A Nightmare Senario

Wednesday, March 28th, 2007.
My doctor had advised me that I was showing signs of exhaustion. I had been feeling blah of late so I called Stan and we spent the day fishing off of his pier. I had gotten up early, picked up Anna in Humble and arrived at the lake around 8:30am. It was a great, relaxing day of fishing, fellowship, lunch at Floridas then home late in the afternoon. Just what the Doctor ordered. I did some bookwork, then turned on the telly to catch the CNN news at 10pm.
I was greeted by a sight that brought vomit up into my throat. There was Karl Rove, rapping,
jamming and dancing before a roaring crowd at the "Radio and Television Correspondents Dinner". Karl Rove, the same parasite that bugged his own office in Texas, then tried to blame it on the Democrat who was running against Dubya for Governor. The Sheriff was not fooled or amused. The same despicable, psychopathologic brain that lied, connived, cheated and defamed all opposition to get George elected President. This, the torture maven who gives honest people a visceral gut reaction on sight. The same little worm that sat and giggled with W at the death row inmates who were asking for review before execution. But then, they had bigger fish to kill.
Yes, here he was, all over my television screen being applauded by the same sycophantic press corps. that never questioned one of the fabric of lies that led us into an unjustified war against a people who had no defence, and had done nothing to us. This same press group that got a big kick out of George last year when he said, "no WMDs here, no WMDs over there" as our sons were killing and being killed far from home and lonely. Dying in desert sand for the profit of Bush's oil buddies and Halliburton. They walked hand in hand and supported every fabrication
that Americans did not think any President would foist on a trusting nation. Will we ever trust again? This is the level we have permitted the authors of PNAC to carry us in their quest for world control. I hope we are now awakening to the arrogant, incompetent depravity that has transformed our very opinion of ourselves. Perhaps we can some-how extract this poison of thought that reaches into every facet that is America and American. Perhaps the "Radio and Television Correspondents Association" can rationalize their part in this rape of goodness enough to get a good nights sleep. There are thousands of families of loved ones who won't have that luxury for a long, long time. I'm glad I was rested.

Deaf and Dumb

This has been a beautiful day in Houston. I stopped for a Quick lunch at a local restaurant I have visited often. My usual lunch of soup and a hamburger was as good as always. This was a usual action for me, I had no idea that it may be a trigger for reflective thought. But it did. Most of our daily actions are just habit, without alternative consideration. Occasionally this is not the case. A simple lunch? Yes, for me, but then, the mental reaction.

The landscape of the mind is a strange and wonderful world indeed. It can lead us to the solution for getting gum off of the sidewalk, (ice and a sharp spatula,) too determining the physics for putting a man on the moon and bringing him home. It can also conjure up all sorts of evil.

Today, my mind took me back to one of the many concentration camps in Europe. I thought of a starving Jew who knew he had reached the end of his life. My (taken for granted) small lunch
contained more nutrition than his emaciated body had taken in in months. The soup and sandwich may have maintained him for a few more weeks. How could this have happened in a civilized world.

What had happened to put this man and a whole race of people in this horrible situation. Had they committed a crime? no. Were they involved in a plot to attack and overthrow the Government? no, not that either. Their only crime was that they had accumulated possessions that their leader envied and wanted. They were Jews and owned things of value. After all, this was Germany, and Germany was a christian nation, (Martin Luther said so). These people were going to destroy the idea of a "one world, master race.

The trains ran day and night to keep the ovens fueled. Men, women and children, riding too their death, while starving, and living in their own waste. Why would my mind take me back to this time? Not a pleasant thought on a nice March day in Houston. I know why, it's because I have never been able determine how it could happen, how?

It was so easy because people like to have something, or someone, to hate. The propaganda machine of the press and radio spewed out the foul message from morning to night. The people cheered when their leader would speak for hours giving justification for his nations actions.
As the prisoners were being told to be sure to tie their shoestrings together and remember the number of the hook their clothes were hung on, preparations were being made to eliminate a race of people. The very race of which their God was proclaimed to be a member.

As their gold teeth were pulled, their hair cut for winter clothing padding for the troops, (we must support the troops) and the ovens called for more, where were the critics? I guess no one knew. No one wanted to know.

Very cleverly crafted lies doomed a whole people to the anguish of humiliation and an early death. Murdered by the insanity of the notion of superiority. Did we not hear the screams? Our neighbors, gone in a flash, I wonder how we can ever be forgiven. Yes, I know, we were not there. Yes we were. We are all products of the same human race and are responsible. As Hemingway said "Ask not for whom the bell tolls, The bell tolls for thee.". If only the laws would have been enforced, but, they were canceled. The people approved.

The Catholic church knew and approved, better than communism, so they said nothing. The Swiss knew, but millions in never to be claimed Jewish wealth was in their banks, besides, they were neutral. Italy knew, and joined in the greedy war for power.

I, and my generation, will soon be gone and no one will remember. Perhaps it's best, because we know,---It can never happen again, at least, not here.

Charlie Kelly,s new car.

From the first time I met him, I liked Charlie Kelly. But then, everyone liked Charlie. He was one of those rare people that was never critical of anyone. He always seemed to be on your side of any issue that came up in the small talk that men seem to need to survive. Anytime his name was mentioned someone was sure to say how much they liked Charlie Kelly.

A second generation Irishman, he had retained that wry grin and twinkle in the eye common to the Irish. He had worked at the same job his whole life. He did his job in the Traffic Division for the city of Houston Texas for thirty years. Upon retirement, the gave him an engraved watch on a fob, and a retirement income that when paired with his FICA provided nicely for him and his wife Emily.

His main source of enjoyment after he retired was fishing up on Lake Livingston where they had a cottage, and those wonderful Houston Astros. Charlie hardly ever missed a home game in the Astrodome, or an away game on television.

When Charlie reached seventy years old, his family decided to get together and have a surprise birthday celebration at Charlies house. His children told Emily that they would pay to have the party catered, and if the weather was nice, the back patio would be perfect.

So, that's how it all began. Their three daughters came in from out of state and brought with them, three husbands and seven grand children. Their only son had never married but brought his sixth fiancee, and her two children from a previous marriage. This brought the total party to nineteen on the patio to celebrate Charlies birthday on the 13th of October, 2002.

After a great dinner, small talk, nice gifts and some jokes, one of the daughters was a little too much in the wine and proposed a toast. She said something to the effect that Charlie was by far the youngest man at the table. This set off a cascade of similar toasts, all proclaiming how young Charlie acted, and how he was more alert than most of his children. Charlie seemed to sit a little taller in his chair as these accolades continued into the late evening.

During the weeks that followed, Emily noticed a change in Charlie, a metamorphosis was taking place before his wife's eyes. He began humming songs that he would hear on the car radio. New songs that the younger generation liked. What happened to the songs of the sixties that they used to sing together?. He talked about them taking dancing lessons, and maybe joining a bowling league. Strange stuff for Charlie. It seemed that he had put more belief in those toasts than had Emily.

They had been talking about getting a new car for some time. But then, it usually took a lot of conversation before a big step like that actually happened. Charlie was a Ford man. He had never owned anything but Fords. He would proclaim to anyone who would listen, the benefits of owning a Ford product. (Ford cars were like Charlie. An old firm, reliable and dependable.

So you can imagine his wife's surprise when one day, as she was peering through the drapes. a bright red Fiat convertible, with the top down came into their driveway with a smiling Charlie Kelly behind the wheel. She gasped, as she made her way to the couch. She had that strange feeling she had had when the Doctor told her that the Rabbit had died.

She had moved so quickly to the sofa that when Charlie came through the door, she looked up and said, "Hello honey, I'll bet your hungry, I made some pound cake." This statement surprised even her. "No no" Charlie said, "you know that new car we have been talking about for so long, well, I bought it.". "So you bought us a new Ford huh ?' Emily replied. " Not this time Babe, I thought it was time for a new Kelly look. Come on lets take her out for a little spin, I think you will be surprised."
Surprise was not the emotion that Emily was feeling. Shock was more in line with her emotional state. Besides, Charlie had never talked that way before. "O.K. honey let me get my purse and I will meet you outside in a minute."

Emily went upstairs, got her purse off of the dresser, and sat down on the edge of the bed to collect he thoughts. Charlie was a good man and a good husband. If he wanted to drive around town in a red convertible, so be it. She was not going to be the one to hurt his feelings or deflate his ego after all these wonderful years of marriage. After all, he had never denied her anything.

"My lands Charlie, it's beautiful, and it matches the Azalea plants at the corner of the porch". "Do you like it, really Emily?" Charlie asked. "If you like it, I like it," Emily replied. It was a sentence they had said many time to each other over the years.

They drove around the neighborhood for about an hour. It was obvious that Charlie was proud to be showing off his new possession. I bought this new type of car so no one would think we were going to become senile in our old age ". Charlie exclaimed.
Senile was a word that had popped into Emilys mind that afternoon, but not in the same context as Charlie's.

During the next few months, Charlie bought himself an English drivers cap and a matching plaid scarf to go with the gentleman's sport coat with the leather elbows. He said he got a real bargain on it during a Red Tag Sale at Foleys Department store. Emily found the ticket later for $325 in his pants pocket that he had put in the laundry. She never mentioned it.

Charlie was visualizing himself as a younger man with youthful tastes. He liked to put on his "driving outfit" as Emily called it too herself, and drive through the University of Houston campus, he would wave to the students and they seemed to enjoy waving back. He would then drive over to Rice University and repeat his actions. "Probably one of the professors " one student said, "wouldn't be surprised, another replied".

Most people just wondered who the elderly, over weight gentleman with the big smile and the 1920s attire was, and what he was doing in that red convertible driving through campus, but, strange things happen on campus, this was just a little weirder than usual.

One day, as Charlie was driving down Scott St. near the Rice campus, he noticed smoke coming from an upstairs window of a house he had passed many times. He quickly pulled over, threw his cap and scarf onto the passenger seat and rushed to the house. The front door was slightly ajar and he pushed open. It was hot and thick with smoke inside, he tripped over a woman who had collapsed while trying to get her baby out of the building. Charlie quickly carried the baby to the front yard and returned to the woman. As he was pulling her to safety, he heard a child crying upstairs. Again he went into the smoke filled house and found the stairwell. He located the child on the landing and removed him from the danger. Charlie went back inside and felt his way up the stairs into the bedroom area. Charlie did not know that he had already saved the entire family. He also did not know that the fire in the kitchen had burned through the ceiling joists and that the floor could no longer support his weight.

The firemen found Charlies body in the still smoldering debris that had been the kitchen. All of the media called Charlie a hero,-- he was. They ran a recent photo of him in his red car smiling from ear to ear. Charlie would have liked that.

Emily doesn't drive. She likes to sit on the porch with her memories. The red Fiat sits in the driveway, His cap and scarf are on the passenger seat where Charlie had thrown them before he became a local hero. People like to drop by and sit with Emily and talk about Charlie the hero, but Emily knew that Charlie had always been a hero. Her hero.

Unknown Places

In each of us there is a wondrous secret place. Only we posses the ability to let others into that world or reveal some of the mysteries that we keep hidden there. Sometimes we may open the door a bit, but usually we are too insecure about others ability to keep our little secret thoughts that the door remains shut. It is really very special when we love and trust another person enough to share some of these thoughts we have kept to ourselves, sometimes since childhood. It can be like releasing pent up pressures, but,even then we do not tell all.
Of coarse I am speaking of the individual human mind. The mind is not the brain, but it is a creation of the brain. It has no material mass, just electrical impulses that we cannot find on any machine invented so far. Its sort of like the mysteries of dreams and the travels our mind can create while we sleep.
When we die, this very important part of our makeup probably dies with us. Are you sure?. What a shame if all of the untold stories that Samuel Clemens had planned to write just went down that drain called death. The Ideas of Newton, Kant, Plato, Socrates and other great thinkers gone forever. We, as humans do not like to accept the finality of others like ourselves, so we create parallel universes where these things we call soul, or spirit go and we will all be together again. We call these places Heaven, or the other one for people who don't obey the rules, Hell. Do those places really exist?. Again I ask myself, are you sure?.
Thoughts like this are usually best kept in our secret place, we don't want to make anyone else think about uncomfortable things like that, now do we?.
So I will put that back inside, hidden from the world, along with other things I laugh, or cry about when I need a good laugh or enjoy a pity party if I like. No one will ever know. Will they?.

Robin

The year was 1955. My new wife Anna had been married before and had four young and beautiful children. The youngest, and the one I am going to write about now is Robin. Like all young children, her most obvious characteristic was curiosity. She was everywhere, into everything and asking a question a minute about whatever you were doing.
Her one biggest asset was, she loved everyone, and everyone loved her. Our oldest child was her sister, Jackie. Since we were a young and large family,the two girls shared a bedroom, The two other children, both boys, Marshall and Dewyte, also shared a room. Even with these logistics we still needed a three bedroom home with no accommodations for company. This was not a drawback since we had just moved to Houston Texas from Ohio and did not know anyone well enough to have overnight guests.
Jackie had to be the most tolerant soul, for she was to assume the position of the role model to her sister who resisted any type of authority, especially from a sibling.
We somehow continued to grow as a family. The love shared in our home consisted of the special stuff that existed and grew stronger through all of the usual trials and tribulations of an American family. It is impossible to love one child over another, but any family will gravitate to the child who needs the most attention. Robin was destined to be that child.
All went well for Robin until her teen years. She began to think that everyday was a day to have as much fun as possible, without any regard to the of the loss of the usual restraints practiced by most teenage girls. She was the perfect example of self will run rampant. These were the sixties and a new moral code was in it's beginning stages. The Hippies were recognised as a legitimate grouping of young people who rebelled at modern societies rules and examples. The youth of America were joining in making things over in ways they perceived as more acceptable. The civil rights movement was a catalyst for many. The Beetles and other musical groups were leading in the expression of disgust at adults who thought more of war than the starvation of millions around the world. It was an easy time be confused and easily led.
Charles Manson and his group murdered several people in hopes of creating a race war. Jim Jones took his group of 800 followers to Uganda and convinced them all to drink poisoned kool-aid. The adult women also had their children drink, and die. These things are hard to believe now, but at the time, it was just the way it was.
Robin stayed on the fringes of this insanity, but, as many teenagers she began to find some peer stature by using drugs. Marijuana at first, then Qualudes and Preludes and probably whatever else that was available. She had a daughter, Jennifer, she soon left her with Jackie and went to California to write poetry for a few years. A few marriages later she met and married the father of her three additional children.
She settled down, got a good job, and was a good wife and mother while continuing the recreational use of drugs. All of her friends were clones of each other, same age group, same thought patterns, and used more drugs than the body could tolerate for very long.
She never lost that love gene. It was the same for everyone she met, and most people returned her love. She was surrounded by more friends than most of us, a glowing personality
walking through life seeking something that was just around the corner. When Robin's last husband filed for divorce, she was shattered and mentally alone. Her eldest son was killed in a freak accident, her older daughter was married and her other son and daughter were preparing for college. Finally, she was emotionally alone and just living life as it came.
A few months before she died, her mother and I met her for lunch and told her how worried we were about her isolating and suspected drug usage. She loved us and would not knowingly do anything to hurt us. It was just not in her power at that time to make the changes that needed to be made.
Robin called me about a month later and said she was going to help a lady friend who was ill for a few days, then she said she needed to talk to me about something serious. She would call me within a week.
Jackie called me a few days later---Robin had died of a heart attack at the friends house whom she was trying to help.
It is impossible to explain the incomprehensible, immediate change from life to nothing. With your own child, it all seems so unfair. We all loved you Robin, but you knew that, all we have now is the wonderful memories of the joyous times we had together. Thank you for sharing your too short life with us.

No one asked the rabbit.

As a young lad about nine years old, I came into possession of a 'lucky rabbits foot'. How I became the owner of such a magical and valuable notion I can't remember. I do remember that it had a silver sleeve that covered the bone, and a silver loop of chain which I suppose was for keys or whatever a person owned that needed a chain to hang on. I had no keys or anything else to display on my one worldly possession. Now, my Dads brother Ed, came to visit and I always was really glad when he showed up. He always seemed to be looking for work but never finding the right job for his skills. I could tell that pop was happy to have him around. Uncle Ed would ask me to bring an empty chalk box from school. Then he would build a crystal radio inside complete with a set of head-phones. I still marvel that these things worked. But they did. Uncle Ed had a masters degree in bullshit, but, I did not know that at the time. He was a very good, intelligent person caught up in a sad period of time. One day Uncle Ed brought me what he described as a lucky penny. It had a hole drilled through it that was perfect for my
lucky rabbit foot chain.
How lucky could one kid be, to own such a powerful treasure as this?. Dad and others would try to convince me that there was no such thing as luck. They just didn't understand what Uncle Ed and I knew, that if you did not believe in good luck you wouldn't have good luck.
I think in some ways I still believe this. The same thing is true when I forget my vitamins in the morning. I feel bad all day. True or not, things like that bonded me with my Uncle. He loved me, and I knew it. That's pretty good luck in its-self. don't you think?.
Now sadly, I understand that it didn't do much for the rabbit. I wish I did not know so much, it was better when Santa Clause was real, people were glad you dropped by, and love was more than just an overused word to make people feel better about themselves.

Grace Marie Edinger

She had sat me up on the sink, where she stood washing dishes. I was five years old and curious about everything. I asked questions, she answered as best she could, the questions of a five year old do not really require an answer. At that age everything is new and exciting or just scary. After a while she took my hand and traced the outline on the wall behind the sink. She told me would be there forever. For her, it was. She died the next year before I had even started going to school. That is the only real clear memory I have of my mother. I know I always felt safe when she was near me. It was a long time before I felt safe again..
Things were tough in those days. It was 1934 and America was in the middle of the great depression. Franklin Roosevelt was elected President two years before and was just beginning to get a grip on our nations agony. Most men had no work and no hope. Roosevelt said we were beginning "The New Deal". This was probably the greatest example of visionary thought ever attempted by a nation in chaos. With the courage that only great men process, he put America back to work. He began the WPA (Works progress administration) to build highways. the CCC
(citizens conservation corporation ) to clear our natural forests of debris and parasitic vegetation. A new America was in it's infancy. But that meant little to our family, we had been reduced to a father and four small children. Extreme measures were needed, and our extended family reached out to help. My sister Delores was the oldest of the children, she was twelve and needed an environment that would protect a pre-teen girl. She was taken into the home of my Grandparents in a small country town, Jacksonville Ohio. It was a good home for her and she remained there until after she married. Brother George, (Two years old) went with Aunt Melvina and Uncle John Sauser. A strong family with three daughters and a wonderful place to grow into manhood. Sister Lenora, two years younger than I, remained with me and Dad for a year or so then she too moved into another aunt and uncles home. Uncle Hap and Aunt Fern never had a bad day. The Power of Positive Thinking was just as natural as breathing to them, and they loved Lenora as one of their own.
That left Dad and me, living alone at 310 Reeb Ave. Columbus ,Ohio. We lived next to Reeb Ave. elementary school, my grade-school through the sixth grade. Then on to Barrett Jr. high school. This school was located diagonally across from where my sister Lenora lived with Aunt Fern and her family. I would often sit in front of the school-house and watch them play. 'They never knew how much I wanted to join them'. The rules were that I go straight home, I often broke that rule. There was nothing wrong at home. Dad did his best to be a Mom and Dad to me, but that was impossible. Dad worked so much I only had myself for company. I was a lonely boy and knew there was something wrong, I just did not know what it was. I always liked school, but I did not look like the other kids. They were clean and their clothes were pressed. They had Moms, I had a pretend Mom. At some point I just did not go home. Pop would find me and take me back I would leave again soon, after awhile he quit trying. If he passed me on the street he would honk his horn or pretend he did not see me. This must have been horible for him, but he never said so. I'm not sure how I lived for the next few years. I went to school, hung around the library until it closed and sometimes I hid out inside and spent the night I loved the library, all of the knowledge in the world in one place, what a concept. I still feel the same way. I worked whenever I could find someone willing to hire an unkempt waif. I don't remember being hungry, but I don't remember a lot of that period of my life. I walked to Grandmas a few times a year. (Those were the best times.) I could see and play with my brother and swim in Sunday Creek. Damn, that was so good. Fritz, June and Inez, (George's adopted sisters all seemed to like me,) and I liked them.
Uncle John Sauser liked classical music and I enjoyed listening with him on the radio. As far as I know; no one else in our family cared too much for the classics. One school semester I stayed at Aunt Zoas house near McArthur Ohio. Her son John Jenkins was older but a good buddy. He taught me to walk on my hands. (good to know, but otherwise useless). I was walking down the
street one day (on my feet) when I had just turned sixteen and spotted a place called "Fort Hayes." It looked clean and neat, a big sign hung outside that said 'ENLIST NOW'. So I did. But that's another group of stories. I have always missed my Mother. I wonder how it would have been, to be like it was intended to be. I bet it would have been great.
'.

My Grandmothers Legacy.

"Gimmie that old time religion.
gimmie that old time religion.
gimmie that old time religion,
it's good enough for me.

The greatest influence on my life was found in a white, two story house, perched on a hillside in Jacksonville Ohio. My grandparents. Even as a child I knew there was something special about these wonderful, exceptional people, who met, married, raised their family, and died in this small southern Ohio village.
At my Grandmothers knee I learned the true meaning of what it means to believe in a God that says "love thy neighbor" and I watched it practiced in everyday life. Every morning began with family prayer, this prayer time was also practiced, without fail, every night before bedtime. Everyone we knew who was ill or had troubles were prayed for. The president was prayed for, I was prayed for a lot. I guess they thought I needed a lot of help. I probably did.
The men of the family were all hunters, this was the primary source of meat for the table. They started taking me on hunting trips when I was about seven years old. At twelve I was allowed to carry a single shot 410 gauge shotgun or single shot 22 caliber rifle. The rules of the hunt were drilled into my head on every trip. You shoot nothing you do not intend for food. You always know where everyone was located. The safety catch was always on until game was sighted, and most important, thank God for this wonderful land in which we provided for our families. We always skinned and eviscerated our game before returning home.
Our arrival home at Grandmas house was quite an event. All of the women were ready to cut and put into mason jars our bounty. This took place in the basement where rows upon rows of canned meats and vegetables occupied every available inch of wall space. The colors, from the high yellow of peaches, the Green of beans, the red of beets and the deep blue of plums was a delight to see, even for a child. Potatoes in the open bins gave off a deep musky odor that was both unusual and somehow appealing.
The women, working over large pots of boiling water, would sing the songs of praise, surrounded by jars of Certo, large cakes of paraffin, and cases of mason jars that had been used many times over. These, and other volumes of memories occupy my mind when I permit myself to look back on a simpler, harder, but much better time.
The sounds of hate that ring out from our so called religious community today would not have been tolerated by my grandparents generation. God was really in charge, not a minister with a financial or political agenda. The personality cult of the minister whose opinions on everything is highly valued on television talk shows would have been correctly identified as a man who had lost all humility, and considers himself an expert on Gods will.
Scriptures that proclaim, "my ways are not your ways" and 'love thy neighbor" or "all things that were made, were made by him" have been reduced to hating those who celebrate God in a different way. They carry signs that Proclaim "God hates Fags" "Kill abortionists" and fixate on the idea that what we believe is justification for any kind of perversion the want to inflict on another society..
How sad this self obsessed, spoiled society has become. Grandma would be ashamed of you.

America in trouble.

As I watch the daily parade of absurdities emanating from Washington, the feeling of helplessness and shame would make any American cry out, "This is not us, we are the citizens of this once great country and we do not agree with this self centered, dictatorial style of governing". Never in the history of this republic have we become totally out of touch with other countries. And we don't give a damn what anyone thinks. We have become willing to kill without regard for the sovereignty of other nations. Our elected officials pile lie upon lie to justify the greed of the powerful who want a one world rule with the few at the top in charge of all the worlds resources.
The most serious aspect of this lawless disregard for Americas Constitution or the rules set down over the years is, the obvious feeling of our elected officials that they are above the law or the will of the people. Our objections are of no importance, we are to pay the bills, supply our sons and daughters, and be called unpatriotic if we mention our contempt for the policies of own governments actions.
How can we expect our children to respect the rule of law when our own courts, congress, or senate lacks the courage to step up to the plate and say "enough is enough ? Where did these people come from who condone the outrage of government revenge against it's own citizens?
Judges and attorneys know they are expendable if they don't walk in lock-step with an attorney General who has no respect for Habeus Corpus and legalizes the torture and permanent imprisonment of anyone who is accused of being an enemy and held without trial or representation. Renditions of prisoners is now common, what animal dreamed that up ?
This as a sick culture, and unfortunatly becoming sicker by the minute.

Opening a book of thoughts

This post will begin a diary style of postings, that I hope will reflect my true feelings, and observations, of what I perceive as a nation in the throes of negative change. Perhaps sober minds will intervene before it's too late, and resurrect the nation of human kindness and respect for each other that I once knew as America. Perhaps the polarizing factions will see the end result of their hate talk. Talk that inspires others who are looking for justification of their own low self esteem, to join them in self destruction, that also eventually destroys all, including the perpetrators them-selves.