Divide and Conquer, Part 2: Excerpt From Original Sin

Fear stimulates our animal instincts to survive at any cost, and our innate tendencies to find balance and harmony on this magical planet become repressed, forgotten, and morphed into a consumptive disregard for all other situations that might inconvenience our immediate gratifications.

We’re shitting where we eat, and no one thinks twice about it. We dump garbage and toxic waste into the waters that sustain our flesh — because it’s a quick and convenient way to flush the by-products of our unsustainable and abominable practices — then introduce a brand new plethora of chemicals into the mix to declare our taps safe again, further toxifying our already overburdened livers.

Fuck me.

We band together in destructive hives to ease the facility of trade for worthless shit that does nothing to foster the evolution of our species, and ravage the land before realizing new expansion is the only viable alternative to circumvent the piles of garbage and non-degradable waste we cover our backyards with.

I’m reminded of a George Carlin insight here. We used to take our waste to the dump, but now we put it in a “landfill.” You have to love what politically correct language and euphemisms have done to spin the wrongs we’re perpetrating on the planet into something “natural.”

Landfill. I fucking love that one.

“Hey Bill, the Earth is fucked up over there! I see a massive hole we need to correct. I know, let’s dump all our plastic, old toasters, disposable diapers, and whatever the fuck else we’re bored of into that chasm. It’s serving no other purpose. By filling it, we’re doing something noble for the planet.”


Sorry, I just spun off on a rambly tangent. Let’s get back to the business at hand.

Divide-and-conquer has worked like a charm since the first self-centred, control-freak contrived it. Its influence can be seen in pretty much every commercial, movie, or media broadcast that our duped society has grown to cherish as normal.

I’ve played a lot of hockey over the years. I loved the game, and I became indoctrinated to rooting for the professional team that represented my home town. But whether it’s hockey, soccer, football, or the nearest chapter of Brownies going head-to-head with other members of their club to sell the most cookies, competition exists for a reason — to impress upon your mind that either you’re part of a like-minded tribe, or you’re an antagonist.

I can’t tell you how many scenarios I’ve witnessed of drunks at a bar, wearing rival jerseys, who ended the night in violence, throwing punches because their supported team clashed with that of another.

Professional sport is the perfect analogy for war. Each side always knows they’re “the best,” each side knows that God is in their corner, and each side knows that dedication to the cause will eventually lead to glory.

Even funnier about pro sports, supporters always talk as if they have some participatory influence or input into the management of their chosen team. They’ll constantly utter phrases like, “we should do this, we need to trade that guy, we need a new quarterback,” or whatever other nonsense they use to perceive themselves as an integral part of the franchise.

Guess what, chief? You don’t have fuck all to offer. You don your $300 jersey every game day, you sit on your couch pounding back beers and eating “food” the cockroaches have good sense to ignore, and you work yourself into a coronary frenzy every time a referee’s decision contradicts your expertise on the competition presented before you. You can barely walk to the toilet to take a dump, but you seem to believe you’re an active member of a franchise you would sell your first-born child to own, to see your “teammates” hold a silver cup high in the air after a meaningless tournament to prove who’s the best. And even if your team attains their ultimate prize, you’ll spend the down-time between seasons in eager anticipation of starting the process all over again, despite having no new mountain to climb.

What was the line from that stupid movie War Games?

“The only winning move is not to play.”

Yeppers. Every once in a while, the puppet masters throw out a nugget of truth, all part of their strategy to keep you off your toes, and clueless to what’s right, wrong, real, or upside down.

Divide and conquer, my friends.

There are endless versions of human history out there. Some more believable than others. A great way to both hide and pass along our true roots has been accomplished within mythology. It’s strange to look up the etymology of the word, only to discover its meaning has become the exact opposite of what it started out as. Kinda like that “literally” word, which now seems to mean “not literally.”

Mythos used to mean truth. Now it defines an imaginary tale, saga, fantasy, allegory, or anything opposing “fact.” And of course this is no accident.

Winners of wars write the history books. The controllers of media dictate reality. It wouldn’t take but a generation in this digital age to scrub clean unwanted information from the minds of the public, if not for that pesky word-of-mouth thing. The Ministry of Truth has been exceptionally efficient.

Though the telephone-game can distort data after each round of repetition amongst participants, the core words of wisdom, handed down verbally from cultures who have sincere interest in keeping vital insight into the human condition alive, are always worthy of consideration.

Which is of course why “myth” no longer means truth in the modern world, it means “imaginative nonsense; tales told by circus-show freaks and primitive humans who haven’t the faintest inkling of scientific reality.” I think that’s what Wikipedia wrote, but don’t quote me on that… even though I wrote it in quotes. Fuck you, Wikipedia.

Flood stories are fantasy, mythical creatures are fictitious. Petty, powerful gods/giants/hybrids/advanced architects/sunken continents/wielders of sound energy/information imparted from alien races/the Nephilim/the Elohim/Jesus — all bunk. Not even the slightest grain of truth to any of that stupidity you just read, so stow your foil-hat once and for all, and please come back to the real world. You have a Facebook update to attend to.

So why do these stories exist? Prolly cuz ancient civilizations were huge pranksters. They made it all up for the purpose of screwing with future generations’ sense of reality, just for shits and giggles.

That reminds me of something we were just discussing…

Oh yeah, divide and conquer.

(Cont’d in Part 3)

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