire”
But wait! There’s more! President Mush Melon also happens to own a company that controls communications satellites used for—-among other things—-war fighting and voting. No problems there, right? It’s all okay so long as there’s no evil intent or gross incompetence.
But wait! There’s more! The Mush Melon also happens to control a company that shoots missiles out over your head. And, the best part is—they never unexpectedly explode! Sure, they suffer from catastrophic unscheduled disassembly. But we’ve all had days like that.
Well, okay, sure there’s some danger having someone in charge of missiles when we know that person lies or suffers from massive incompetence, but hey—at least it’s not a pizza shop, right? You’d know a bad pizza soon after you bought it no matter how many lies the cook told you.
On the other hand, it might be some time before you see the impact of your self-driving truck under someone else’s control, or the results of cutting off crucial communications, or the havoc caused by missiles exploding—excuse me—-rapidly disassembling— at unscheduled times.
Though on the other hand, you might feel this is all worth it because, after all, this person makes billions and billions of dollars a year and therefore provides a huge influx of cash to the U.S. Treasure to the tune of nearly…
Wait…
Nothing? Nothing? Are you kidding? The supposedly richest man in the world pays zero income tax.
But he gives huge contributions of money to a Presidential candidate who then drops all the cases about Mush Melon’s frauds?
The Melon and the Felon: A marriage made in heaven. What’s a good name for the couple? I’m thinking just MF for short. We could call the Felon by 47 but what’s a special number of the Melon? Oh, there’s the form he is supposed to submit to Congress — FS-86. So, I suppose they could go by 8647 or 4786.
“Hey, Hon, guess what? We’re finally going to be able to get that new vacuum cleaner you’ve been asking about.” Stevie grinned from ear to ear. Of course, the vacuum cleaner wasn’t the only thing. But Stevie didn’t see any point in mentioning the new bowling ball or the fifths of Johnny Walker Black. He wasn’t trying to hide those purchases from Karen, his wife of fifteen years. Not exactly. It’s just that—timing was everything. That was all.
Karen looked up from her iPhone solitaire game. More accurately, she looked up from the ads that were interrupting her iPhone solitaire game. Once again, they were trying to cajole her into getting a new app but it was (once again) one she already had. She sighed. She could see that Stevie was quite jazzed so she amped up her enthusiasm two notches as she answered, “That’s great, Stevie. Thanks. Did you get a bonus or something? Win the lottery?”
“No, no lottery. That’s for suckers. Vegas gives you better odds. A bonus though. Exactly.”
Karen chose to paint smile level three on her face. She knew it well because she had practiced in since Junior High. She thought it looked pleased, surprised, happy, and just a tad beholden. “That’s great, Stevie. What’s the bonus for?”
Stevie’s smile faded and he looked out the front window and noticed that it looked as though a thunderstorm was on the way. “Well, for meeting my quota. You know. Just saving the country by getting out the criminals like always. But now we’re serious about it.”
Karen chewed her lip a little. “Yes. Well, a new vacuum cleaner will be great.” A flicker passed over her face. She realized her smile had withered, but Stevie had a faraway look in his eyes anyway and so she returned to her game. The game within the game. The game of finding out where they had hid the X this time—the X that closed down the ads and sent her back to her game. She vaguely noticed that Stevie had walked away over toward the liquor cabinet. She thought: This sucks! All Kings and Jacks but no Queens. How’s that work? Where the hell are they? She pushed the “Random Deal” button to start again.
Summer, 2025.
“Hey, Hon, is dinner ready yet by any chance? I gotta head back out for some…I gotta head back out to work.”
“Really? That’s too bad. Couldn’t they get somebody else? Didn’t you already do your shift? Did you forget it’s Brittany’s swim meet tonight?”
“What? Oh, crap! No, no, I didn’t forget. It’s just…we need to round up more people and there’s…well, we have something planned. These vermin are slippery, you know? I can’t let the team down, not to mention Captain Bligh. Sorry. Next time.”
Karen frowned, “Captain Bligh? I thought your Captain’s name was ‘Smyth with a y’ — you said you guys all called him that because he was always asking ‘Why?’”
“Oh, yeah, you’re right, but that was months ago. He’s out. Bligh’s in. Look. I gotta go. Is dinner ready or not?”
“No, Stevie. We were going to all go out after the meet. We talked about it. Brittany will be hungry after and Steve Junior is always up for burgers and fries.”
Steve Junior slid into the kitchen, raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Did someone mention burgers and fries? You comin’ too dad?”
“No, dammit. I already said that. I have to go to work. Do we have anything in this frigging house to eat? Never mind. I’ll grab something from…I gotta go. Good luck at your meet Junior.”
Steve Senior grabbed his car keys off the hook and left. He hadn’t meant to slam the door. Not exactly.
He didn’t mean to spin gravel onto the lawn when he left either. Not exactly. Karen sighed and Steve Junior frowned as he said, “Meet? What meet? Does Dad think I’m on Brittany’s swim team now?”
“No, he just…he’s just distracted. That’s all. Come on. Let’s pack up. I’ll ask Sue to swing by. She’ll have room for the three of us.”
“Yeah. Well, if Dad’s not going, why should I go? A swim meet’s not the most exciting thing in the world you know. You can’t even see the girls. At least in a track meet you know who’s who. In a swim meet all you see are bubbles and bathing caps.”
Karen put her hand up to hush Stevie Junior while she called Sue. Finished, she said, “Sue said there’s plenty of room for you too and…anyway, although Brittany would never admit it to you, she really does want you there rooting for her. Especially since Dad…won’t be able to make it. Again. She hadn’t mean to say ‘Again.’ Not exactly.
Fall, 2025.
Doctor Lemon shook his head as he glanced at the labs report before him. He kept glancing down at a written report and up at his computer screen. Stevie frowned and drubbed his fingers on the steel arm of the chair. After a few minutes, Doctor Lemon looked up. “Well, Mister Miller, the good news is, there no sign of cancer but your blood work—well, this is the worst it’s ever been. Did you really cut down on sugar and alcohol these past six months. That was our plan, right?”
“Yes! Yes, I did. Way down. Not every day, of course. But overall. Yes. Maybe it’s just genetics, you know?” For some god-damned annoying reason some stupid poster child for WOKE or some stupid folk singer sprang into his head and the young singer or actor, or ‘wacktor’ as his buddies liked to call them, said, ‘Remember. It makes no sense to lie to your own doctor.’
“Well, Mister Miller, genetics do play a role, but your genetics haven’t changed in the last six months. So that’s not why your weight’s up, your blood pressure’s up, and your numbers all look worse. You liver, in fact, is just outside the intervention zone and that’s never looked bad before. Have you cut out exercise? Change jobs maybe? Or stopped walking the dog? Or given up golf?”
“I’m busy at work. That’s all.”
“Yes, well stress can also…”
“I never said anything about stress! I didn’t use that word! You did! Anyway, it’s fine. I’ll do better. But meanwhile, can you give me a pill or something to get my numbers back down?”
Doctor Lemon swiveled his chair to face Steven Miller more directly. The doctor leaned forward and said, “Look, Mister Miller, we’re on the same team here. But I need to know what we’re dealing with. Have you had trouble sleeping?”
Steven Miller ground his teeth. He didn’t mean to growl. Not exactly. But growl he did as he said, “Look, Doc, can you give me a goddamned pill or not?”
“I can give you a pill that might help bring your BP down and even lower your cholesterol, but you know, there are always side effects.”
“Like what?” Steven Miller wished he were on duty right this minute. He could leap up and wrench the guy’s arm for being such an asshole.
Doctor Lemon frowned. He could see his patient was clearly upset. But why? “Sleepiness. ED. Nightmares. Muscle weakness.”
“Screw that! I need my strength. You think my job’s easy, but it isn’t. Just…you know what? Forget it.”
Stevie had had enough poking and prodding for one day. His head felt full like it was a balloon ready to burst. He thought to himself, ED? Bullshit. What does he expect? My wife’s like 45 years old now. So what if I have a drink now and again. I’ll find a way to get the pills. Damned doctors anyway. Stress! Hah! I’d like to see him wrestle these people to the ground. Fucking protestors anyway. If the illegals weren’t here in the first place, they wouldn’t need to be roughed up and deported. I’m doing the job for them. What’s with the damned protests anyway?
Stevie didn’t notice how close he had parked the passenger side of his car to the cement pillar in the parking garage. Not until he heard the scrape of metal as he backed out. Even then, he hadn’t realized at first that his own car was causing the noise. When he finally figured it out, he stopped the car, got out, and walked around to the other side of the car. “Goddammit!”
Like all parking garages, this one was designed and built with two-person golf carts in mind, not SUV’s. So, when Stevie stopped his car, he blocked off the lane for others who wanted to drive by and exit the parking garage. A guy in a BMW tooted his horn. Stevie flipped him off. He thought: Driving a foreign car anyway. An expensive one. Probably a faggot. They’re next. Why is everybody out to get me when I’m just doing my job?
And speaking of people who were just doing there job, that was the situation for “Old Joe” as his co-workers affectionately called him. At one time, his job had been as a soldier. After two tours of duty, he became a cop. He retired from that and had enough to live on. Old Joe wasn’t rich, but he wasn’t destitute. But he liked work. He liked doing something. And, he especially liked doing something that added to society. And he liked having co-workers. And they liked Old Joe as well. He was firm but polite.
He was firm but polite when he requested to see Mr. Miller’s validated parking ticket. Mr. Miller, for his part, explained through gritted teeth that he had left his parking ticket at the doctor’s office and that no-one had reminded him to get his ticket back when he left. Old Joe said, “That sometimes happens. You have two choices. You can pull over there and go back up and get your validated parking ticket. Or, you can pay the max for a lost ticket just like it says when you enter.”
Stevie didn’t mean to growl. Not exactly. His grunts, when translated into more polite language, boiled down to this: “No, I’m not going to do either. You just open the gate up. I need…I’m on an important mission. I’m RIME—which, in case you’re so stupid you don’t know, is the militarized version of ICE. Raiders, Inciters, Maulers, Executers. You understand what ‘Executers’ are? For now, it means we execute the orders of the executive branch. But soon, we’ll have the power of on-the-spot executions of anyone who’s deemed an enemy of the state. If you’re in the way of the state, you’re an enemy of the state. And you, sir (no, Steve didn’t actually use the word ‘sir’—not exactly) are in the way of my doing my job. We’re due to raid a…well, none of your business. But I’m on my way. Now, let me out of this garage before I blow your brains out.”
This claim of being on the way to a raid wasn’t actually true. Not exactly. After his aborted doctor’s visit, Stevie had arranged to meet up with a bunch of the guys over at the bar that was jokingly known by two names: “The Library” (because books would be the last thing discussed there) and “The Lie-Berry” because when the guys got together, they told fishing stories. But the stories weren’t about fishing at all. They were about the size of the lies that they got away with, or, in some cases, didn’t get away with. But it didn’t matter to Stevie. It wasn’t any of Old Joe’s business where he was going. He was RIME. He could do whatever he felt like. And what he felt like right now was smashing Old Joe to smithereens.
Old Joe had seen a thing or two though and he said, in a calm voice,“Well, Mister, I don’t appreciate being threatened. But it seems to me you’re having something of a really bad day. Why don’t you just tell me your name and the phone number of the doctor you went to see and I’ll call them. And if they say you were there, then, I’ll pretend you have a validated ticket.”
“And if I crack your skull, I’ll consider myself validated!” Stevie screamed this much louder than he meant to since there was now a growing line of cars behind him. The last time his group of guys from RIME got together for a Lie-Berry session, Fat Frank had talked about beating up a grocery bagger for putting eggs and tomatoes in the bottom of a paper bag and then throwing in a six pack on top of them. Frank said it was a real pain to deal with the blow-back but in the end, the bagger was fired and Frank didn’t pay any penalty at all. Well, not exactly. In fact, the baggers all avoided the lines that Frank was in. He mostly bagged his own groceries but never really noticed it.
Winter, 2025.
Things were getting out of hand. It wasn’t a full-fledged Civil War. Not exactly. But Stevie had to be careful all the time. Yet he felt too rushed to be careful. He had trouble falling asleep every night and, on the two nights he had experimented with not having any alcohol at all, he hadn’t slept at all. On his typical mornings, the hangover headaches and the bright sun put him in the mood for mayhem.
It didn’t help his mood, that he and Karen hadn’t had sex in months, but that was not a forever problem. Pretty soon, everything would be in place, including women and girls like his smarty pants daughter, Brittany. They were baby ovens and pleasure boxes and household chore-doers. Soon, robots would take that over the chores and the ladies could all sit home and watch soap operas all day or whatever the hell it was they did. But the point is that they would know their place once and for all.
Stevie turned on the TV and surfed over to the Cotton Bowl Game. Cheerleaders. Announcers. Players making amazing blocks and catches and stupid errors. It was just like always.
Not exactly. Stevie felt something between an upset stomach and a tickle. He wondered: What? It feels different. Why? How? What’s going on? He muttered aloud, “Where is everybody?”
Stevie noticed that there were fewer fans in the stands than in any bowl game he’d ever seen. What Stevie didn’t notice was the connection between the plummeting attendance at live sporting events and his own support of the Glorious Leader and his actions as a RIME agent. Few people wanted to risk being caught in the crossfire outdoors or more likely for rooting too loudly for the “wrong team.” Apart from the risk of physical injury, fewer people tended to care about the outcome of a “game” when everyone knew it was rigged so as to enrich the Glorious Leader and those currently in the “inner circle.” There was a lot of money to be made on sports betting when you could control the outcome. Until most betting fans caught on.
Stevie Junior came into the living room to sit beside his Dad and watch the game. He had a large bowl of sour cream flavored ruffled potato chips in his hand. “Say, Dad…”
“No! The answer is still no! Don’t ask again!”
“Dad? Are you okay? The answer is no to what? I was going to ask you if the game’s any good. You mind if I watch? I’ll share my chips with you.”
“Your chips? Did you buy them? Am I missing something? Those are my chips. Did you ever look into getting a job delivering packages? They always need help around this time of year and they’re always hiring. Even you could get a job, Junior.”
“Yeah. Well, this year, they are not hiring any extra people at Amazon or VanCare. I checked. Not a banner year for retailers.”
“Yeah, Stevie. Whatever. I’m sure you could get a job if you really tried. But sure, stay here and freeload instead. Tell you what. I’m heading out to watch this on the big screen. I’ve got a bet going with a bunch of the guys. I forgot I promised to watch the game with everybody at the Lie-Berry. If you see your mom….”
“Hey, Stevie, I’m right here. Did I turn invisible? You’re heading out now? Will you be back in time for dinner?”
“Oh, Christ! Now, you’re going to bug me too?”
Karen sighed. Steve Senior seemed to be in a bad mood most of the time now. She glanced at the coffee table and quickly counted five beer cans and one sudsy mug. Presumably, four beers had already been consumed. Yes and no. Five beers had been consumed and a shot of Jack Daniels with each beer. Karen said: “I’m not going to bug you. Go hang with your friends. But drive carefully, please.”
“Geez Karen. Now I know why everybody hates a Karen. ‘Drive carefully please.’ My ass. Just say what you really mean—that I’m a drunk and I trink do much. Well, no wonder with this family. I’m outta here. Don’t wait up. Like you would anyway. One of these days, I’ll be hauling one of these dangerous criminals out of the country and he’ll pull a gun on me. Don’t worry there’s insurance money. You’ll think you’ll be better off but you won’t be. You need a man to protect you. More than you know. Understand? It’s coming. Women are supposed to belong to a man. Without me. I hope you never have to find out.
Steve Senior staggered as he stood. He grabbed at Junior’s arm to steady himself and succeeded at knocking the potato chips all over the table, floor, and couch. “Jesus, Junior! Watch what the hell you’re doing. Too bad you inherited your mother’s clumsiness.”
Steve stormed out of the house. As he went to unlock the car door, he realized he’d never make it to the library without peeing. He glanced around. It was dark and he didn’t see any nosy neighbors anywhere so he peed next to the garage, mostly hidden by the car. Steve headed off to the Lie-Berry but he never made it there. He didn’t die in a car accident fatality. Not exactly. He did die in a car accident but not from a car accident. He was caught in a cross-fire between National Guardsmen trying to disperse a crowd of peaceful demonstrators by using live ammo and Marines trying to disperse the same crowd of peaceful demonstrators also by using live ammo.
Steve Senior smashed head-on into another car, but his heart had already stopped functioning. Most likely, his brain had also stopped functioning given the damage done to it. We may never know whether he ever had a flicker of consciousness at the end to wonder about his fate.
Perhaps his last thought was the reassurance that he would be ushered up to heaven where scores of beautiful young women would be his slaves in return for his service.
“Your family makes a big difference in how you turn out.”
Which view are you more sympathetic to?
The first statement is related to hundreds of other statements, stories, images, songs, religious doctrines, and procedures that lean conservative & emphasize individual liberty & initiative.
The second statement is likewise related to an entire network of political & cultural agendas.
Both approaches are true in the sense that they are useful ways to approach the world.
For me, the most appropriate context for emphasizing the first statement & its attendant attitude is when I make decisions that mainly affect my own life. It makes me more productive, responsible, & happier to focus on how I am the master of my destiny. Nonetheless, it is also occasionally helpful to step back and reflect on the conditions that favor my productivity & happiness & then try to maximize those conditions. It would be silly to think my behavior is unaffected by the external world.
On the other hand, when it comes to public policy, it makes sense to me to focus on how modifiable conditions impact people’s performance & happiness. For example, we’ve known for fifty years that people are generally more productive with a 30 hour work week than they are with a 60 hour workweek.
The two frameworks are often quite different in terms of the sources of their evidence. I am immediately aware that factors like my “determination” and “concentration” impact my performance. I hear such a relationship referred to in nearly every sportscast of every sport. But I don’t rely on such banter. I feel it and know it directly.
On the other hand, the relationship between external factors and other people’s situations is probabilistic and hard to see. I largely rely on studies of such phenomena. I have to read such studies critically to know which ones to believe in and which ones are flawed. I don’t typically rely on a single study. And I also see how networks of studies relate to each other.
For instance, heavy metals in the environment are bad for brain development. I don’t think this because I listened to some guy on his podcast. I believe it because there are many such studies with many kinds of pollutants done over a long period of time by many investigators. Moreover, I understand why such heavy metals can cause problems. There are not only numerous correlational studies of humans; there are also laboratory studies using a wide variety of animals.
Democracies and Autocracies have commonalities and differences. But the differences in structure make a huge difference in the experiences of ordinary people. Just to take one example, most people in autocracies are far worse off economically. They are also much more likely to die in violence. A modern democracy finds it difficult to commit a large proportion of its citizenry to a ground war. On the other hand, Putin has no problem doing that. He takes advantage of his advantages. As a dictator, he is much less bound to do things that are “popular”; moreover, because he has control of the media, he can also influence what is popular more than any American POTUS.
AI-generated image to this prompt: A car mechanic explains to his customer (An orange balloon with a face) while pointing to a car with no tires. A word balloon from the mechanic says, “It’ll be much faster without the weight of those big tires.” (I’m ready for an AI surgeon! How about you?)
America, in particular, as well as democracies more generally, has many advantages including: attracting the best talent from all over the world; having a market economy that rewards the best ideas; having a diverse population; having an outstanding educational system that encourages a degree of creativity and independence; having a largely uncorrupt police and military; having leaders that are held to account which, in turn, tends to lead them to actions that are good for the country; having a network of long-time international allies; having economic co-dependencies with many other countries on the planet.
Here’s the ironic part: Putin has convinced Trump that in order to become the dictator that Trump dreams of, he needs to get rid of every single advantage that America has over Russia. And, Trump, in his colossal stupidity and lack of relevant experience or knowledge of history has done everything he can to destroy his advantages over Putin. But Putin hasn’t given up any of his small advantages: he still controls the Russian media and still has no problem sacrificing tens of thousands of his population in a war that does nothing for the average Russian citizen.
An AI-generated image to this prompt: A tennis coach and his pupil are on a tennis court. The tennis coach looks like Vladimir Putin. The pupil is an orange baboon. The coach has a word balloon that says, “Don’t use a racquet! You’ll be able to move your hand much more quickly!”
As a result, we see the spectacle of the leader of the what was very recently the most powerful nation on earth calling out the Russian dictator and having the Russian dictator thumb his nose back at Trump. Had Trump kept all the advantages that made America great (hint: it isn’t a hat or mean-tweeting) he would be able to put considerable pressure on Putin. As it stands, Trump stands for nothing and the foundation of strength that he inherited from more than 250 years of building that strong foundation is being ground daily to sand.
How? Primarily by the hand of Trump himself. At the end of the day, Trump, if he is “successful” in his ambitions—the man who could have been President of the most powerful nation on earth—will instead by relegated to being an extremely unpopular dictator surrounded by inept crooks, many of whom will be seeking to unseat him. And, he won’t be dictator of the most powerful nation on earth; he will be dictator of what was formerly the most powerful nation on earth—now one with a broken military, a broken government, a broken intelligence agency, a broken foreign service, a broken health care system, a broken educational system, a broken legal system, a broken economy, and broken friendships. He’ll be an object of ridicule throughout the world and despised in his own country. In his blind grab for all the power, he has destroyed his chance at actual power.
AI-generated to the prompt: An obese orange man is about to jump out the door of an airplane. He’s handing a parachute to someone behind him. The obese orange man says, “A parachute will only slow me down!”
Typically, most of us think of friends as those who will stand by you through thick and thin. Sometimes, this means that they’re willing to encourage you when you’re down.
To me, a friend is also someone who is willing to give you frank feedback when you’re failing or making a mistake. If I’m doing something counter-productive or wrong, I’d generally like to know. A complement is okay, but I prefer sincere ones. To me, it would be demeaning for someone to lie about my accomplishments or abilities—demeaning to the person who gives such a false complement and demeaning to me as well.
It’s always struck me as an extremely nasty thing to give someone falsely flattering feedback. Of course, if you’re teaching a two year old to bat a ball—or, as I was doing a short time ago—encouraging our puppy to learn to swim—then you set your criterion for “success” fairly low. You don’t expect a two year old to grab a 38” bat, face a major league pitcher and hit a home run into the third deck of Yankee Stadium. You don’t expect a puppy to swim across the English Channel. You have to shape exceptional skill by rewarding behavior. You do it by beginning to reward any behavior that is “in the right direction.” At first, any contact a toddler makes when swinging a bat at a ball is rewarded. A puppy just learning to swim is initially rewarded even for going a few feet.
As a child matures physically and intellectually and learns a skill, you can give more instructive and more measured feedback. For instance, if a kid is learning to hit a baseball, you might give feedback about how solidly they’ve hit the ball. Soon, they’ll be capable of knowing that for themselves. They will see their hit pop up or trickle along the ground or instead streak away in a line drive. Eventually, after seeing many grounders, pop-ups, and line drives, they will know from the “feel” of the bat whether they’ve made solid contact.
Generally, if a person gets accurate feedback from others, they will learn to provide accurate feedback to themselves. If someone keeps doing badly but getting a “pass” constantly, or worse, having people flatter them when they’re doing badly, they’ll become disconnected from reality. This can happen, for instance, to a rich or influential person. The flatterers don’t do it to be kind. They do it to “get on the good side” of someone who is susceptible to such false feedback.
To me, telling an adult their performance is stellar when it actually stinks is typically not a kindness but an evil deed. Understand: I’m not using the word ‘evil’ to mean ‘counter-productive’ or ‘sub-optimal.’ I using the word ‘evil’ because I mean ‘evil.’
One result is that the person’s performance may not improve. Someone who might have become a decent hitter, or tennis player, or swimmer instead stays forever mediocre. What’s worse is that the person may decide to attempt to become a professional baseball player or tennis player when that will be a costly error.
If the flattered person is in some kind of position of authority, the result may be even worse. A police officer, manager, executive, teacher, or political figure who is doing a terrible job but being told they’re doing a great job is not only preventing them from reaching their own potential. They are harming others as well. And, the person giving such false feedback is also harming themselves, their friends, and their families. If they do it enough, they will not learn to look carefully at the behavior or others and give useful feedback. Eventually, they too become disconnected from reality.
Flattery is evil in business in that it’s a misdirection of effort based on lies. Flattery is evil in sports for the same reason. Art? Same. Music? Same. Parents flattering their kids does not build self-confidence. It builds false confidence, making them believe they can do more than they can; that they are expected to do more than they can. Eventually, when the child receives honest feedback from physical reality or from folks that don’t have any reason to flatter, they’ll feel worse than if they had had more honest feedback all along.
The most egregious form of fake flattery, however, occurs in dick-tater-$hits. When the autocrat takes cruel, destructive, or stupid actions, that autocrat is told by a circle of sycophants that his evil actions are wonderful, brilliant, magnanimous, etc. This devalues the person who says it; they lose all credibility. It is also a disservice to the person whose a$$ they are kissing. They are training him up to be even more evil and stupid. It is also a disservice to the very nature of humanity. The one thing we humans have going for us is our ability to coordinate and cooperate on very large scale projects. In order for that to work, we need to communicate. We need to communicate our wishes, our plans, the current state of progress, mistakes, ideas for how to fix them, and what we have learned. If everything we say is a lie, we create nothing. We provide no value. None.
True enough, parasites can live for a time off of the value that previous generations built. But once trust and honesty are destroyed, and the truth means nothing, we are no better than beasts except that we’re less hardy. A tribe of humans used to take down a mammoth. But even a much larger horde of humans, lying about what they are doing and looking out only for themselves? If our ancestors had acted like modern day dick-taters, humanity would not have survived.
Flattering your friend and fawning over them is not, in fact, friendship. It is freaky and frankly disgusting. It’s disgusting that anyone would find such behavior pleasurable. It’s disgusting that anyone would demand it. And it’s disgusting that anyone would engage in such false flattery.
Whatever your sensibilities of the aesthetics of human relations, however, such behavior is economically ruinous. It is antithetical to learning, to science, to progress, to improvement in the human condition.
“But Mommy! I thought eating all the cookies would make you happy! You were happy when I ate all my dinner last night!”
“But Daddy! I thought it would be good to teach kitty how to breathe under water! Fish breathe under water!”
“But Mommy! I thought it would help the flowers on the carpet grow if I pooped all over them! Grandpa said farmers use poop to help flowers grow!”
“But Daddy! I thought it would toughen up my little brother if I hit him with a baseball bat. He’s was so soft and he wanted to play with us big boys!”
You wouldn’t accept such lame excuses from your own kids nor from anyone else’s.
Why does the mainstream media—whether left, right, and middle—keep repeating equally stupid excuses for the Putin Misadministration’s continuing crusade to destroy America?
We have a Misadministration who has failed to fill many important positions and those who have filled positions mainly lied during their confirmation hearings. Lies. Lies. Lies.
Competent military leaders with years of experience and with real loyalty to America and its Constitution have been replaced.
The Misadministration has sent a team of hackers into the heart and brain of every important government function in order to gather personal data and hamstring the functions that provide important benefits which we, the taxpayers, have paid for.
The Putin Misadministration has destroyed our longest, strongest alliances for nothing but sided with the world’s worst dictators.
The Putin Misadministration has destroyed our economy, started trade wars, destroyed effective supply chains, and totally failed to fulfill pre-election promises to lower the costs for Americans. The only benefits are that the seemingly random fluctuations in policy allowed the greediest people on the planet to benefit from insider trading.
The Putin Misadministration laughs at the Constitution. Other than that, it ignores it.
All of this and more has been reported by the press.
Cool.
But every time, they also report on the “rationale” which is no rationale at all. It is nothing more than a pack of inconsistent and illogical lies no more coherent or thoughtful than the lies of a sociopathic child. The lies are not news. Media: stop reporting them.
Readers: do not pay attention to the lies. Pay attention to what the hell is happening. And, if you’re part of the mainstream media, please do not repeat and report on the idiotic rationalizations as though they are news. It’s not news that a con man cons. It’s not news that a convicted felon lies.
Consistently ranked as one of the top ten Hospitals in America, this week, Massachusetts General Hospital was lucky enough to be visited by a crack team of hacker-jackers to improve the efficiency of the hospital. And, boy did they!! Pull up a chair and throw a log on the campfire, boys and girls. You’ll be amazed at how much money they saved!
And by “saved” I mean “saved from going into stupid, unglamorous things like bedpans and surgical masks and instead being funneled into the pockets of billionaires.” It’s not all that surprising. After all, it’s well known that poor people tend to waste their money on trivialities like food, clothing, shelter, and child care while billionaire geniuses tend to spend their money on important things like buying yachts, vacation homes, Judges on the US Extreme Court, and golden toilet seats.
We don’t typically think of surgeons as “poor people” but compared with the greediest people on the planet they sure are! The average salary of surgeons is only about 300 thousand dollars a year while world’s greediest man made over $200 billion! If we round down the surgeon salaries because they often pay taxes, we discover that he makes a million times more than a surgeon! So, it’s not really a great surprise that he can also make a hospital a million times more efficient!
First, President Mush discovered that every single patient seen at Mass General Hospital in its first one hundred years of existence (1811 to 1911) died! Yes, you heard that right: Died! Despite its reputation and ranking, not a single patient seen in that entire century is still alive!
(AI generated image to the prompt: “A graveyard with scores of tombstones. Each tombstone shows birth dates and death dates in the 1800’s.” Notice any issues?).
So, the first brilliant insight of The World’s Greediest Man is simply that Mass General Hospital is actually no better at preserving life than no hospital at all! Everyone who lived during those same years (1811 to 1911) and did not go to Mass General is also dead. There’s no difference! All that money wasted on medical care made no difference at all in the end.
A good workman doesn’t blame their tools. But that doesn’t mean that tools don’t differ in their efficiency. Surgeons, probably because they have a phallic fixation, prefer long thin tools like scalpels, catheters, and scissors. These are not tools for fast work though. For instance, a typical quadruple bypass surgery takes three to six hours! Are you kidding me!? No wonder hospitalization is so expensive.
President Mush and his cracker-jack hackers discovered that there is no part of the human anatomy that cannot be cut much faster with an ordinary chain saw. Sure, the feminized, woke, namby-pamby doctor boys will say that a chain saw isn’t delicate enough for heart surgery. How ridiculous is that? If it’s good enough to hack limbs off a tree, it’s good enough to hack cholesterol out of an artery or whatever the hell it is these pretty boys do during heart surgery.
(AI generated image to the prompt: “A hospital operating room with bright lights. A patient is on the table. The patient is being operated on by a surgeon wielding a chain saw.”)
Not only are there direct savings from having more efficient surgical tools. There are side benefits. When surgery takes three to six hours, time is wasted prepping the patient, giving them pain-killers, monitoring their vital signs, giving them blood—on and on and on. You don’t need such an elaborate set-up when you use a chain saw.
There are other advantages and cost-savings as well. There’s no room between here and the end of this article to list them all in detail, but you can take The World’s Greediest Man at his word. It doesn’t matter if he lies every day on the platform he bought to spout lies. He might lie about test results or political matters but certainly not when it comes to money.
One simple example arises from vastly simplified training programs. Limit doctoring to rich, white, Nazi, males since they are obviously superior. In fact, they are so superior that they demand every aspect of society be even more unfairly tilted so they are guaranteed a win in everything. That proves they’re superior. While training a doctor today takes more than a decade, you can show a rich, white, Nazi male how to run a chain saw in minutes!
For this and other reasons, formulas, fudging, faking, numbers, data, hand-waving, obfuscation, and moving things over three to ten decimal points, President Mush and his hacker-jacks will be able to cut over $5 trillion dollars from Medicare and Medicaid thus enabling an additional $500 trillion dollars to flow into the pockets of The World’s Greediest Man. These savings will also erase the national debt and cause water to flow uphill. Do the math!
This money, by the way, will not be spent on some stupid vanity project such as saving starving children or keeping the earth’s ecosystems from collapsing. Instead, it will be spent on something important and visionary—establishing a Cult Colony on Mars for President Mush and a carefully chosen cohort of consorts to populate the red planet.
Let’s face it. Earth is overrun with all sorts of life forms that are not The World’s Greediest Man. Why would anyone want that? Yech! Spiders! Bees! Trees! Birds! Bacteria, for God’s sake. Mold. Mushrooms. Flowers. Polar bears. Dragonflies. None of them is a problem on Mars. It’s got sand and rocks. And, once The Greediest Man on Earth is there, it will have everything it needs.
(AI generated image to the prompt: “Two rectangular panels. On the left is an image of a lush and beautiful garden with flowers, birds, and butterflies. On the right is an image of the Martian desert with no plants of any kind. Nothing green appears in the right hand image.” This was my fourth attempt to remove any plants from the image of Mars!)
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