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Because I have a ramblin’ heart And you a ramblin’ mind Let’s go together Let’s go somewhere Before we lose the time I’ll love you in the springtime I’ll love you in the sun I’ll love you under a winter moon Before we are undone So many roads to travel So many paths ahead So many things to do my love Before we are both dead -MUSIC ON YOUTUBE-

Sick sick sick with fever Sick sick sick with soul Sick sick sick with sorrow Sick sick sick with hunger My body is sick My blood is sick My brain is sick Sick for her body Sick for her blood Sick for her brain Sorrowful sickness Soulful sickness  Willful sickness Sickness of the mind Sickness of the body Sickness of the soul CHECK OUT THE MUSIC ON YOUTUBE

When first I come to Old Kharkiv I went upon a spree Me money alas I spent too fast Got drunk as drunk could be And when my money  Was all gone ‘Twas then I wanted more But a man must be blind  To make up his mind To go to war once more I spent the night with Anastasia Too drunk to roll in bed My phone was new And my money too And in the morning  With ‘em she fled And as I roamed  The streets about The whores they all would roar  Here comes Jack Flak The young soldier lad He must go to war once more I was walking down the street  When I met with Pater Pavlo I asked him lord  To take me in But he looked at me  With a frown  He said last time you was paid off With me you dropped no score So I’ll take your advance And I’ll give you a chance And I’ll send you to war once more With empty pockets And hungry eyes I met with an NGO I asked them please Would you help me But all they did was crow They all told me When you were on leave  You didn’t lend us a hand So good luck my friend This is the end  You’re going to war once more I joined up with Second Battalion In that godforsaken Legion Where rockets fall  And bullets fly And men are turned to meat And worse yet still I could never kill  Enough Russians to earn my leave ‘Twas then I wished that I was dead So I’d go to war no more We were in the trenches, my friends When hard winter truly set in Where the cold winds blow Through the frost and snow And Ukrainian Horilka would freeze And worse to bear I had no hard-weather gear For I’d lost all my money before ‘Twas then I wished that I was dead Or safe with the girls where it’s warm Some days we’re killing Russians, me lads And some days they’re killing us With twenty-kilometer long lines Held by too few men  From too early in the morn  And even when  The night draws in We find no rest on the line  ‘Twas then I wished that I was dead So I’d see the trench no more Come all ye bold soldierin’ men And listen to my song  If you come off  Of them long tours I’d have ya’s not not go wrong Take my advice Drink no strong drink Don’t go sleepin’ with no whores Get married lads and find Almighty So you’ll go to war no more

Oh, Sonya! How could I possibly overdramatize that which feeds on, preys on, gorges on the dramatic? How could that kind of love be sated? How many words could fill that cup? How many touches? How many glances? How many mistakes, misunderstandings? How many ups? How many downs? How many times could you live this life without bloody passion, without sacred scorn, without radical redemption, tumultuous temptation, and inspirational ink upon the page? How could you live without drama? Without drama we are lifeless. Who we would be if we did any differently? Who would you be? Who would I be? Who would take care of us? Who would shelter us? Who would love us without passion? Who would dream of us without drama? Who would yearn for us without that lust for life? Who would save us from boredom? Who would deliver us from temptation in a world without interest? Without drama we are boring. What would it look like, a life without drama? What worth would there be in such a life? What would you do to me in a world without pleasure and pain in all its extravagant extremities, its excessive exuberance, its decadent desires and divine dramas? What would life be without tragedy, without triumph, without tribulation? What would life be without the pulsating roar of the crowd, the hearts beating in unison, the people united by dramatic conquest of the world stage? Without drama we are lost. Where would we find our place in such a world? Where would we be safe in a world without love, without imperfection, without mistakes, without sacrifice? Where would we hide ourselves from the machine inside all of us, the rational region of control that would enslave us all to its will, that would make a world without colors, without drama, without mistakes, without time, without relativity, without romance, without fate, without God, without magic, without mystery, without murder, without mayhem, without rape, without religion, without trees, without forests, without fields, without anything beyond the machine. Where would we be in such a world? Without drama we are the machine. When will we find true love? When will we see spring again? When will we be free? When will our struggles end? When will our lost sailors return? When will the rivers flow clean again? When will our people be restored? When will their lands be liberated? When will righteousness rejuvenate our religion? When will our savior return? When will we ever stop asking these questions? When will we ever reject our dramatic drives? When will we ever give up on the dream? Without drama we are dreamless. Why would we ever give up the dream? Why would we ever let these summers end? Why would we ever give up our love for each other? Why would we ever give up our lust for life? Why would we ever give up our religion, our culture, our heritage? Why would we ever give up our old ways, our love for the land, our connection with the spirits, our traditions of tragedy and triumph and respect for those who came before? Why would we give up these stories? Why would we give up the words that bind us? Why would we give up the power they had? Why would we give up the magic of romance and mystery? Why would we let our world be governed by reasonable machines without passion? Without drama we are dead inside. Who, what, where, when, and why would life be without passionate poems, romantic revelations, wise words, terrible tragedies, sultry sonnets and sacred symphonies, mighty monologues and manic melodies, ancient archives and acrobatic alphabets, delicate dances and dynamic duets, heartfelt horrors and heroic hymns, fearful forests and fateful fields, steady streams and steadfast stories, lovely landscapes and lurid lusts, nostalgic narratives and narrative narcissists, clapping crowds and cackling clowns, zealous xylophones and zany zoos, church choirs and chittering chimes, organic organs and old opera, grandiose giants and gargantuan gods, jelly jams and jolly jives, quaint quotes and qualifying quests, brave battles and bloody beasts, exuberant expressions and exotic experiences, your yearning for yesterday’s yarns? Without drama we are ugly. So, how could I see you, Sonya, and not be dramatic?

Trump got shot. Biden got old. But either way, America got sold. Some people say it changes. Some people change instead. But the world keeps on turning. Spinning on its head. And the sun keeps on burning. Burning across the sky. People say it’s different now. But I don’t know why. Nothing’s changed. Nothing’s different. The water still tastes the same. The poisons and plastics still stick to your brain. The price of poison is on the boom. People are still scared to leave their room. Four guns per person ain’t enough to kill the fear. We’re governed by fear now. It’s always here. Like a devil or demon whispering in our ear. Fear finds strength in numbers. Safety in a crowd. So, crown yourself the king of clowns or stand way back apart. But never give your vote, my friend, unto a foolish heart. We’re all fools now. Reason made a run for the border. Without love insanity reigns, or so I’ve heard. We’re still believing every foolish word. Dancing in the dark. Waiting for a spark. Will it make a difference? We ain’t got a clue. Bury your head in the sand. Just hope it ain’t true. The heat is hot. The wind is cold. The rain falls wrong. The sun roars. The land burns. The clouds linger too long. Floods fall from Grace. The hungry crieth unto Heaven. Nature is contorting like the face of a politician. Maybe it’s just intuition. The world is warped. Barbarians are at the gates. Romans charge admission. Profiting off the death and decay. Come on all ye people. Don’t be led astray. Hurricane Donald tears through towns and families, liberating the thieves and liars. Pretty sure it’s true. I can still see the fires. But at the end of the day, what does it matter if what was done in the dark is now done in the day? Robinhood was a thief and a hero, if only because the Kingdom was so corrupt that only thieves could still seem honorable. Honor among thieves. Wasn’t that the notion of this whole damned Republic? And when the thieves aren’t so honorable, we act so surprised and shocked. What did we expect? That the thieves we elect would be choirboys? Crumbling the last old architect, poisoned by his own misbegotten rhetoric. The glorification of the outlaw comes back to bite a society that has long since outgrown the beastly wilds from which it was birthed. But some of its denizens still remember, deep in their blood, what it was like to be wild and free. Society may have grown, but its chains are more binding, its leashes much more short. The wild chafes at the chains. It yearns to be free again. It yearns to roam again. It yearns to be wild again. It can’t be talked to. It can’t be reasoned with. Madness seeps into its mind, like a feral animal, caged and tormented for too long. But after so long in a cage, it’s bound to bite back.

When normal makes a run for the border When what is even seems odd When the first kisses the last When the world wills it When the Jack runs I’ll be there When the gamblers run the tables When the diamonds turn to coal  When the spades turn to rust When the colors go blind When the house busts I’ll be there When the saints come marching in When the sinners sing sunshine When the music redeems us When the crowd goes wild When the band plays I’ll be there   When the walls come tumbling down When the fears of men breakdown When the grace is finally given When the guilt fades away When the Mona Lisa smiles I’ll be there When the the wolves howl at the moon When the sea turns blood-red When the fires burn forever When the fields lie barren When the day comes I’ll be there When the flowers bloom from the ashes When the waters run clean again When life rules the world again When the last poisons fade When the artificial rots I’ll be there When the sun dawns on the new world When the people are wild and free When the sacred finally returns When the nature is restored When the land thrives I’ll be there

A friend of mine got drafted this week. He’s being sent to the frontline somewhere in Donetsk near Bakhmut, a real hotspot. He has had a lot of training to prepare for this moment, but there’s a whole world of difference between running the range and getting thrown out in the field. Lots of the most experienced soldiers die, and many of the most inexperienced survive. Experience doesn’t account for much when you’re dodging drones and mortars and missiles.  But as another friend said, “He’s got a good head on his shoulders.” We’re all praying for him.  Lots of folks have been pulled to the front lately. More and more young men dread turning 25. The grinder demands more meat. This war is hungry, and Russians and Ukrainians taste the same. Blood must be sacrificed to the old gods of thunder and soil. Even in a 21st Century war where up to 60% of the casualties are caused by drones, the masculine impulse to throw men into the meat-grinder hasn’t changed since the “Great” War. Just like in 1917, people are starting to wake up to the idea that this war can’t be won traditionally.  Ukraine is now massively developing new technology and tactics, but it’s too late for the dead. So, here’s a prayer for the living-impaired. Here’s a prayer for the fresh-meat.  Here’s a prayer for a lost-generation. May the winds be at your back. May their hateful bullets miss by millimeters. May you have many close calls. May you see many sunrises. May you savor every sunset. May you walk through the valley of the shadow of death. May you fear no evil. May you never forget your friends. And may your friends never forget you. May you never know your enemies. And may your enemies never know you. May the gods and goddesses smile upon you. And may God have mercy on your souls.  May the last day of war come soon. May the first day of war fade fast. May the memories of murder and mayhem fade faster. May the memories of fallen friends never fade. May they live forever in the hearts of the survivors. May they rest peacefully in the halls of their fathers. May they never again know hunger. May they never again know fear. May they smile down upon us. And may we see them in the sky. May we feel them in our hearts. And may we feel them in our souls. May we honor them with our words. And may we honor them with our deeds. May we live for them. And may we die for them. May we never waste a moment. And when the last sun sets, may we join them in the sky.

Sand falls on sleeping soldiers Rats scamper across the trench-line Like servants of the Sandman Putting dust in sleeping eyes Mosquitos come in the night Buzz-buzz-buzzing Vampires of the steppes No peace for the living Minutes turn into hours Hours turn into days Days turn into weeks Weeks turn into months Soldiers with years in their beards Some haven’t been home in years Some will never see home again Or see a friendly face again Or feel a lover’s embrace again Or have a hot meal again Or take a shower again Or shit in a toilet again Or hug their children again Instead they’re here Stuck in the trench Nothing to do but wait Staring at their phones Strange symbols of modern life In this ancient wasteland Summer burns Winter freezes But Autumn and Spring Bring only rain Rain falls and falls Sand turns to mud Trying to steal boots Trying to drag soldiers to Hell Drowning bodies in the field In a muddy stew Boiling from hard rain Tanks and cars and motorcycles Struggle in the murk Mired in the mud War slows down Time gets heavy Sleep is hard to find Nothing is dry Nothing is clean Nothing is free from the mud Feet feel rotten People get sick Coughing in between cigarettes A soldier’s only respite Sickness spreads Through the underground Close-quarters for hours Breathing mold and mildew Sticking to smokers’ lungs Rocket fire and artillery Keep the sick inside Some die Some get pulled off the front Some get better Those are the unlucky ones

Note: This platform was actually rejected by the Heritage Foundation to be a part of Project 2025 for being “too radical” and for mentioning “climate change.” WARNING: DO NOT EAT PEOPLE (AS LONG AS THERE ARE LAWS). DO NOT ATTEMPT THESE RECIPES WHILE SOCIETY STILL EXISTS. WAIT PATIENTLY FOR ANARCHY LIKE THE REST OF US. Cannibalism, like psychedelics and racism, is making a comeback in the 2020s. With meat shortages, supply-chain disruptions and historic world hunger; it’s only a matter of time before people start eating people again.  The future is bright for those with sharp teeth.  I committed myself to weeks of strenuous research to compile these 10 recipes in the event cannibalism is decriminalized (probably in 2032, by Democrats) or the rule of law is overthrown and society collapses (probably in 2025, by Republicans).  In a world where every meal counts, we can’t afford to not be forward-thinking. Human meat is a good source of vitamins and minerals, and the most-environmentally friendly animal protein. Also, human populations are steadily rising, and I’ve been assured by many experts who would never allow themselves to be named here that humanity is not in danger of depletion from overhunting, making human meat one of the last truly ethical sources of protein for the Paleo diet. If you’re not a vegetarian, you owe it to yourself and to the planet to incorporate these recipes into your daily life, or to inspire your friends and family with your own “Long-Pork” creations. So, without further ado, allow me to present the recipes that will shape the 2020s. 10. Sierra Nevada Oysters Ethically sourced from men’s church choirs from Canada to rural Mexico, these savory beauties are all butter. Guaranteed to lift the spirits of even the most nutritionally deprived, this extremely simple 21st century spin on a Great Depression classic is something the whole family will love. INGREDIENTS: 3 tbsp of cumin 4 lbs of “Men’s Oysters” 1 tbsp of curry 1 cup of flour 6 tbsp of oil 2 tbsp of garlic powder 3 tbsp of salt 5 tbsp of cayenne pepper Mix spices in a bowl. Coat “oysters” in flour and spices by hand until coating is thickly applied and all spices are used. Fry in a pan with oil until crispy. Season to taste. 9. Child Chutney A modern spin on an Indian classic, and great for hard times, child chutney is a masterpiece. Perfect for the family with multiple offspring, child chutney is the perfect wine and beer pairing for the discerning palate. If parents give their kids the evil-eye today, just wait until they’re hungry. Once the tenderloins are harvested don’t let the rest of the meat go to waste! You can make this recipe with any cut of under-age “long-pork.” One child can last all month! Guaranteed or your barter back! The only question is: Which kid will you choose? Start counting those referrals! You’ll never get another bad call from school again!  Note: Each child born in the U.S. today adds 9,441 tons of carbon to their parents’ ecological footprint, and every child eaten takes that carbon out of the equation in the battle to preserve a healthy planet for future generations. We hope this recipe offers protein-starved parents a way to get the nutrients they need with dignity and a clean conscience. INGREDIENTS: 2 tbsp ground cinnamon 2 tbsp chili powder 2 tbsp ground cumin 2 tbsp fennel seeds 2 tbsp paprika 2 tbsp freshly ground black pepper 2 tbsp kosher salt 2 child/tween tenderloins (1 “package” contains 2 loins) Olive oil, for searing Mango Chutney, for serving, recipe follows: 1 finely chopped yellow onion 4 minced garlic cloves ¼  cup red wine vinegar ¼  cup granulated sugar 2 tbsp ground ginger ¼  tsp ground allspice 1 tbsp fennel seeds 1 tsp chile flakes Pinch of ground clove One 6 oz bag dried mango (see Cook's Note) Salt and freshly ground black pepper Preheat the oven to 350º F. In a medium bowl, combine the cinnamon, chili, cumin, fennel, paprika, pepper and salt. Rub each child loin generously with the seasoning blend. Let the “long-pork” sit 20 to 30 minutes at room temperature. Preheat a large, oven-proof saute pan over medium-high heat. Once hot, add enough oil to coat the bottom of the pan. Place the child tenderloins in the pan and sear the “long-pork” on all sides until golden brown, 3 to 4 minutes per side. Place the seared “long-pork” into the oven and cook until an instant-read thermometer reads 155 to 160º F, 20 to 30 minutes. Remove the tenderloins from the oven, place them on a plate or cutting board, tent with foil and allow the meat to rest 10 minutes. Then cut the loins into 1-inch thick slices. Mango Chutney: In a medium saucepan, add the onions, garlic, ½ to ¾ cup water, vinegar, sugar, ginger, allspice, fennel, chile and cloves. Bring the mixture to a boil. Add the cranberries to the pot and reduce the heat to a simmer. Cook the mixture until the cranberries have reconstituted and start softening and breaking down. If too much liquid evaporates, just add more water and keep cooking until you achieve the desired consistency. The chutney should be on the firmer/chunkier side of a jelly. Once the chutney is cooked, season with salt and pepper. Then, amply pour the mango chutney over the sliced child loins. And voila! Child chutney is served! Cook’s Note:  Though we prefer mango, any dried fruit can be used. And, though we don’t recommend it, in the event of a child shortage, “long-pork” can be swapped for regular pork, or even some vegan “I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Pork” product. 8. Your Neighbor’s Pancreas ¼ pound human pancreas ½ cup of sliced mushrooms 2 tbsp of butter ½ cup of heavy cream ¼ cup of red wine Lemon juice/vinegar (optional) Salt and black pepper to taste  The sweetest bread you’ve ever tasted! A light start to what is sure to be a long decline. Perfect appetizer for an end of the world watch-party.  An ideal pairing with Hennessy and 21st Century beats, this dish gets right to the heart of the times while just missing it by a few inches. Your neighbor was always threatening those noise complaints anyway. They're in a better place now: your stomach! Soak pancreas in ice-cold water for about 12 hours, changing the water regularly, until the water stays clear. Place pancreas in a pot covered with cold water, optional to add lemon juice or vinegar. Bring to boil and let simmer for a few minutes. Then, quickly cool in iced cold water. Trim down and peel the membrane off of the pancreas. Cut pancreas into medium slices. In a saucepan, saute sliced mushrooms in butter. Add cream, red wine, and pepper. Add pancreas. Serve with warm baguette and butter. 7. Junkie Jerky Sourced from your local mummified neighborhood drug-fiend in the depths of overdose. Very common in both urban and rural post-apocalyptic locations. This one is already an American classic since the Great Recession! Blast-off your taste buds on a kaleidoscopic journey with Jimi and his friends. Though diseases are frequent with this recipe, so what? You want to live forever? Don’t let your neighborhood vagabond go to waste! Salt to taste. INGREDIENTS: 1 lb ethically-sourced junkie tenderloin ¾ cup beef broth 1 tbsp red wine vinegar 1 tsp sea salt 1 tsp garlic powder 1 tsp freshly ground black pepper ½ tsp smoked paprika ½ tsp fennel seeds 1 whole anise seed 1 tsp red pepper flakes 2 tsp powdered sugar ½ tsp chopped cayenne pepper ¼ tsp curing salt (optional) Trim all visible fat from the junkie-flesh and place in the freezer for an hour or two to partially freeze. While the meat is in the freezer, combine marinade ingredients in a bowl or ziplock bag. Remove the meat from the freezer and slice ¼" strips against the grain for an easy chew. Cut with the grain for a more chewy jerky. Add sliced “long-pork” to the mixture in the ziplock bag or bowl and marinate for 6–24 hours in the refrigerator. After the meat has finished marinating, remove from the refrigerator and strain excess marinade in a colander and pat dry with paper towels. Place strips on a cooling rack atop a baking sheet and 'cook' in the oven for 22 minutes at 350º F or until the internal temperature of the strips reaches 165º F. Remove from the oven. Continue to dry. We recommend using a food dehydrator for 5 hours at 145º F.  The jerky is finished when it bends and cracks, but does not break in half. White fibers will also be seen when the jerky is bent. 6. Type II Diabetic Pâté Gotta flatten the curve! If we don’t get ’em, COVID-19 will! Ethically sourced from perfectly legal contracts with nursing homes in all 50 states, including Puerto Rico and Guam, this modern mutton is sure to tingle your taste buds and end social distancing as soon as possible! What better way to send out Grandma than with that family dinner she always wanted? Serve on water crackers. INGREDIENTS: 1 lb of diabetic liver  1 small onion, well-trimmed 2 garlic cloves, mashed and peeled  2 bay leaves ½ teaspoon thyme leaves  Kosher salt (as needed) 1 cup water  3 sticks unsalted butter 4 tsp Cognac or Scotch whiskey  Freshly ground pepper (as needed)  In a medium saucepan, combine the diabetic liver, onion, garlic, bay leaf, thyme and ½ teaspoon of salt. Add the water and bring to a simmer. Cover, reduce the heat to low and cook, stirring occasionally, until the liver is barely pink inside, about 3 minutes. Remove from the heat and let stand, covered, for 5 minutes. Discard the bay leaf. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the liver, onion and garlic to a food processor; process until coarsely pureed. With the machine on, add the butter, 2 tablespoons at a time, until incorporated. Add the Cognac/Whiskey, season with salt and pepper and process until completely smooth. Scrape the pâté into 2 or 3 large ramekins. Press a piece of plastic wrap directly onto the surface of the pâté and refrigerate until firm. Serve chilled. The pâté can be covered with a thin layer of melted butter, then wrapped in plastic and refrigerated for up to 1 week or frozen for up to 2 months. 5. Wildblood Gutterwine The brave chemist and psychonaut who wrote this recipe down on a roll of toilet paper in the world’s first “gutterwine-induced” frenzy before puking up blood and asphyxiating on the floor, woke up the next morning in Valhalla with a “Mama Tried” tattoo and no memory of the circumstances. Or at least that’s what I’d like to believe. Though satanic, sadistic, unnecessary and not exactly a critical part of the “Brave New World Diet,” no one wants to survive sober. I mean, after you eat your neighbor’s pancreas or make your kid into chutney, where do you go? Where everything in this helly-hellscape eventually goes: the bottom of the barrel.  I think we’re there now. INGREDIENTS: 1 55-gallon drum (no bullet holes) 45 gallons of ethanol (clear with a high ABV preferred, but any alcohol-containing liquid will do) 4–6 gallons of human blood (average human body’s worth, preferably intoxicated) 10–50 ml of xylene (active ingredient in spray paint) 4 oz of corpse-compost psilocybin mushrooms (strong enough to wake the spirits) 20–100 g of corpse-compost “CannaLard” (strong enough to make the spirits pass out on the couch) 500 ml of opium tincture (sourced naturally or extracted from pharmaceuticals via alcohol) 10 g of methamphetamine (probably the easiest ingredient to locate in “post-apocalyptia”) 1 L of filtered Jimson Weed tea (use seeds) 1 L of diethyl ether (at this point, don’t ask about purity) Freshly cleaned human skulls (be sure to get the stains out) Pour 45 gallons of ethanol or ethanol-containing solutions into a 55-gallon drum. Stir in a whole human’s worth of blood (usually 4-6 gallons). Pour 1 liter of filtered Jimson Weed tea into the mix. Stir in 20–100 grams of “CannaLard” (Cannabis-infused human fat) until it dissolves completely. Add 500 milliliters of opium tincture. Throw in 1 liter diethyl ether (maybe give yourself a huff from the towel first). Add as much methamphetamine as you feel comfortable with (we recommend starting at 10 grams). Grind 4 ounces of psilocybin mushrooms to powder and sprinkle in gently. THE SPECIAL INGREDIENT IS LOVE. Continue to stir mixture occasionally for 10–15 minutes. Add Xylene to taste.  Serve in human skulls, freshly cleaved and cleaned. 4. Starvation Stew Another classic from the minds that brought you “Type II diabetic pâté,” this hearty stew is sure to tingle your taste buds and raise the hairs on the back of your neck as your body copes with the sudden rush of vitamins seeping back into your starving cells. One step above eating a person raw, and not designed to taste good or look pretty, this recipe is good in a pinch. It may just save your life someday in the future wasteland that no longer abides by arcane practices such as “laws.”  INGREDIENTS: 1 human heart  3 packets of Emergen-C or some other scavenged supplement Bone marrow (as much as you can harvest before your shaking fingers give out) 3 lb human fat 1 qt human blood The heart is a unique ingredient to cook. It is a working muscle and should be prepared in 1 of 2 ways: very slowly for a long period of time, which will help break down the toughness of the meat, or, as it is here, very quickly to serve medium rare thereby retaining its natural nutrients and moisture. Cut the heart into large cubes. In a frying pan, render down fat until it’s an oily liquid at a medium simmer. Once oil starts jumping out of the pan, add heart cubes and blood. Bring mix to a boil. Once boiling turn down heat to a low simmer. Add bone marrow. Cook for 5 more minutes. Once cooking is complete stir in vitamins. Eat this quickly before you keel over or it coagulates. You probably won’t have any salt. Once color returns to your cheeks, consider using leftovers for other recipes listed here. You can’t be wasteful in the wasteland.  3. El Cubano Inspired by failed communist governments everywhere, this popular Havana classic pairs well with bringing starvation to the people. You can usually find bread, but where are you going to get good ham in this economy? Hmmmm...your neighbor sure looks healthy…pretty sure he believes in a different system of government than you…might be fair game. INGREDIENTS: 2 tbsp of mayonnaise 2 tbsp of Dijon mustard 1 large wide loaf French bread, cut in half then halved lengthwise  6 slices Swiss cheese 6–8 slices deli-style human ham (Salty, not too sweet) 5–6 oz thinly sliced “long-pork” (roast, chop or pulled) Pickles (add to taste and texture) 1 tsp of garlic 4 tbsp of softened butter Spread mayo and mustard inside the bread slices. Brown the 4 tablespoons of softened butter with garlic in a pan large enough to grill both sandwiches at once (a panini-maker would be fabulous). Add the cheese on one of the bread slices and the pre-cooked “long-pork” on the other. Next, put human ham on top of the pork and pickles on top of the cheese. Grill until golden brown. If cooking in a pan, make sure to flip. 2. Long-Pork’n Beans A wasteland classic! What better way to pay homage to “The Road?” Around the office we call this one “The Cormac McCarthy.” It’s not post-apocalypse until you spill blood on the altar of anarchy for a side of beans with people bits mixed in.  Assorted human (preferably fresh muscle parts) 1 scavenged can of baked beans Salt and pepper Open a can of baked beans and pour into a pot. Bring to a simmer on the campfire. Throw in your “personal potpourri.” Add salt and pepper to taste. 1. Stuffed Road Roast (Recipe courtesy of Fernquest Fantasies, LLC “Dehumanize it, Man!”) Bikers gotta eat, too. When the pickin’s get thin on the wasted highways of 2027, strangers gon’ start lookin’ tasty. Here’s a classic that hasn’t even been invented yet. 1 100–200 lb stranger 10 lbs edible weeds 10 lbs potatoes 10–15 tires Field dress naked stranger and stuff its holes with “weeds ’n’ taters.” Pile tires high and light on fire; lay stranger on top. Cook til crisp on outside, steamin’ on inside. Sauce to taste. Feeds motorcycle gang of six for a week. CONCLUSION: To make a long story short, if you order pork in 2025, know what you’re getting yourself into. Take it from me, there’s not a whole lot of difference between a slice of human flesh and a slice of BBQ pork. Don’t be so trusting of that mushu! That pulled-pork sandwich was delicious, but do you really know what’s in it? President Trump has deregulated the meat industry so much that when it comes time for them to make the switch, only Human Rights Watch will probably notice. PETA will probably just be happy to stand back and say, “I told you so.” I, for one, am pro-human. *IT’S SATIRE, STUPID*

Midnight voices. Shouts in the streets. The rush of feet on concrete. Screeching tires. Scraping sounds. People running underground. Heavy percussions. Rhythms and waves. Some close. Some far. Children with empty eyes. Mothers with sad faces. Fathers’ faces hardened in the night. Yellowed teeth. Bloodshot eyes. Days without sleep. Running like rabbits. From hole to hole. Hiding from the hounds. Howls tear through the night. Hunting rabbits. Voices cackle in the villages. No one is safe. Nowhere is safe. The hounds keep coming and coming. Hungry for rabbit. Hungry for blood. Hungry for the hunt. Waves of flesh pound the earth. Rotten forms fall. Sicker ones still stand. No one deserts the High Command. Hounds that flee hit the ground. No more laughter. No more sounds. No more hunts. No more howls.  Hounds bark. War dogs bite.  Burning village. Lungs full of smoke. Nostrils full of chemicals. Smell of sulfur. Scent of Satan. Pagan forms filter through the haze. Checking the dead. Shooting the living. Looting the corpses. Gold teeth. Mother’s silver. Half-empty flasks. Rusty liquor. Dulling the pain. Dulling the hate. Dulling the mind. More wallets and jewels. More fruitful loot from fruiting bodies. Desecrated desserts from desiccated dead. Orders on radios. Static warping. Apocalyptic voices. Boots moving out. Haze clearing. Eerie quiet. No more voices. No more life. Just another dead town. Under a rising sun. Shadows of ruins. Blasted-out silhouettes. Echoes of lost hope. Faith and regrets. Crows defile the dead. Stray dogs feast. Rats devour what remains. Mewling kittens. Abandoned in the dark. Hungry and cold. No one remembers. Another feast for worms. Another meal for maggots. Tooth and claw rule a hungry world.  Unlike worms and maggots, Russians waste the dead.  Sunlight fades. Moonlight shimmers. Spirits dance in the dark.  The Domovyky mourn their kin. Spirits of hearth and home. Shattered and homeless. Shedding tears. Tearing out hair. Wailing over their defiled children. Who will bury the dead? They wonder. Who will remember their names? They cry. Who will visit their graves? They moan. Who will honor their remains? They sigh. Who will offer them food and flowers? They weep. Who will save their sorry souls? They wail. Who will light candles for them in the dark? They lament. Who will save their bodies from the rats? They torment. The Domovyky shiver and shake. Quake and quiver. Clawing their faces. Gouging their eyes out. Offerings of blood. Offerings of hate.  So they no longer have to see the children. So they no longer have to see the rats. Blood pours. Flesh rots. Earth absorbs. Suns rise and set. Seasons turn. World keeps on spinning. Time keeps on ticking. Flowers bloom from rotten earth. Brimming with life and love for the sun. Sunflowers tower above the fields. Golden wheat ready to reap. Sweet corn heavy on the stalk. Cherries and apples and apricots fall. Lusty trees. Overripe and busty with life. Vegetables pour into the markets. Villages marred by war. Verdant vines and green life. Cover the scars. Tragedy turns to history. Life lingers on. People forget. Names and places. Seasons lost. Sacrifices made. Soon we can’t even remember their names. But the Domovyky never forget their faces.

Falling and falling and falling for flowers Falling and falling and falling for hours Church bells chime Funeral bells toll Life and death in repetitive rhythm  Nature’s symphony She caught the flowers, you see She caught the flowers And now we last for hours Hours and hours and hours Flowers and flowers and flowers Too many flowers and hours to count Sunrises and sunsets slip away The birth and death of each day Shines like sunlight Feels like moonlight Smells like lovelight Midday fancies  Midnight frenzies Tearing the petals off One by one Lies torn away Petal by petal Until only truth remains Loves me or loves me not Flowers blush nakedly Under a watchful eye They tremble in the wind As eyes feast on them Withering them down Until there is nothing left And yet in her fevered bloom Time loses all meaning These dreams will never end Manic and mindful We set sail for eternity On the winds of the moment Like lovers caught in amber Locked in eternal embrace Between life and death  And love and hate

The inherent flaw with Campbell's analysis in his work “American Discontents,” is that it is an intellectual endeavor to understand an anti-intellectual phenomenon. The idea that ideas drove the election of Donald Trump, and that plans or policy had anything to do with his victory, is a deeply flawed position. Equally flawed is the idea that his election was simply about economic self-interest alone. Research has shown that elections are decided by primal, atavistic variables such as a candidate's looks, gender, power dynamics, cultural capital, and a voter's state of mind at the time of voting. Elections are emotional, not rational. This is also why polling always fails to truly grasp the causes of voter outcomes. A person will say that they are rational and upright, even when this is not the case in the voting booth. This emotional element of politics is displayed by the way Republican policy warped to the personality of Donald Trump. If Republicans actually cared about policy, their primaries would go quite differently. But traditionally, since the days of Lee Atwater, Republican politics has been dominated by ad hominem displays of patriarchal aggression. Even though Trump's forebears were much more modest and "rational" in these processes, they still undertook these same methods. Think: Dukakis, soft on crime. This is a perfect example of the emasculation that Republicans have traditionally engaged in against their opponents. Even the Democratic poster-child Obama, in the debate with Romney, made his opponent look small, quietly and confidently engaging in this kind of schoolyard emasculation. Another excellent example would be JFK and Nixon, where cool and calculated Kennedy made Nixon look like a weak, out-of-touch geek. In the same way that the Protestant Ethic still dominates politics today, the Germanic ethic of "Might is Right," specifically the kind of ethic that developed in a society where the victor in a duel or conflict was deemed righteous in ideology, has just as strong an effect on the actions undertaken by people in the West when in competition with one another. For thousands of years, from before the Rise and Fall of Rome to the early decades of the United States, Eurasian people in positions of power regularly engaged in personal one-on-one armed conflict to settle disputes and establish legitimacy. There is nothing reasonable about conflict. Ideas, costumes, and totems of status are merely after-thoughts to the violent human competition for status and power. People believe ideas and narratives that benefit them, not always just materially but also socially and psychologically. A communist does not say that all people are equal because it is true, but because it is in the interest of his psyche to believe so, in the same way it is in the interest of the wealthy and powerful to assume some inalienable difference between themselves and others. When people believe ideas that don't align with their class-interests, it is most often due to psychological and social factors. Think Friedrich Engels, or "My-daddy-is-the-mean-factory-owner-syndrome.” Climate deniers disbelieve in climate change because it is too destructive to their self-narratives and values, as well as their material interests, because it empowers the idea that they are the evil force in the world, and not the force of good and progress that they have been led to believe. Fossil fuels are the source of Western greatness and power. Therefore, to challenge the ideas around fossil fuels is to challenge the hegemony and prosperity of these states. Donald Trump was victorious because Hillary Clinton was weak, and he was a master emasculator. Despite all the words paid in the West to "Reason," the true idea (if we can even call it that) that has always governed the West is "Might." White Christian Civilization is not right because it is wise, but because it has conquered. This is a concept that every proponent of so-called "Civilization" will eventually fall back on when confronted: Modern Capitalist Society is right because it "works," and we are right because we were "more successful." The proponents of "Progress" will usually to try to leave out the sheer barbarity by which so-called Civilized Rome was built. Also the weak and powerless, people who feel spat upon by society, gravitate towards powerful social movements led by powerful individuals of charismatic authority, because it gives them agency. In the same way that disparate tribes would follow Attila or Chinggis Khan in the hopes of finally seeing the great wonders of Rome or China, many of the traditionally "bad" elements of our society, as well as many from its far-flung corners and backwaters, cling to someone like Donald Trump in the hopes that by following him they can transcend their mundane lives and achieve greatness by taking it from an elite who see them as subhuman. This concept is perfectly demonstrated by the events of January 6, where these "barbarian" hordes broke through the gates of civilization. For people of such low order, to touch the monuments of great ones, to walk where great ones walk, to strike fear into the hearts of great ones, if only for a time, must have felt cosmic and divine.