The Devil takes the hindmost

  • New Hampshire 2016: The Race for 2nd Place

    People ask me all the time, When the hell are you going to run for President? 

    2020, OK? So quit asking me. Anyway, getting back to business on this dreary American Primary Day, let's review where we are, who's up, who's down, and who's going to face off against me in four years when I'm finally elected President. Don't believe me? Well then, up yours. 

    Hillary is my favorite wannabe lady President. Bill has been very good for my bottom line, and as I see her following in her husband's footsteps, I think she'll continue the traditions of sending me very large and unaccountable government contracts. I support HIllary, even if she's a dirty money slut - so am I! That's what America is all about, you jackasses. 

    Defense Contractors for Hillary! 

    Dumb dirty commie Sanders is going to beat neocon Hillary but will lose to the next President in November. That's an AC Guarantee. Take it to the bank, which will still exist when this loser loses the general. 

    If Jeb! won, he'd have to be assassinated for the sake of humanity. Talk about a punchable face! Americans have had enough of this corrupt family, the Bushes. Seriously, when we finally get down to it, the Bushes are a menace to the gene pool. I recommend castration. 

    The Huggies Candidate: All-American Marco Rubio would make a better Co-op Board President than actual President-President. He's probably a theif. He's definitely a bed wetter, according to a Tampa-based source who sold his campaign rubber sheets. This man needs a tremendous amount of anti-anxiety drugs to get his ass out of the house on a daily basis. What a debtor!

    Need I say more? I rest my case. 

    This man is a pussy. 

    This man knows all about Winner-Take-All, just like me. Trump will be a one-term President after I defeat his ugly ass in 2020. 

  • Guns & Butter

    People ask me, Hey AC, you’re smart, you’re hip, you’re rich, you know how to keep a lady interested. Tell us, please, What kind of Culture is Best? And I reply, The Best Culture is counter-culture. Then I slam the door right in their faces for pondering such trivialities. Stop taking up my time, people. You all now know my opinion on this ridiculously self-indulgent question, so quit asking me, Idiots.

    Now, I don’t want to seem too hasty here, so, before we depart, let’s consider the differences between Gun and Butter Cultures. First, we need a reasonable definition of these opposing ideas. Let me looking through my files— Ah, yes, Perfect! This will serve us nicely:

    You know the problem with you little niggas? You think you know everything about the damn world, but you don't know shit. I see you got yourselves a little business going. Well, that's good, that's good. You make that paper. But when you making paper you gotta learn some rules to go with it. You gotta learn the difference between guns and butta. There's two types of niggas in this world: there's niggas with guns, and niggas with butta. Now what are guns? The guns, that's the real estate. The stocks and bonds, artwork, you know, shit that appreciates with value. What's the butta? Cars, clothes, jewelry, all that other bullshit that don't mean shit after you buy it. That's what it's all about, guns and butta baby! Lil' dumb motherfuckers. —Mel (Ving Rhames) in John Singleton’s Baby Boy

    Growing up, like I did in the 1940s, Guns and Butter meant simply the difference between War and Peace. When we go to war, we buy Guns, when we return to peace, we go back to buying Butter (and making post-war babies; lots of screwing around going on in the '40s. Trust me, I was there). These diametric ideas, or Cultures, as I see them broadly, came from Cold War indoctrination and assumptions. It was a short-hand way for economists and politicians and the moneyed people to explain to the Public where the monies were going to be spent, usually to the benefit of those who were smart enough to own things. I'm talking about the hard working folks like my father, Martin.

    When I was a kid, Guns meant shooting Germans, or hunting game meat, or gangsters. Although, and I couldn't articulate it at the time, I do remember a sense of something larger than wargames, not god. A sense of the greater powers that controlled the machinery of destruction. Powers that were the True Guns in this equation. This idea of a Greater Power was confirmed to me by my father, when, at the age of 21, I announced that I was going to volunteer to fight the Communists in the East a.k.a Korea. My father responded,

    Don’t be a fucking idiot, sit down (I sat). Son, listen I don’t have a lot of time, I have that fucking meeting with Wilson next, so listen up and keep your trap shut. You hear me?

    I responded smartly, Yes, sir!

    All right, hey asshole. Wipe that goofy grin off your face and listen up.

    I am, sir. I am listening. Sir.

    Shut up, I don't have time— my son is not running off with the Army to go kill Chinks—, are you listening? Well, look. Listen. Son, you just graduated from a very expensive school, Harvard. Now, I wish I could've gone to that school, but my dad said, No damn son of mine is going to have a leg up over me. No, I had to go to work instead. You see, your grandfather was an asshole—

    I know, dad—

    A god damn asshole, son. So I went out and started my own import/export Business, worked my ass off, went bust, went bust again, but then I hit the jackpot and made twice as much as that fucking half-educated son of a bitch you call a grandfather—

    But daad, grandpa went to Harvar—

    Shut up, son. Listen, grandpa cheated his way in. I sold off ten blocks of tentanments to the city for the new dump to pay the fucking tuition. But are they putting in the dump? No. They’re gonna put a stadium in there now, with public funds! You see what I’m saying?

    No, dad. I have no idea how to make profits. Gee-wiz. 

    Don't get smart with me. That’s your first warning. Listen, your mother and me was talking it over and you’re gonna work in my office until we find you a good job.

    But, daad—

    Shut the hell up, son. I’m talking now. Listen, you’re gonna work with me downtown, doing office bullshit, until you figure out how to buy and sell for yourself and move hell out of my house. Got it?

    Why can’t I do that when I come baackk?

    God damn it, would you shut up? Listen, listen to me. OK, listen, if you go off to war, you’ll die. Understand? You will die, or get your dick blown off. Either way, you’re gonna come back a useless depedent, like your mother's brother. All right, listen, I know you want to be a grown-up and all, but there are other things we need to discuss—

    I’m not a virgin, dad.

    I sure as hell hope not, you dumb fuck. I didn’t raise you to wait your turn with the ladies. What did your old man give you for your fourteenth birthday?

    Cash.

    That's right. And what was the cash for?

    Sex with ladies. 

    That’s right, and didn’t the ladies treat you well?

    Yeah, I guess so.

    Unbelievable. You’re a damn ingrate, you know that? My father never helped me get laid, let alone pay for it. You don’t know how lucky you got it, boy, and now you’re gonna through all this away To Serve Your Country? What for!

    You hate commies too, dad.

    I don’t give a damnn about commies taking a shit 5000 miles away! It's those damnn commies living up the block that worry me! They vote, stupid. Listen, you ain’t going, and that’s final. Now take off that goofy uniform. I'll make some calls, get you out of this mess. 

    Fine. I'll just go hunting with Uncle Chester instead. He likes shooting stuff. 

    All right, fine. Now, onto other things. There's a lesson here you need to understand. Listen—

    I am listening!

    Stop yelling, Christ. It didn’t look like you were listening. OK, you see, you’re old enough to understand the greater world now, and this is what you need to know, there are two types of people in this world: Owners and Renters.

    Owners and Renters?

    Owners and Renters, good. You’re listening now. Your pops here is what people call an Owner. And you, you’re the son of the Owner. See?

    Yeah, I see.

    Sure you do. Now, who are the Renters?

    Um, Commies?

    Yes, most definitely.

    [Urbans]?*

    Yes, Negroes.

    Hicks?

    Yes.

    Catholics?

    Yes, but Catholics are mostly Renters in spirit, rather materially. All right, that’s enough name calling for now, listen—

    I am, dad. Geez.

    OK, fine. But it looked like you weren’t. So, where was I?

    I have a question. Like, if you’re an Owner, and I’m your son, does that make me an Owner too?

    Not quite, not yet. You need to work first.

    Why?

    Because work builds character and discipline. You’re effeminiate, a little queer, son. Maybe that’s why you want to run off and kill people. It's a good way to man up, I can't deny it. But you should put energy into your own Business and make Profit. Only a fool risks their own Profit dying for someone else's. A profit you won't even have a chance to taste! Trust me, it's better to have the Renters' risk their lives for your Profit, son. Get it? I know it doesn't sound Christian, but face facts: You’re acting like a god damnn Renter. You don’t have a pot to piss in, so you go grab at the first chance at greatness, throw on that dumb uniform and march around like a fairy. See?

    I sure do! 

    On the other hand, unlike you, I'm an Owner. I own you. See, people like you rent from people like me, just like those dirty Commies up the block who don’t take care of their god damnn lawn. Hell, if I’d owned that house, I’d kick them out on their asses and rent it to some good people. I’d like to see a nice Jew family move-in, they know the difference between Guns and Butter.

    But daad, you always said Jews are the worse kind of Commies. Because they read long books! 

    Nevermind that, you're distracting me. We're talking about the Big Picture. 

    Oh, sure. Guns and Butter, like when we go to Korea to save them from themselves and open markets and such.

    Holy shit, where did you learn that?

    School.

    God damnnmit! Those Commies cunts are in the schools now, I knew it. I knew it. Listen, listen son, forget everything they taught you at school. Those son’s of whores filled you mind with a bunch of Commie crap. Especially the history stuff, all crap.

    OK.

    We don't war to open markets! We go to war to keep markets open! 

    All right. I’ll forget it.

    Listen, we're not talking about that now. You got to buy assets low, sell them high. Take on debt if you have to. Debt to buy Assets brings bigger Profit. But to do that you got to quit buying so much Butter, fool.

    I like butter.

    Don’t be an idiot. Idiots spend all their energy getting Butter. You know what I’m saying? There is a hierarchy, son. When you get a Profit, you put it in the bank, and then the extra you put in the market, you put the extras of that into interest bearing accounts, son. And gold. Buy gold. But not you, not the Renters, you Renters just go out and spend it all on—

    Movies! 

    Your damnn movies all the time! Every time I come home, your mother says you just left the house for a movie. Wasting all that money on what! Fantasies! 

    They don’t cost much, only a quarter. 

    THAT’S NOT THE POINT, THAT’S NOT THE POINT. It’s Time, idiot. You’re wasting Time. The movies won't teach you shit, boy. You got to get into Business, now, while you’re still young, so the fucking thing grows and you get oodles-of-Profit all out of proportion to your effort. Then you can go spend time in Hollywod banging Stars, or come with your old man to the whorehouse.

    Really! Can I dad? Can I come with you to the whorehouse? 

    Maybe. When you’re older, and successful enough in the trade. I have a reputation there to upkeep. Whatever you do, don’t tell your mother I promised you.

    I won’t!!

    And that’s how it went in my house back in the day, 1951. It’s a shame. I never did make it to the whorehouse with my father. Martin died about 12 years later when his plane went down over Alaska. He survived the crash, the lucky bastard. But then some bears ate him. That's another story.

    THE END

    * I'll admit, and don't judge me, but I did, at the tender age of 21, in 1951, routinely called Afro-Americans, Negroes. I know it's not politcally correct anymore to use that word, but that's what they were called at the time. Now I just say "Urban" since that's what they call themselves at the Music stores in the Malls.

  • From the desk of AC: To Our Wealth!

    Time

    24 hours

      - 12 hours

         - 8 hours for sleep

         - 4 hours for shit shower shave eat jerk off wash dishes

      - 12 hours

         - 9 hours for play

         - 3 hours for work

    =   No Time for Profit

      

      

  • Wildfires everywhere. I love watching Wildfires, do you?

  • Hello, and Welkome to American Cannibal dot Oorrrggha

    Dear Guests,

    Hello, and welkome to American Canni— (((Congratulations, and welcome! I am the Monkey Man, and you have discovered the hottest new website in the entire 'net! Check out all the hitz we get from cool people, especially cool young people, and cool old people with shiny diamond eyes in the rough money waters. You know, the wealthy friends of Mr. Cannibal. WelKome to All!, as AC prefers to spell. This blog is called The Devil Takes the Hindmost, or, as they say in enlightened Free Market Enlightenment Rationalization Theory, Winner-Takes-All! Know what I mean? In this space, we'll examine the inner workings of a madly sane tycoon named American Cannibal. He's—))) ((GET OFF THE OFF STAGE, YOU DAMNN DIRTY MONKEY! Damnn you, MM. Keep behind the curtain and keep your mouth shut. You're ruining my first god damnn ever post!!))

    What an embarrassment for me, and for you, dear reader. This is not the quality I paid for. You see, the Monkey Man, the fool who rudely interrupted us, well, MM believes himself to be a character, when, in fact, he's nothing more than an employee. MM keeps the lights on, so to speak. He's paid to edit my writings and to post my words, not interject his idiotic rantings. MM is a rude little bastard and overpaid typist, yet he knows how to run these vanity websites, says so anyway, but that's it! Life is too fucking short to learn how to do this now, so I have to pay that jackass to run things around here! Now I'm 85 years old. How old are you?

    Listen, I refuse to waste my December years doing things I can simply pay someone else to do. What do you mean why? First efficiency, second, more Time to myself. So I have to exchange all these dollars back into Time, other people's time. This is what the Government calls 'productivity' gains. You might have heard of it. People are much more motivated to complete the time-wasting, dirty and silly tasks and jobs I have no interest learning how to do, thanks to the employee's basic, built-in fear of Unemployement. My great fear is running out of Time; and their's is the fear of running out of money, and things to feel important about—an urgency to be seen as competent, effective, popular—like the feeling some of them get when checking off the little Head of Household box on tax forms. Pathetic, really. Money is Everything, if only they understood that we'd all be much better off. But no, they keep striving, ha! What I have observed reader is most times, when the Help becomes restless and moody, when they don't have enough to do, no guidance in their daily work, boredom sets-in and the Help can turn rebellious. This is dangerous for obvious reasons, therefore it's vitally important to keep one's employees as busy as possible all the time. I picked that trick up in the Army, Korea.

    When busyness fails to keep the workpersons quiet and calm, and all the medications they'd been ingesting all along fail to prevent emotional breakdown, the next trick is to deal out unfair amounts of discipline to the ring leaders, keeps the ranks in file. Legal discipline, you see, a severe pay cut or mass layoff fixes attitudes and questions right quick. It's not like the old days, when my father was in Business, back when you could simpy beat workers back into submission, turn the fire hoses on them. They have built in protections now that need to be pried off, so lawyer fees are now another cost, thank you very much Socialists.

    An inauspicious grand opening, isn't it reader? Maybe starting this so called blog was the wrong hobby for my retirement days. Oh hell, what do I care? I'm rich. I could just spend my time burning piles of money and pissing into the wind and still never get rid of it all. Of course, I would never do that, dear reader. I'm not a jerk, no, I'm thinking of giving it all to some church group, or a mortuary, pay for some coffins for the poor. Isn't that nice? I think so. Generous too. Everyone needs a coffin, so I'm guessing taking that load off the needy's back is a step in the right direction. They could use the savings for a, oh I don't know, a better class of food at the funeral. Or a downpayment for a loan! See, that there is a way to help people lift themselves up by the boots. As for the Monkey Man, he'll be reprimanded later. In fact, we may well have to ban MM. You, dear reader, are always welcome here. Hello, and welkome. My name is American Cannibal. Please, have a seat on the sofa, get comfortable, lean back, put your feet up, and forget all the selfish, attention seeking nonsense from the Monkey Man. Yes, please, relax with me, dear reader. Relax, let go, chilll out. Ah, yes. Indeed. We are chilling now, aren't we. This is the Life. 

    Middle Men

    The sofa? It's called Ploum, a Bouroullec. Very comfortable, very beautiful. One of the perks of being successful. And this armchair, Jean-Marc Gady. The drawings, originals. All the finest tastes here, don't worry. You should see one my homes—only the finest. Would you like a refreshment? A cold drink, hard liquor? Or, would you prefer marijuana? You'll dig my stuff, dear reader. All my weed is organically grown here, right down in the Heartland of Tennessee. The buds are packaged, sealed, and shipped direct to my NYC apartment. My good friend, another import/export mogul, well, he's very respectable and off-limits in this space. I'll just say, It's his Business. The President knows him as well as the Minority Leader. Those three have been in more foursomes over the years, some awfully prickly ones too, more foursome than you and I put together. My excuse is, I hate golf. And I prefer the company of women anyway. 

    Yet, beyond the surface politics, I promise you, dear reader, or, rather, may I call you Friend? This marijuana stuff is going to be huge after legalization. And it tastes great. We already have the package mock-ups, webdomains, and support staff in place. We're shopping for pr now. And the Capital is already borrowed, committed, and deployed. We're buying up farmland left and right. We are positioning ourselves to be the number 3 or 4 in a potential multi-Trillion dollar industry, if the government just got out of the way. 10 million jobs, easy. Of course, I can't tell you the name of our brand, not until we get the green light from the Executive. You understand legalities, don't you Friend. But I promise, the Businesses has behind-the-scene interest from all the major players, including the financial, healthcare, and consumer staple industries. Alcohol doesn't like it so much, but what they don't understand is the Facts. We're going to drink their products anyway. So why worry? I told my alcohol invested friends. There's Profits for everyone involved. Bottoms up!  

    Here, take a wiff. You like that? It's the dankest stuff at the price-point, so you know it's good. We can make 500% free and clear after all the red tape is cut away. Yes, friend, every now and then we Americans get lucky. That is, we get lucky whenever the Free Market discovers a new profit generator, like Colorado Pot. God Bless those Free Market bastards out West. Now if we can just convince these Conservative and Liberal basterds on the East Coast, help them recognize the high-margins to be had, the medicial benefits for the sick, and the tax revunue generated in domestically produced THC. Hell, why should we? It's for our Own People. It gives them employment with healthy salaries, less anxiety, less insecurity, less anger, and removes fear of prosecution and self-destruction in the challenges of daily survival. At the very least, we'll save centuries of heartbreak.

    Hell, why stop with legalization? America can be the World's Greatest Marijuana Exporter, if we play our cards right, keep out heads on straight, and let the People Trade. Why let the Mexicans and street gangs take all the Profit? Our para-military police are more than capable of enforcing the rules, when laws are broken, or courtroom legitimacy fails. Not only is it Patriotic to buy Marijuana Made in the USA, the legally made profits pass more cash to our employees through tax savings, in turn raising their happiness, welfare and ambition, churn my assets to even more Profitable heights, and, in turn, I get richer, the Board of Directors get richer, the office workers get a taste and the local dirt farmers have something to grow in all that wasted farmland out there instead of collecting government checks. I'm not saying blackmarket drugs are my Business. I assure you it's not, I deal in the arms business, largely, and manage a portfolio of choice investments, including publicly traded Marijuana Stocks and middle-man vig to my hired HFTers to keep their thumbs pressed down on the Moneybutton. All I'm saying is, Let the Free Market work its wonders and release the potential of all American People. Like those risk takers out West in Colorado, the ones getting filthy rich at this very moment. Leagilze it so we all can get filthy rich like we're suppose to. Right?

    Here, smoke this—  

    "If it don't make dollars, it don't make sense"

    Of course, I've gotten my fill off the Private Prison industry already, seeing how those contracts are drying up. This ain't the 90's anymore. All the money has been made in prisons. For now. Plus, there are other things to invest in now that will turn Aces real soon, believe you me. There is plenty of big profits to be made on both sides of the business. But I expect you know all about that already, dear reader, so I won't bore you with a rehash of industrial history. I just want to know if you want alcohol or a vape. It's your choice, youngsters.

    Oh, you prefer your prescription medication. I see. That's fine. Your doctor approved it, oh. The DEA too, recorded the purchase. Fine, good. It keeps you, safe right. Like a receipt to show the police when they pull you over on freeways, I see. Oh, the phone excuse works in most states, excellent. Good for you. Now you can get high on airplanes and at the office without anyone important knowing the better. Smart, resourceful. Whatever makes your anxious personality in check long enough to stay productive throughout the day is a-ok with me. I'd hate you miss a day of work for personal reasons, or lash out at the folks and kids because you can't take it anymore. Why else have health insurance, right? Pills keep you on task.

    Listen, let's not get crazy right off. We're hanging for the first time, pacing is important, so are priorities. This is a Welcome to Oz message, not some hedonistic party with naked dancing girls and fun. Leave that for Saturday nights like I do. Because, like a handful you people out there, I have work myself to do, eventually, theoretically, in order to maintain the assets, keep things sailing. It takes effort to stay solvent, you know. Especially in this country, where debt is King. So I should stay completely in control and sober for the time being, in case the market crashes and I need to buy more guns at cute rate prices.

    To that end, I can off you water, plain cold tea, various hot teas, coconut water, fizzy water, and almond milk to offer. Ah, and the beer and wine selection. How dare I skip that, the créme of the pantry and ice box and not offer you a drop of the good stuff; organic and gluten-free; foreign and small-batch domestic; nutriously dark and bold. Really, the best they have at Whole Foods. Did you know most of the nicer beers have higher alcohol content then the typical mass produced bodega and supermarket brands? Mmhm, it's true. A young man from a neighborhood across town who works at my Whole Foods told me so. And I agreed with him, earnestly, pointing to the number on the can I said,

    See, look. Anyone worth their jobs can read, clearly, this number is lower than the 12.4% on the Faurhregarden White Alabastair Honey. Do you see the difference, young man?

    Yah, I see. 

    All right, I said. How old are you anyway?

    22.

    I see, well. Here's an old tip for you guy: You get drunk faster drinking beer with more alcohol content. Added bonus, the pricier beers taste really, really good (waay better than the cheap stuff). But I would understand if you didn't know that. This kind of beer is too expesive for poor people. I know a couple poor people, and I tell them, That's why Coors comes in 36 can boxes. But my friend other poor friend, the Monkey Man, he tells me Rolling Rock is a better deal. Also, he said, It smells like its got whisky in it, so you can pretend you're drinking at a bar. He's unemployed. You know what I mean, kid?

    Yah. 12 is bigger than 5. I get it, boss.

    The wife and I get the beer in glass bottles with rad, edgy labels. I like the one called Bastard, because of the name, obvi. It's cool, like the Devil. Sure, the booze inside costs more, and walking home from the nicer bodega, you know the one with the classier beer? Not the bodega with the torn awning and smelly Mexican food. They got the bright Lotto sign, right? Yes, that's the one I'm talking about. Anyway, so I'm walking home one night with four six packs of $3-per-bottle-beer without the dusty black plastic bag to save the Environment. So, suddenly, it starts to fucking rain and the carboard holders start tearing apart right at the handles, unweildly bullshit. A block from my Peid-a-terr, these two Cops stops me, asking if I'd seen this large brown man with a mustaché. Obviously, I hadn't. The beer bottles and wet paper were all craddled into my chest, so they said, Good night, Sir. Of course, I was spooked for that last block. I was praying they'd catch or kill the thug before I got home to drink all this beer! Thankfully, they did shoot someone that night. You know it's simple: You can't drink beer through a slit throat, good stuff or cheap. But, hey, either way you still get drunk. So, please, don't fucking complain if you don't like the selection of beer we got on tap. Let's keep things civil, alright? We just met and I don't think we're ready for that kind of deep emotional involvment where you get to request your favorite brew each time you stop by. Here, smoke this bowl instead—

    Nice. Better right? You good? OK. Let me get to my original thought: Welkome! to HELL! And welcome to the World of American Cannibal. I am your host, American Cannibal. I don't have time to read you my biography, so click here if Official History interests you. On this site, you'll find plenty of Social Baiting to analyze and deconstruct; tricks, jokes, improv performances, outrageousness, dirty filth, Truth, clarity and Spoofs. Lots of Spoofs to be told and retold, updated. Also, there is analysis and deconstruction to be conducted, context upon contex to figir, and Social Bating, to be had and exploited, pranks to be pulled, socks to be soiled!! What? You dirty birds. No, this is not a porno site. Take a hike! What? You're looking for meat recipes, were you? Sick, dude. OK. All of you looking for meat recipes should exit here. Everyone else, follow me...

    For the Record, I'm a vegetarian. All right, now let's get started. On this page, entitled, "The Devil takes the hindmost, you'll find the rantings and observations of a madly sane person, Mr American Cannibal (Llc). Witness his comings, oops. I mean, my comings and goings and interactions with all the good and strange beings of the Earthly Internet. I am, he is. Hold on—sorry ((Monkey, what's my next line again?...right, ok...ok, fine. Shut up now, Monkey)),

    I am an ally of the Reasonable, the Protector of the Faithful, an Empathetic Ear for the Emotional and Weary. But, mostly, I am the Spoofer of the Wicked, Selfish, Dumb, Clueless, Greedy, Racist, Heirarchial, and their co-conspiritors, the LazyPoopFaceMasses. But never the Rich. Oh no my friends, American Cannibal appreciates hard work, I do. And I know hard work is always always always rewarded. Bank on it, if not here, then the next time around you'll be rewarded, always. You see, those around me who are the most wealthy, are held in esteem for more than their stacks and stacks of gold and power. No! These strong, good men, and some women, are the bedrock of what it means to STRIVE. These are the Strivers. They set an example for the upper-classes, and the upper-upper-middle-class, and the upper-middle-class, just below them, etc, ad infintium. NO! American Cannibal worked hard for his money, and he encourages you to work hard too, and invest! Invest it all.

    Now that you know a little more of what this whole stupid thing is about...Hold on—, this is good shit—

    Mmm...real good shit, nice smoke. Heady.

    All right, poopfaces. I gotta go and count some stacks, so here are the site rules: Have fun, look around, keep in touch, play well with others, and, as always, do your duty, your sacred right, and keep Voting!

    -AC

  • From the desk of AC: To Our Success!

    Power

    Some feel power as a threat, 

    Some others see it as protection,

    And others still as the solution, the only option

    But it is the Wise Cannibal who see Power as a deterant to obtaining more;

    A deterant to all and the determinate of who lives, who dies,

    who gets lucky, who can't stop their stride.

  • 7a8bbbac7c4c3b99-Europe.png

    Tell me again, which one's are the Ultra-Nationalists? Are they the Ugly Ones waving the X Flag? Or the Hideous Ones waving Flag Y? They all look the same to me, like soccer holigans. Maybe the real Ultra-Nationalists are the lazy Ones sitting at home, jerking off between bouts of praying to the Maker, hope against hope they don't get murdered in the process of score settling between the Flag Wavers. Like I said, These Whities look the same, most of the time. I can see where mistakes can be made in the rush of events. So I agree with America's position on this issue: Fuck the EU. I'm sure their militaries know how to figure out all this borders non-sense and assist with the ethnic rehabilitation. Outsource issue to the Fruity EuroGenerals and their men. They have working limbs, dont' they? Plus, their Leaders know how well a good Land War is to cut costs in real terms, on the battlefield, when you throw bodies against Russia. It efficiently reduces costs on the Welfare States while preserving traditional, 19th century values. Afterwards, let the 21st century Free Market sort out the remaining peoples through increased Productivity and Gentrification-funded Tech Expansion.

  • AC Pro-Tip

    All you would-be Business Owners out there, pay attention! This could save your life. When you need an accountant, use this handy equation:

    Talent + High Compensation + Leverage = IRS Untouchable

    You need to pay a specialist, like my Accountant-in-Charge, Bill Stone, to take the heat when the IRS comes snooping around, following-up on old paperwork. Or, if you have pulled off a successful bankruptcy and left the country, it’s good to have a well-paid Accountant-in-Charge around to undermine the inevitable court-ordered forensic investigations, and to give the Government white-collar body to parade before the humble masses, as a warning not to steal anymore or else.
    All ambitious Owners of Business know, you wanna-be Owners need a well-compensated Fall Guy to blame, and denouce, before Congress. If you ever aspire to be disgusting rich, like the wonderful, Billionaire-Extrodinaire Kevin O’Leary, Stones are essential. Got it? 
    Good.

    (You do know about extradition treaties, don't you?)

  • I love me a good Wildfire, ain't gunna lie.