At one company that I worked at as a Q.A. inspector, there were cut-backs and of course my department was one of the first to suffer lay-offs. Although I still had a job, I was approached with the offer of transferring to sales. I refused the offer stating that I wouldn’t be any good at selling something that I wouldn’t buy myself. But there are those that can. That is the nature of sales, I guess. The ‘is-ness” of business. Sell, sell…sell. There are people out there that could sell gold bricks…and do. I have met many. The good ones…the ones that are top sales reps in their field, the “salesmen of the month” types have always fascinated me. They are cut from a different cloth. They have a portable conscience. They have no problem lying, cheating or fudging records to keep the sales coming in. And if you are selling a product that is relatively what you say it is, I guess there is little harm in it. If a car salesman tells you that you get the window tinting on your new vehicle included in the price, only to find out later that it isn’t and you don’t…and he doesn’t seem to remember saying that or even who the hell you are…well, buyer beware, I guess. You know he is a liar. You knew it when you made the deal, if you were to analyze it. But you signed on the dotted line. You are out a couple hundred bucks. It isn’t going to break you. No one is injured or killed. Pay the money and cut your losses.
But what about the salesman? How can he do that day after day, year after year, accept award after award?

He likes it.

You cannot excel at anything that you don’t enjoy, at least on some level. So these two-dimensional people that don’t care if you get what you paid for, enjoy that feeling of having taken you for the fool that you are. Somewhere in their heads they see their misdealings as some sort of game. A game that if they win, they get money. I wish I could work at something that enjoyable and lucrative. If only. If only I could put away my conscience and tell teenagers about the wondrous career that awaits them in a “man’s ” army, for instance. That must be a tough sell. Hard to close. Death, dismemberment…insanity. It must be difficult to get that signature on the paper. You gotta do a lot of bald-faced lying. You have to voice-match, “buddy-buddy” and “let-me-go-ask-my-manager” till you’re blue in the face. And it must be getting tougher. I almost feel sorry for those types of salesmen. Almost.

I mean, how do you sell something like that? Haven’t most people been alive on this planet long enough to know what war is really all about? Surely they have seen the ravages of it…it is everywhere. Where is the disconnect when a young man or woman signs those papers? Do they, like Scarlett O’Hara say to themselves: “oh, I can’t think about that today, I’ll think about that tomorrow”? Can people do that? Can people who know that they are about to join a group of killers and kill with them, ever sleep well again? Clearly they can. And have been doing so since time immemorial. And they are always nothing more than children when they join. Ah, there’s the rub.
During the Viet Nam war, we “children” would stand outside recruiting offices offering those thinking of joining the armed forces, copies of “Johnny Got His Gun”, or a pamphlet containing the poems of Wilfred Owen.

Anthem For Doomed Youth by Wilfred Owen
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, —
The shrill, de
mented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

These offerings were fly-bys to most of those lining up to die in the humid jungles of a foreign land. They were for the most part, incapable of understanding not only what they were doing to their own lives, but the lives of those that they were invading. Cannon fodder. They are always there.

Along with many others throughout history, Mel Gibson(damn, and I said I wasn’t going to mention him again) is reported to have said that jews have started all the wars in history. Well, that might be overstated, but in my opinion…not far off the mark. We all see the hand of the Rothschild in most conflicts throughout the world and have for at least 500 years, in one way or another.

I actually went to a movie not long ago, in a theatre. Go figure. During all the previews, came a commercial for war and death. All dressed up and looking intelligent and purposeful and dedicated, these actors and actresses were selling their death, dismemberment and dementia. Not a word of protest from the audience, as if they somehow agreed with it’s purpose and …ok…let’s get on with the movie. It is still part of this world. The filthy wandering jew still peddles it from his rag-bin with his pornography and usury and hatred… …and we are still buying. I dunno…when you get older, you just kind of assume that all you have learned over the years…the world has learned. Not so. We continue to sign our children away and thank god that we live in a country where we are free to do so. In the small Midwestern town that I reside in now, they are burying their dead as they come home from another foreign land. They are heroes. They are not the bodies of children that were taken for fools by some salesmen. You will never end war as long as you glorify it. Perhaps this all

sounds naive and simplistic and hackneyed…but still… It makes you weep.


4 thoughts on “War…

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