See You in 3000 Years

Fire licking at the edges of my retinas, I pound out this screed on a typewriter fueled by equal parts mescaline and Middle Eastern mayhem. The news, a brackish tide of reports, washes over me – the Third Temple, that shimmering mirage in the desert, remains but a pipe dream. Israel, that ambitious experiment in a homeland, seems to be dissolving like Alka-Seltzer in a glass of holy water.

Flickered neon signs casting an apocalyptic glow on Jerusalem’s dusty streets. The air crackled with a tension thicker than the sheesha smoke curling from every hookah bar. This wasn’t the Zion the founding fathers dreamt of, folks. This was a fever dream fueled by religious fervor and geopolitical chess games.

The Third Temple? More like a pipe dream gathering dust in some rabbi’s basement. The dream of a purified Israel, an ethnostate carved from the bleeding heart of the Middle East, had bled out itself. The Great Reset, they called it. Palestine, the ever-present ghost at the feast, finally rose from the ashes, a phoenix with a keffiyeh wrapped around its singed wings.

But hold on, pilgrim! Don’t confuse the dream with the dreamer. The grand ideal of a singular, unified people, that might be gasping its last breaths, but the people themselves – they’re a different story. For centuries, they’ve been tossed and turned across this weary world, these folks who’ve carried a heavy burden for generations. And they ain’t going anywhere. They’ll endure. They’ve faced worse, a whole lot worse. They’ll find their way, they always do. But hold on there, pilgrim! Don’t mistake the nightmare for the dreamer. The sins of the fathers, the blood on European hands from the Spanish Expulsion to the horrors of the 20th century, that stain won’t cannot be washed away on the backs of Palestinians.

The Jews, though, they’ve carried the weight of history on their backs for millennia. They’ve been cast out, persecuted, yet they endure. They’ve seen empires rise and fall, witnessed humanity at its worst, yet they find a way to keep going. This dream of a singular homeland, that might be flickering out, but the Jewish spirit? That’s a fire that won’t be extinguished. They’ll adapt, they’ll persevere, just like they always have.But this grand experiment in building a nation solely on shared ethnicity? That bonfire finally sputtered out of fuel.

This ain’t some hate manifesto, far from it. This is a howl at the absurdity of it all. Here we are, teetering on the precipice of the 21st century, and the same old land squabbles are still playing out like a scratched record.

History, that bastard, has a wicked sense of humor. Remember all that “land flowing with milk and honey” talk? Now the only thing flowing freely was sewage in the neglected infrastructure. Gone were the promises of a tech haven, replaced by a black market bazaar hawking knock-off Iron Dome missiles and bootleg falafel. But here’s the thing, and listen up, you paranoid patriots back home: this ain’t about some blood purity contest. This ain’t about hating Jews. This is about the folly of clinging to ideologies that have curdled past their expiration date.

Maybe, just maybe, 3000 years from now, when the cockroaches are the only ones left reading the graffiti on the crumbling walls of Jerusalem, this whole mess will be a punchline in some cosmic joke. But for now, the stakes are high, the tempers are hotter than a phoenix convention, and the future of that little sliver of land hangs in the balance.

So, as the sands of time shift, and Palestine rises from the ashes of Israel as a Jewish Arab state let this be a message in a bottle. We, the bleary-eyed inhabitants of this lunatic asylum called Earth, better figure this mess out before the whole joint explodes. Because one thing’s for damn sure, folks – this ain’t the last act of this particular drama.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a rendezvous with a bottle of rotgut tequila and a sunrise that looks like it’s been dipped in blood. So, as I sign off, headed for parts unknown with a heart full of disillusionment, remember this: the only Promised Land worth searching for is the one built on mutual respect and shared humanity. See you all in 3000 years, when hopefully, we’ll have learned a thing or two from the ashes of this one. This story’s a long way from over, and who knows what madness the next 3000 years will hold. But hey, that’s the Middle East, baby. A land where prophecies curdle faster than camel milk in the desert sun.

Grand Apartheid

A concrete jungle, pulsing, throbbing with white prosperity, stretched across the stolen land. But the white control freaks,twitchy and paranoid, couldn’t stomach the black presence. It was a virus in their sterile system. So the grand scheme,hatched in smoke-filled rooms thick with fear and ideology, began to crawl.

A fever dream of segregation, a cartographer of hate redrawing the map with bulldozer blades. Black flesh scraped clean from the fertile land, leaving raw wounds in the earth. Houses, once homes, become grotesque cardboard giants, toppled by the mechanical locusts of the regime. The Africans, herded like cattle, their faces etched with a righteous fury, loaded into steel wombs that rumble down chrome arteries.

Bulldozers, steel monsters exhaling diesel fumes, ripped through black neighborhoods like a metal plague. Homes,testaments to lives and dreams, crumbled under their iron bellies. Families were herded, bewildered and angry, onto rickety trucks. Their belongings – meager tokens of a life built under oppression – tossed aside like trash.

The Bantustans, these postage stamp nations, carved out of neglect and dust. These scraps of land, carved out of the least fertile regions, were presented as a gift. Barren wombs masquerading as homelands. Flags, a mockery of sovereignty. A cheap cloth with meaningless colors flapping in the wind. A parliament?

The parliament, a grotesque circus of puppets, their pronouncements hollow echoes in the vast emptiness. “Citizenship,” a word dripping with bitter irony. A cruel joke, a bone tossed to starving dogs.

 “Look,” the white masters sneered, their voices dripping with false benevolence, “we’re giving you a home, a nation.” A nation?More like a prison yard, fenced in with barbed wire and checkpoints.  A puppet show with actors playing pre-scripted roles, their strings held tight by the white puppeteers.

The air hangs heavy with the stench of sweat and despair. This is the new map, drawn in blood and barbed wire. A monument to madness, a testament to the depravity of the human spirit. Here, in this desolate landscape of the soul, the grand apartheid plays out its grotesque theater. A twisted ballet of power and oppression, where humanity is the expendable set piece.

But beneath the surface, a tremor. A low growl of resistance. In the flickering candlelight of hidden shanties, eyes gleam with defiance. The stolen land festers, a wound that will not heal. The grand apartheid, this monstrous edifice built on sand, may one day crumble under the weight of its own lies. For the dream of freedom, once ignited, cannot be extinguished by bulldozers and barbed wire. It burns bright, a flicker of hope in the gathering darkness.

The Savage Professors: A User’s Manual

Professors, tenured and trembling, clutched their tenure packets like rosaries. “Diversity,” “Equity,” “Inclusion” – these were the holy trinity, whispered in hushed tones during faculty meetings. But down the labyrinthine corridors of the university, a darker current ran. DEI, anti-racism – these were Molotov cocktails slung at the ivy-covered walls.

The seminar room reeked of stale coffee and desperation. Tenured egos, once puffed with self-importance, now squirmed under the weight of a new acronym: DEI. Diversity, Equity, Inclusion. Platitudes for tenure packets, Professor Ramirez thought, swirling the lukewarm brew in his chipped mug.

Down the rabbit hole, man, down the rabbit hole… whispers Ramirez, a sardonic glint in his eye. DEI, anti-racism – these weren’t buzzwords, these were switchblades glinting in the ideological twilight. Words that made even the most progressive colleagues see red, their liberalism a flimsy veneer over a bedrock of unspoken anxieties.

Hypocrisy,” Ramirez scribbled furiously in his notebook, a graveyard of unfinished novels and half-baked theories. “The professors who championed diversity on campus turned into apologists when it came to Israel. Bantustans disguised as settlements, rigged roulette wheels of equity, inclusion for the chosen few.”

A faint smell of week-old falafel lingered in the air, a reminder of the complexities Ramirez refused to ignore. “The stench of hypocrisy, worse than any cafeteria food,” he muttered, his voice barely a rasp. “It exposed the rot at the core, the way power makes even the self-proclaimed revolutionaries fold like a discount suit.”

One old Marxist professor, a relic of a bygone revolution, cackled into his chipped mug of coffee. “Hypocrisy, my friends!A banquet for the powerful!” He spoke of “apartheid states,” a smirk twisting his lips. Names hung heavy in the air,unspoken but understood: Israel, a land of contradictions, where checkpoints sliced through olive groves and “security concerns” masked a brutal reality.

The “champions of liberalism,” these self-proclaimed knights of justice, turned invertebrate when faced with realpolitik.”Equity” became a rigged roulette wheel, with Palestinians forever destined for the empty chamber. “Inclusion”? More like a gated community, patrolled by the ghosts of American indifference and Israeli stone.

Yes, professors swam in a semantic soup – diversity, a lukewarm broth, inclusion, a vague sprinkle. But DEI, that was a roach in the gumbo, a wriggling mess of ideology. Anti-racism? A flaming absinthe poured on the whole damn banquet.

This wasn’t polite discourse, mind you. This was claws bared, tenure at stake. Tenured radicals with tenure-hungry dissertations, all brandishing their pet theories of race like switchblades. Black Power fists clenched against assimilationist suits. The air thick with the musk of past grievances and the desperate scramble for the moral high ground.

Here, even the voices of color, the supposed beneficiaries, were a cacophony. Some, scarred by the iron fist of oppression, craved revolution. Others, cautious climbers on the greasy pole of academia, mumbled about “merit” and “standards” with a nervous twitch.

The lines blurred, professors. Friend became foe, mentor turned inquisitor. Was this the pursuit of truth, or a bloodsport disguised as scholarship? In the flickering fluorescent lights of the department lounge, the only certainty was the bitter tang of fear and ambition.

Yes, professor. You dig the surface, diversity, equity, inclusion – platitudes swirling in the academic ether. Fine words for tenure packets, for grant proposals. But down the rabbit hole, man, down the rabbit hole… DEI, anti-racism – these are switchblades, these are crimson manifestos scrawled on the blackboard of power.

These are words that make otherwise respectable colleagues see red, feel the primal itch beneath their tweed jackets. Even the brothers and sisters, the melanin brigade – they ain’t a monolith, dig? They got their own agendas, their own grudges. This ain’t some feel-good group grope, professor. This is a blood sport, a battle for the very soul of the academy. You think you’re safe in your ivory tower? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

The hypocrisy cuts deep, man. These same folks banging the drum for DEI turn a blind eye to realpolitik when it comes to nations that, well, let’s just say they ain’t exactly bastions of racial justice. Suddenly, “equity” and “inclusion” go out the window when there’s oil or strategic interests in play. It’s a word game, a shell game. They shuffle the buzzwords – “security concerns,” “national interests” – but the end result is the same: the oppressed get screwed, all while the powerful sip champagne and pretend they don’t see the blood on the carpet. 

Ah, you hit the nail right on the head, professor. This whole DEI racket, it starts to reek when you consider Israel, right? Here’s this apartheid state, thumbing its nose at international law, segregating Palestinians like yesterday’s news, and where’s the outrage from the diversity crowd? Crickets.

Maybe their “inclusion” only applies to certain shades of the melanin spectrum. Maybe their “equity” means a bigger slice of the pie for some, and scraps for others. It’s a whole damn kabuki play, professor, a grotesque pantomime where everyone pretends these empty suits of power actually give a damn about justice. The only equity on the table is the equity of hypocrisy.

Ah, you hit the nail right on the head, professor. These same righteous cats who froth at the mouth about microaggressions turn into chum buckets when it comes to Israel. Palestine? They become about as geographically aware as a stoned koala bear. Suddenly, it’s all about “ancient blood ties” and “security threats.” The plight of the Palestinians? Evaporates faster than a raindrop in the Dead Sea.

Israel, the land of milk and honey, also the land of checkpoints and segregated settlements. It’s a goddamn joke, man. A grotesque parody of justice. They preach equity from their tenured thrones, then turn a blind eye to a system that segregates, dispossesses, and brutalizes. They traffic in empty signifiers, hollow signifiers, while a real, live apartheid unfolds right beneath their noses. It’s enough to make you want to hurl a copy of Foucault at the nearest window.

They preach diversity but turn a blind eye to the bantustans crammed with Palestinians. Equity? More like rigged roulette, where Palestinians always seem to land on empty chambers. Inclusion? Only if you’re the right kind of “in.” This ain’t some cocktail party, this is a gated community, and the walls are high, built with Israeli concrete and American indifference.

This was a blood sport, a battle fought not with swords, but with buzzwords and grant proposals. Tenure factories churning out platitudes for grant applications. But scratch the surface, man, and the worms writhe. DEI, anti-racism – these are grenades, not confetti. Manifestoes scrawled in blood on the dusty blackboard of power.

These are words that turn colleagues apoplectic, even the ones with tweed jackets and pipe dreams. Even the melanin brigade, the so-called brothers and sisters – they ain’t a choir singing hymns of harmony. This is a blood sport, professor. A bare-knuckle brawl for the soul of the university. You think tenure shields you from the fray? Think again.

Westworld

Scratching at the surface, man, you see Israel as the iron fist, the puppeteer yanking the US strings. But the Control Panel running Deeper, a roach motel of power where shadows writhe. Israel, is just a fleshy extension, a tentacle of the American Dream dipped in radioactive isotopes – Manifest Destiny dripping with Islamophobia and the sweet, fleshy tang of conquest.

Israel, a flickering neon oasis in the American desert, pulsates with a strange energy. These Brooklyn cowboys, these West Bank settlers, they’re just roaches scuttling across the circuitry, brainwashed by flickering propaganda. Can’t speak the language, passports forged in the fires of delusion. Israel, for them, a Westworld fantasy – “Yeehaw!”, they scream, six-shooters spitting chrome nightmares, “This here’s just like the good ol’ days, wrestlin’ the land from the savages!”

Cut the cord, man, sever the connection, and watch the Israeli psyche unravel like a cheap tapeworm. The delusions of grandeur, the paranoia, it might all start to untangle, a chance, a glimmering possibility for peace in that sun-baked hellhole. But the machine churns on, Westworld forever, a self-perpetuating loop of violence and control. The strings stretch taut, the US at one end, Israel at the other, and the American puppeteer, fat and grinning, his pockets lined with blood money.

These greasy-haired cowboys with delusions of Leviticus, swagger through dusty towns, six-shooters holstered low. They speak a broken Hebrew laced with Brooklyn slang, pronouncements of “Eretz Israel” echoing off tumbleweeds. These are the psychological flotsam, the psychic sewage dredged up by the American Dream and deposited on a desert frontier.

Israel feeds off the dark id of the US. An unacknowledged shadow, a place to indulge in the primal urges of power, land grabs, and good ol’ fashioned “othering.” Cut the wires, sever the connection, and perhaps, just perhaps, the Israeli psyche might start to resemble something approaching sanity. The desert winds could finally carry away the whispers of “chosen people” and the ghosts of ancient battles.

But the control panel hums on. Westworld, a name carved into the sandl, a chrome-plated monument to the conquistador spirit. The prognosis? Grim. Westworld will remain Westworld, a funhouse mirror reflecting the ugliest aspects of American power, played out on a dusty stage far, far away.

Israel, a psychic pressure valve for the American id. Islamophobia, a hissing steam, the need for unfettered power a throbbing erection disguised as democracy. Let the Israelis fend for themselves, cut the umbilical cord of fighter jets and lobbyists. The delusion of grandeur, that shiny chrome exoskeleton, might start to rust, revealing a human vulnerability beneath. Maybe then, peace could rise from the ashes of manifest destiny and settler arrogance.

But the needle gets stuck, the mariachi screams in a feedback loop. Westworld will remain Westworld, a grotesque sideshow under a plastic sky. Israel, a mirage reflecting the distorted desires of a nation in freefall. The colons writhe, a reminder that the past is a disease, ever-present, throbbing just beneath the surface of the American Dream.

Europe, the id in a rumpled trench coat, shoving its primal urges onto the global stage through American muscle and Middle Eastern conflict. Here in Westworld, everyone’s got a role to play, a twisted script directed by the ghosts of empires past.

Europe, they built the sets, erected the barbed wire fences, wrote the racist manifestos that became the theme park brochures. Now, they wash their hands, point at the cowboys and the fanatics, all the while whispering, “Look at the barbarity! How uncivilized!” while clutching their bloody pearls.

But the shadows stretch long, man. The stench of hypocrisy hangs heavy. Antisemitism, that ancient European viper,slithers back across the continent, shedding its skin of “criticism of Israel” and revealing its venomous core. They outsource the hate, then clutch their fainting couches when it spills back across the borders.

This whole damn theme park is built on rotten foundations. Until Europe confronts its own darkness, until they stop projecting their id like a flickering B-movie, there can be no peace. The cycle will continue, a grotesque carousel of violence, spinning ever faster.

Maybe Israel’s a pressure valve for Europe too, a way to vent some of that toxic gas built up over centuries. But it’s a faulty valve, spewing out violence and instability across the whole damn playground. And where’s the superego, the voice of reason in all this? Lost in the funhouse mirrors, no doubt, drowned out by the screams and the gunfire.

Fear and Loathing in the Grand Old Party

Fascinating seeing the conservative right split between whether Israel is a based Jewish ethnostate or the center of a global anti-white conspiracy.

Buckle up, because we’re hurtling down a rabbit hole that makes Alice in Wonderland look like a nature documentary. The American Right, that glorious tapestry of gun nuts, Bible thumpers, and tax-evading tycoons, is facing a schism wilder than a rodeo clown convention on peyote. On one hand, you got the flag-waving patriots, frothing at the mouth about Judeo-Christian values. They see Israel, a nation carved from sand and scripture, as a shining city on a hill – a bastion of Western civilization, surrounded by a sea of scimitar-wielding savages. It’s a place where the right kind of white folks can finally flex their muscles and build a society without pesky regulations or pesky minorities, for that matter.

The Bible thumpers, the God-fearing folk who see Israel as the fulfillment of prophecy, a shining beacon of Judeo-Christian values in a world gone mad. To them, it’s a fortress under siege, a David facing a Goliath of sandal-wearing, hummus-eating liberals. They wear “Support Israel” t-shirts with the fervor of a televangelist hawking snake oil, convinced that Jerusalem’s gotta be protected at all costs.

Then you got the tinfoil hat brigade, the kind of folks who believe the government is run by lizard people using chemtrails to control our dreams. To them, Israel ain’t the promised land, it’s the epicenter of a globalist conspiracy – a puppet state run by shadowy figures manipulating currency markets and orchestrating the downfall of the white race. It’s a head-spinning vortex where David with his slingshot becomes a Rothschild banker pulling the strings, and the founding fathers morph into Mossad agents.

The fringe dwellers out of the shadows, the militia types who haven’t showered since Y2K. These are the dudes who see a globalist conspiracy behind every flickering fluorescent bulb. In their fever dreams, Israel ain’t the promised land, it’s the mastermind behind the whole damn shebang. It’s a puppet state, you see, controlled by a shadowy cabal of, you guessed it, international financiers with suspiciously Hebraic names. These are the same folks who believe the fluoride in the water is turning frogs gay, and that Israel’s just the tip of the iceberg in a plot to, well, replace white people with…well, that’s never quite clear.

This ideological cage match is playing out on internet forums so toxic they’d make a landfill weep. It’s a symphony of slurs, ALL CAPS RANTS, and enough jpeg propaganda to wallpaper a militia meeting hall. You got memes of Bibi Netanyahu as a superhero battling hordes of brown immigrants, next to screeds about the ” (((international banking cabal)))” controlling the world. It’s enough to make me reach for the mescaline and declare, “This, folks, this is bat country!”

The mainstream Republicans are caught in the crossfire, trying to navigate this minefield of contradictions. They wanna court the evangelical vote while keeping the crazies at bay. It’s a balancing act worthy of a drunken tightrope walker juggling nitroglycerin. The whole situation is a microcosm of the GOP’s identity crisis – caught between clinging to their WASP roots and embracing a more diverse America. It’s a powder keg waiting to explode, and when it does, folks, it’s gonna be a helluva fireworks show. Just remember, when the dust settles, one thing’s for sure – the only winner will be chaos, that cackling, bloodthirsty jester who thrives on the divisions of men.

It’s a head-scratcher worthy of a peyote-fueled bender in Vegas, this ideological mosh pit. On one hand, you got folks cheering for a nation built on religious and ethnic identity, and on the other, you got folks who see the very idea of an ethnostate as a slippery slope leading to, well, brown people taking over their damn PTA meetings. The irony would be delicious if it wasn’t so damn dangerous.

So, there you have it, folks. The American right, a tangled mess of contradictions held together by duct tape and prayers. It’s a three-ring circus where clowns spout conspiracy theories and elephants wear MAGA hats. Buckle up, because this one’s gonna get messy. Just remember, when the dust settles, someone’s gonna be left holding the empty box of fireworks, wondering what the hell just exploded.