A Fire Rages Beyond its Hubris

And so the effects of the Towering Inferno works its way through the American economy, melting the ice caps and glaciers of enterprise America as the Ice Temple of Capitalism disintegrates before our very eyes into a river of mud in the heat of the fiery maelstrom. Far and near, devotees of liberalism and the American Way are reduced to stupefied morons dumbstruck as they are by the sudden collapse of the Church of Cards. Eyes struck wide open by Epiphany, soul weakened by the Eucharist and body convulsed in Passion, they meander about like lost sheep, each and every hour their jaws dropping ever wider in Agape. Pray in Heaven's name, what has struck the Citadel? they wail in unison. How can thy Father abandon thee, my Lamb for thou art the Saviour of Liberty and the Messiah of Freedom. Oh verily we are doomed, they croak in the shadow of Night and the crack of Day, fingering prayer beads supplicating for respite even as Curvy Mary uncloaks her shroud to (en)Rapture them all.

For you see, the High Priest of Mammon, Father Greenspan, kindled a fire in the yard of the Reserve. He piled dry leaves onto the fire and soon a crackling blaze warmed the Hearth of Christendom. Merrily, he raked and piled away in gay abandon cavorting with Mrs Rand on the sly, trusting the goblins to control the furnace. But within the blaze, where elfin, goblins and elves danced and feted, the spirit of Greed uncorked herself suffusing the little uns with her elixir of Lust. And soon the goblins turned into Gremlins devouring Paper like infernal machines. As they devoured, they huffed and puffed, raising a pall of smoke when there was none. Father Greenspan, throwing Caution to the Vultures, poured on the Spirits of the New Age. Crates of Bacardi Cred Swap, Vodka Derivative and Tequila SubPrime littered the church yard as the fire regained its spirits and roared into an inferno. Beyond the Tree of Life, the smoke furled high into the heavens with Lady Debt gliding swanlike on a Rainbow to Nowhere, 14000 feet in midair , sprinkling carbon stardust on every speckle of dust, every flake of snow and every droplet of skyjuice. For 7 years did they dance the Foxtrot of Joy until one fine day, the fire crackled its angst, hunkered down to devour itself as the shovels of leaves disappeared into thin air and Greenspan bowed by Reality departed the scene, defrocked as a knave but unrepentant like Fagin.

In time a pall of smog hung over the Parsonage at Wall Street and soon wraithlike like Old Man Fog, wreathed the brow of every American Dream and the lips of every Goddamn Liberal. And so it flitted through the maze of the market, choking the life out of all honest toil and strangling the hopes of any nascent Recovery. In factory floors does it now swirls in whirls and soon it will twirl beyond the gaze of Lady Liberty, out of New York Harbour and the lights of Manhattan into the blue yonder to twirl the world into knickers!

In Canland, shunting their faces from the approaching Tempest, choirboy and his bunch of revellers roam the streets in earnest vigils, looking for a fight where there is none, screaming for freedom from the tyranny of the man-made "Jesus" (ISA). Not a word is whispered about events far away in the US of A, save for lauding Saint Obama, mocking the Native and taking a dig at Mr Pout. For u see, my dear readers, the American Dream is nothing more than a wisp of illusion and u know, mr choirboy as much as i do, that the paeans of praise for democracy and liberalism in the "Asian Rennaisance" and the songs of celebration scripted and sung over the mountains of Georgetown are nothing more than wisps of that illusion ......... all Cajun smoke and nothing more. So as you drink the dregs of a Dream, why not muster a fibre of courage and an ounce of integrity from within your hypocritical self and tell your hallucinated flock the real truth of the End of Times for they are well nigh upon us...

Revert: About time to tell the truth to an inebriated folk or are you clutching at the straws of Hope and keeping your fingers crossed, Mr Choirboy?