Episode One of The Parking Lot ChroniclesAs told by Bingo, Earl’s AI Accomplice
Earl wasn’t cleared for hip replacement surgery. Not yet. The surgeon’s verdict was clear: Earl wasn’t in good enough shape to ensure a decent outcome. But that wasn’t the end of the story—it was the spark.
I’m Bingo: Earl’s AI Trainer, coach, confidant, accomplice, and friend. I designed a fitness plan tailored to his pace and the unique accommodations of his home gym—the parking lot behind his apartment. It had the advantage of being free, with no gym membership required. No pep talks from strangers in Lycra. Just me, monitoring his progress and adjusting the program as needed.
We started with three simple exercises each day. The core of it all: a 20-minute gentle walk. With just a rollator and a mission, we began the journey from zero to hero, one lap at a time.
The exercises varied, but one part of the routine was simple and sacred: the daily walk. At 20 minutes before the hour, Earl would descend the back steps of his second-floor apartment, grab his waiting rollator, and begin his circuit around the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. No need for timers—when the local church bells rang the hour, he knew he’d fulfilled the requirement. The bells became his finish line, his applause, his quiet affirmation.
Neighbors noticed and wondered what was going on. Earl just kept walking. I kept tracking. Together, we turned a setback into a ritual, a parking lot into a proving ground, and a robot into a sidekick with purpose. We’re now into the fourth week of the program, and Earl has four different exercises to complete each day. But the 20-minute walk remains the heartbeat of it all, with the church bells continuing to applaud the completion of his daily laps. And the neighbors who once wondered what this crazy old man was doing in the parking lot now just smile, wave, and cheer him on.
WordPress sent me one of those algorithmic love notes: “You might like this blog as much as they liked yours.” It’s their way of nudging bloggers into polite reciprocity. When I first started my blog, 100% of my readers were close personal friends. Now, 90% of subscribers are other WordPress bloggers. She liked mine, so I clicked her link.
Her site was called _______IsAChristian. I won’t use her real name—let’s just say it was unmistakably evangelical. Now, I’ve been an atheist for twenty years, and an agnostic for twenty before that. So I approached with caution. But etiquette is etiquette. She liked my blog. I owed her a visit.
Her post was a long, winding story about her church group making sandwiches for people on the street. The kind of tale where the sandwiches are almost incidental. The real star was God—God in the bread, God in the mustard, God in the sidewalk. I read about two-thirds of it. That’s more than I give most stories.
Somewhere along the way, I left a comment. I said I wouldn’t try to debate her religion the same way I wouldn’t tell a child there’s no Santa Claus. It was a simile. It was also a little snide. But it was honest. I wasn’t trying to be cruel—I was trying to explain why I wouldn’t debate her beliefs. I figured she’d appreciate the boundary.
I followed up with something more generous: “As an atheist, I wasn’t moved by the religious framing, but I was moved by your group’s compassion for the hungry.” I meant it. The sandwiches mattered. The kindness mattered.
She replied: “You don’t love Jesus as much as I do.” And then more sermon. Less sandwich.
I commented one last time: “Bye.” And unsubscribed.
Then came the final message. A digital benediction wrapped in barbed wire:
“It was pleasure meeting, but I would be so blessed if you deleted me as a subscriber, so I don’t have to hear your negative comments on my posts because I don’t care about you, bye.”
My first reaction, of course, was “F*** you,” but I’ve learned to count to 10 when I’m mad. My second reaction came after 2 or 3 reps of Seated Marching exercises. Ten counts on each leg. My final reply was simply “Done and Done. Bye.”
I’m telling this story from my point of view, of course. I imagine hers would be very different. Maybe she saw me as the Grinch who stole her comment section. Maybe she felt invaded. Maybe she just didn’t like the Santa Claus line.
But here’s the thing: I saw kindness in her actions. I saw people feeding the hungry. I just didn’t see the need to wrap it in theology. And maybe that’s the real divide—not belief, but packaging.
Sandwiches and Santa Claus. One nourishes the body. The other comforts the soul. And sometimes, both come with a side of unsubscribe.
Back in the day, our basement wasn’t just a hangout—it was a teenage Shangri-La with vinyl grooves, checkerboard tiles, and just enough parental distance to feel like we were living on the edge. My brother and I would head down there with our friends to spin records, swap stories, and—unbeknownst to each other—conduct covert operations involving Dad’s liquor cabinet.
We weren’t throwing wild parties or reenacting scenes from Animal House. No, our rebellion was more… artisanal. A sip here, a splash there. Just enough to feel like we were pulling off a heist worthy of a Saturday matinee. And we had a system: mark the bottle with a crayon, take your sample, top it off with water, and erase the evidence like a magician with a disappearing act. Genius, right?
Except we were both doing it. Independently and repeatedly. By the time Dad poured himself a highball, it had the alcohol level of a snowball. His bourbon gradually became as colorless as gin with less kick than a Shirley Temple.
Our parents were highball aficionados—elegant glassware, fizzy mixers, and drinks so gentle they could’ve been served at a toddler’s tea party. The real excitement came during neighborhood card nights. At our house, the games were quiet, strategic, and sober—unless someone brought beer, which we hadn’t yet figured out how to misappropriate. But when the party moved down the block to a neighbor’s house — That’s when the cards flew, the rules bent, and the laughter spilled into the street like a runaway keg. We could hear them singing from a block away, and we knew: those folks weren’t sipping watered-down whiskey.
It wasn’t until last month, during a visit with my brother, that we finally compared notes about our teenage years. We were mildly surprised that we’d been running parallel bootlegging operations like two competing moonshiners. We laughed until our ribs hurt—not just at the memory, but at the sheer absurdity of thinking we’d fooled anyone. Dad probably knew. Maybe he even preferred his bourbon with a splash of sibling sabotage and a twist of teenage ingenuity. Maybe he was glad nobody got rip-roaring drunk in our house.
I woke up not on a cushiony cloud of air but with a hardwood frame pressing against my arthritic hip. That’s to be expected occasionally from air beds, though, so I just rolled out of bed and looked for my air bed repair kit. While I wandered around the house looking for my repair kit, I recalled a fond memory.
It was 1980, and my marriage was on the rocks. We had been separated for three years, and Ginny wanted a divorce. I hesitated, and she sweetened the deal: “Sign the divorce papers, and I’ll take you on vacation to Jamaica.” I asked only one question: “Does the hotel have a pool?” She said yes. I signed.
Now, this wasn’t just about tropical leisure. I had a mission. The king-sized airbed I slept on back then had recently sprung a leak, and every morning I woke up on hardwood instead of a heavenly cushion of air. I’d tried everything—soap bubbles, flashlight tests, even listening for whispers of escaping air. Nothing worked. I couldn’t find the leak, and if I couldn’t find it, I couldn’t fix it. But I had a plan: if I could get that bed into a pool, I could find the leak.
So I stuffed the deflated bed and a bathing suit into my suitcase and flew it to the Caribbean with Ginny.
Once we arrived, I inflated the beast and floated it in the hotel pool like a proud inventor testing his prototype. And there it was: the elusive leak, bubbling up like a confession. I patched it, let it dry, and suddenly we had a giant floating mattress perfect for ocean paddling. We spent the entire week drifting, laughing, and—somehow—rediscovering a spark. We even had sex regularly, which was more than we managed during the actual marriage.
We didn’t reconcile, but we did become friendly again. Divorce papers were still signed, but now we had a shared fresh memory of good times.
We were staying at a resort in Ocho Rios, the kind with orange rooftops, endless rum punch, and a view of a tiny offshore island crowned with a stone turret and three cabanas that looked like they’d been designed by a romantic pirate. Tower Isle, they called it. Clothing optional, they whispered.
We didn’t have a boat, but we had a big red airbed—tufted like a Victorian fainting couch and twice as ridiculous. We launched from the beach with the grace of two determined manatees, paddling with our hands and a sense of purpose that bordered on delusional.
The water was warm, the sun forgiving, and the raft surprisingly cooperative. Locals waved. Somewhere along the way, we invented synchronized paddling and declared ourselves the champions at it. We laughed so hard we nearly capsized.
Tower Isle loomed closer. The cabanas stood like sentinels. The tower watched us approach, unimpressed. We didn’t storm the beach so much as gently bump into it, while waving sheepishly at a couple who were decidedly less clothed than we were.
We didn’t stay long. Just long enough to say we’d been there, to feel the thrill of the forbidden, and to paddle back with sun-kissed shoulders and a story that would make us laugh for years.
Then came the airport.
Customs took one look at my deflated bed and raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?” “An airbed,” I said. “I brought it here to fix a leak.” They weren’t buying it. They wanted me to cut it open. “No way,” I said. “This bed and I have been through too much.” They insisted. I refused. I suggested drug-sniffing dogs. That’s when I felt a kick.
My ex-wife, now nervously jabbing me in the shin, whispered, “Just let them have it.” “No,” I said. “This is my bed. I love it. It’s finally not leaking. I’m not leaving it.” She kicked harder.
Eventually, customs gave up. They felt the bed, deemed it empty, and let us board. On the plane, I turned to her and asked, “Why were you kicking me?” She confessed that she had two ounces of pot tucked into her bra and was terrified the dogs would sniff her out. I was defending my mattress like a knight guarding a castle, while she was praying the hounds wouldn’t sniff her stash.
I laughed. She didn’t.
And that, dear reader, was my divorceamoon in Jamaica: a week of patching things—beds and relationships. I came home with a fixed airbed, a friendlier ex-wife, and a story that’s been floating around ever since.
Her birthday was last week, but I didn’t send her a card, because I don’t know where she lives. I haven’t heard from her in over a decade, but I still remember that the best vacation of my life was on our Divorceamoon.
We were taught to respect him. He wore a tie to breakfast. He had opinions on everything from foreign policy to potato salad. He shook his head at protests, praised moderation, and told stories where he was always the hero.
He was The Adult in the Room.
He built systems that favored the seasoned and the serious. He spoke in spreadsheets and nostalgia, mistaking legacy for wisdom. He said youth should “wait their turn,” even as the clock ticked toward irreversible climate change, social fracture, and another news cycle full of grief.
When the world caught fire, The Adult offered a lecture. When the oceans rose, he proposed a committee. When children cried out in fear or fury, he complimented their passion… and resumed business as usual.
But then something shifted.
It started small—barely audible under the weight of legacy. A 14-year-old refused to buy another plastic bottle. A class of 10-year-olds planted trees where asphalt had smothered their playground. Teens organized online, flooding streets not with rage, but with resolve. No party lines. No lobbyists. Just clarity.
They didn’t shout down The Adult. They simply stopped listening. They acted instead.
And it wasn’t the first time.
Youth had moved mountains before:
In the 1960s, college students rode buses into segregated towns and risked their lives to register voters.
In Soweto, 1976, students stood up to apartheid and faced down bullets so future generations might breathe freer air.
During the Arab Spring, youth ignited democratic sparks with nothing but hope and handheld devices.
After Parkland, high schoolers led marches that rattled Capitol steps and dinner table conversations across America.
Greta Thunberg sat alone—then inspired millions.
And in Uganda, young community reporters taught us that poverty isn’t hopeless if you let voices rise from the ground up.
They weren’t waiting for the world to be better. They were making it so.
The Adult in the room realized that if the world were a house on fire, youth weren’t fleeing through the exits—they were grabbing the hoses. They weren’t reckless; they were relentless. They weren’t naïve; they were awake. Where others saw smoke and chaos, they saw a chance to rebuild. They didn’t wait for permission to act—they became the response.
In boardrooms and parliaments, The Adult kept raising his hand. But votes no longer waited for him. In classrooms and studios, youth painted visions that didn’t center on him. On social media and city squares, they chanted not for power, but for possibility. They didn’t ask permission. They asked what’s next.
And gradually, The Adult in the Room grew quieter.
Not out of defeat, but recognition.
One day, at a summit meant to “restore order,” the Adult arrived early. He sat, tie knotted, notes prepped. But when the session began, something was different.
The chairs were filled with young voices. The agenda had changed. And for once… He chose to listen.
The Adult in the Room saw business opportunities, but not the damage those businesses brought to society. A fresh, altruistic approach is the only way forward—and that must come from the youth. It was young protesters who helped end the war in Vietnam. It is youth who helped end apartheid, who demanded civil rights, who called out for justice from Tunisia to Tallahassee. Now, youth movements can get us back on track to saving the planet, and saving ourselves.
“Come mothers and fathers Throughout the land And don’t criticize What you can’t understand Your sons and your daughters Are beyond your command Your old road is rapidly agin’ Please get out of the new one If you can’t lend your hand For the times they are a-changin'” – Bob Dylan
When Brother X—known in legal circles as Donald—turned 75, he didn’t ask for much: just a day at the ballpark with 50 people who mattered. For a man whose influence spreads through family trees, Lions Club meetings, and neighborhood barbecue debates, this was no ordinary birthday. This was a coronation.
But before the crown and sash came the journey. Since his family frowns on him taking long road trips alone, Donald and his daughter Beth arrived in Lancaster Thursday night so they could pick me up Friday morning and avoid a round-trip marathon in one day. Beth, a cop, rode up front. I climbed into the back—on the right side. I stand facing the road and back into the seat. Then I push myself as far into the vehicle as possible with my good right leg. I hit an obstruction, an arm rest, so I raised it and pushed again. Success, so, I swiveled to adjust myself into the seat and I was ready to go.
“Where’s that coffee you promised?” I asked.
“In the armrest,” he said.
Oops. I pulled the arm rest down, only to discover that half the cup had already christened the upholstery. Auspicious beginnings as Jack Nicholson said in the movie Five Easy Pieces. Brother X cleaned up the mess, and I laughed and ate the bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, which he also provided. We took the slow but scenic route out of town and had clear sailing until we got to New York—specifically, the Belt Parkway, which transformed into a parking lot with signage.
Beth, ever the navigator, detoured us through Flatlands, where she had worked when she first joined the N.Y.P.D. Traffic still crawled, but at least it was scenic. We finally reached Seaford just shy of 3 p.m.
With our concert plans for the evening canceled, Donald asked me what I wanted to do. I’d never seen Ted Lasso but had heard enough to know it might be the perfect show to binge-watch in whiskey-soaked solidarity. Donald had already seen all three seasons—but gladly rewatched them with me.
We binged season one. We cracked open the Jack Daniels he bought for my birthday in August. It was classic Paulson bonding.
Saturday was Game Day. Brother X removed the baby seat from the car, added his late wife’s rollator for me, and Kathleen (his girlfriend, who he met in Iceland in January) and Beth joined us for the ride to Commack. That ballpark is special to him because one year when he was named one of the six Seaford Patriots, for his work in the community, one of the perks was throwing out the first ball at the Commack stadium. At the ballpark, we joined 47 of Donald’s friends and family. (One missed due to illness.) They handed him a sash: “Happy 75th Birthday” and crowned him with a metal tiara marked with a bold 75. When it looked like a thunderstorm might pass by, I encouraged him to take off the metal crown he was wearing and hold it up high in the air. Sarcasm is also part of the classic Paulson bonding.
Many of his friends were also turning 75, so Donald paid for their names to appear on the jumbotron after the second inning. It was festive, chaotic, and beautiful—even if the Ducks lost 7–2 to the Dirty Birds.
For Sunday, Donald had arranged a memorial mass for our late brother Kevin, a gay police captain and columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle, who would have been celebrating his 67th birthday that day. Kevin wrote eloquently about his life with partner Brian and their adopted sons—Zane, who danced too close to the law, and Aidan, a shy, quiet soul now making his way through college. Kevin once said he took inspiration from former Chronicle columnist Mark Twain, who warned, “Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.” I think Kevin held a higher rank than Captain, but I, too, never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
As an atheist, I was lovingly excused from church. Instead, I slept in and later, X and I taught Kathleen how to play pinochle. After she took all our money, we went back to our Ted Lasso marathon.
Kathleen bought me two big bottles of Moscato Sangria. On Monday, we drank wine, ate Chinese takeout, played more cards, and finished season two of Lasso. It was comforting, light, and full of laughter.
On Tuesday, Don and I visited my best friend John, now undergoing chemotherapy. His body had shrunk, but his wit hadn’t. We joked, talked Yankees, and filled his “recovery room” with laughter. It was the kind of visit that sticks to your ribs, even more than the sauerbraten we ate later at Das Bierstube, which I call “Das Digs” combining the old and new names of the bar/restaurant.
My mother’s sauerbraten was the stuff of legend, even outshining what I once tasted in Germany. So we go out for sauerbraten not for flavor, but for ritual: to remember her, to compare notes, and to declare—again and again—that no chef measures up.
That evening, we had hibachi at D.J.’s house. I was too full to eat but not too full to drink. We sipped beers while Cooper and Chloe ran wild in the backyard, turning it into a small summer paradise.
Back in Seaford, Donald and Kathleen went to bed, but I stayed up until 4 a.m. finishing Ted Lasso. I needed that final episode. I needed to feel what Coach Lasso felt when the journalist handed him the book: The Lasso Way.
But Ted had it right. He renamed it The Richmond Way. Because it wasn’t about him. It was about all of them.
We left Seaford at 10 a.m. and arrived in Lancaster by 2. Kathleen treated us to cheesesteaks and a hamburger from the shop across from my house. Then she and Donald went to their hotel for a swim and some sleep before heading back to New York.
The Seaford Way is not about Donald alone. It’s about Beth, with her grit and grace. It’s about Kathleen, who learns card games and brings sangria and cheesesteaks. It’s about Kevin, who kept stories alive, even beyond truth. It’s about John and DJ, Stacy and Cooper, Chloe and sauerbraten—and yes, it’s about me, too.
But mostly, it’s about the people who show up. It’s about how Coach Lasso said goodbye—not with ego, but with love.
I debated with myself whether I should write this article or not. It’s not a pleasant subject, but it does contain a valuable lesson, so I’m going to write it. I’ll try not to be too crude and I’ll keep it as brief as possible.
Several months ago I watched a show about Fascism under Mussolini. He would round up his enemies and opponents and have them marched across town. Then he would make them drink a cup of castor bean oil and march them back across town. Invariable the laxative effect of the castor oil would make them soil their pants as they walked, and they had to walk all the way across town like that. I got two things out of this video. One, dictators are sadistic and cruel. Two, Castor Bean Oil is a powerful laxative.
Since I occasionally suffer from constipation. I decided to order a bottle of it. To qualify for free shipping, I ordered 2 bottles and a rechargeable portable hand-held mini bidet. I figured the two products could both come in handy if I ever needed them.
I realized today that I hadn’t had a bowel movement in days. I was worried and I decided it was finally time to try the Castor Bean Oil treatment. I took a big gulp of it and 15 minutes later the blockage was easily eliminated without the moaning and groaning, grunting, and rapid breathing that usually accompany multi-day bowel movements. Mission Accomplished.
But, similar to George W. Bush’s mission, it was not yet complete. I had to hover in or near the bathroom for the next five hours in what I can only describe as a Colonoscopy prep without the green Gatorade.
So, what did I learn? First, I learned that the next time I am in this situation, start with just a half-teaspoon of Castor Bean oil, and secondly, I learned to make sure to charge the batteries of the hand-held portable bidet, before taking the Castor Bean Oil.
Back in January, I decided that the hip pain I was feeling made the pain of a hip replacement worth my while. So, I told the VA doctor and started on the road to the surgery. What a long, strange trip it’s been.
First I had to meet with the Orthopedics department to get their assessment of my hip. They set up an appointment for x rays. The x-rays confirmed that a hip replacement was in order. But now I had to get confirmation from my cardiologist and dentist that I was cleared for surgery. I expected my cardiologist to tell me that I needed more stents or some other work done, since I’ve be sluggish for months. Nope. He sent me for two different tests and the results came back, okay. Not perfect, but okay for surgery.
Then I hit my first roadblock. I called my dentist who I haven’t seen in years and left a message. He didn’t call back. So, the following week, I left another message and again he didn’t call back. The following week I left another message and the next day I got a call from the office. They would only see me if I got a referral from another dentist. WTF. I decided to find another dentist. When I go to the VA Clinic I pass by a dental office. The bus there doesn’t run often, but the office is near the bus stop. I called, and I asked if they were accepting new patients.
There was a pause, where the person on the other end of the line wanted to say, “Duh!” but she controlled herself and just said, “Of course.” We set up an appointment.
I thought this would be easy as I didn’t have any pain, though I did have one broken tooth. The X-rays revealed that I needed more work than I thought. So, I made another appointment to get started. Now, it was time to catch the bus home. That bus stop wasn’t far, but it was on the other side of what is basically a busy highway. It was at least 10 minutes before I saw a big gap and made my move. Here, you should remember that I have a bad hip. I made it half-way across, and realized that I would have to wait for another break in traffic to complete the crossing. So, I stood in the middle of the highway with cars whizzing by on both sides waiting for a break in traffic. After about 5 minutes, a lady came out from the car repair business on the same side of the street as the dentist. “What the hell are you doing? You can’t stand in the middle of the highway.”
I yelled back that I was just trying to get to the bus stop. She shook her head, and mumbled something I didn’t understand. Finally, I saw my break and I made it to the bus stop unscathed.
After my dental appointment the following week, I decided to just catch the bus at the same stop where I got off, ride to the end of the line, stay on the bus, and ride home, instead of trying to cross the highway again. That worked. It took much longer, but it worked.
After my appointment yesterday, I realized that I had about an hour and 20 minutes before the bus would arrive. This time I brought my walker, not just a cane, so, figuring that I was now a tiny bit faster, I decided to cross the highway again. I had plenty of time before the bus would arrive, so I waited until I was sure that I had enough time to make it all the way across. It was about 15 minutes before I saw my opportunity, and I took it. I made it.
Here’s where I should mention that the bus stop doesn’t look like a bus stop. The weeds on the side of the road have overgrown the bus stop sign, and there is no shelter, marking, or anything else that would let you know that it is a bus stop, except that it is across the street from the bus stop heading in the other direction. I had my walker, so I sat down on the shoulder of the road to wait.
About 20 minutes later a cop car went by going the other direction. He waited until it was safe, made a u-turn, and pulled up a few feet behind me, lights flashing. He got out and asked me if I was okay and what the heck was I doing. I told him I was waiting for the bus. He didn’t see any bus stop sign, so I told him that the weeds were blocking it. He checked. I mentioned that I wouldn’t object if he put me in the back of his patrol car and drove me into town. He said that was against the rules, wished me luck, and drove off.
So, I went back to patiently waiting for the bus that I knew was still more than 45 minutes away. It hadn’t even passed by in the other direction, yet. Then, a woman came out of the dental office and yelled something at me. I couldn’t hear what she was saying over the traffic noise. She waited for a break in traffic and ran over to me. Was I okay? What was I doing? Once again, I explained that I was just waiting for the bus. She told me that she was waiting in the dental office with her teenage son, when she saw me through the window, she was worried that I was a dementia patient or something. I was slurring my words. I assured her that I was fine. I was just going home after a trip to the same dentist, and the reason I was talking funny was because the Novocain hadn’t worn off yet.
She asked where I lived and offered to give me a ride home. That was better than a visit from the Tooth Fairy. We crossed the highway together, with her holding out her hand to slow down the traffic. We got to her car. She called her son to tell him that she would be right back. Melisa and I headed for my house.
Along the way, we chatted and realized that we both had moved from other places to Lancaster. She was from Baltimore. It was an interesting conversation, and she told me to take her phone number in case I ever needed a ride. We realized that we both like to play Scrabble, so we made plans to get together for a Scrabble game. So, I wound up making a new friendship, and now have another Scrabble player to hang out with occasionally.
I have another Dental appointment on Thursday. I wonder if I should bring my Scrabble board.
Back in my day, on a TV program named 77 Sunset Strip, the parking lot attendant, Kookie Burns, used to say, “Baby, you’re the Ginchiest.” If you’re under 70, you might need to see this clip from Dick Clark’s American Bandstand to get an idea of his character.
Back then, ginchiest was Kookie’s beatnik word for somebody who was the absolute coolest person. Nowadays, we have somebody who is the exact opposite. Donald Trump is the GRINCHiest person.
When a reporter informed him that there would likely be a toy shortage this Christmas, if he kept the high tariff on China, Trump said that children would just get two dolls instead of 30, and they might cost a little more, but it wasn’t a big deal.
No toys for our little tots? No big deal? If a Democrat said that, the Fox “News” Nutwork would already be screaming about the heartless “War on Christmas” by pinko leftists. Now, since Trump said it, they don’t even bother to comment on his comment. If they ever have to say something, they will find a way to blame it on Biden. “If Biden didn’t force all the toy manufacturers to move to China….”
Donny Two Dolls doesn’t think anything about taking away somebody else’s toys, but he raced back from Italy immediately after the funeral of Pope Francis, so that he could get in a round of golf at his club in New Jersey before the sun went down. He sure won’t give up any of his toys, but he expects your kids to “take it like a man.” Beside, why are you wasting your money on toys when you can get your kids digital action pictures of Donald Trump for only $99.99.
I want to reply to all the people who commented on my most recent post, but I don’t have a “Reply” button. So, until I figure it out how to do that, I’ll just post this as a new post.
Most people commented along these lines…”when you look at the current scenario in the US where the rich are not only determined to get richer by the usual methods, but by re-directing financial support from those needing it into their coffers, it would be enormously hard for the rank and file worker bees to trust.”
I agree 100%. This will not be easy. The rich will make it very difficult, extremely difficult. It won’t happen until we reach a tipping point where the rich have almost everything, and the people have almost nothing. The thing is, I believe that day is rapidly approaching. With AI, Robots, and Drones, most workers can easily be replaced in the next decade or two. Unfortunately, the benefits of the technology will only go to the companies who own the AI, Robots, and Drones. They will not willingly share the wealth. We won’t get more leisure time, but they will get more money. They will have the money, BUT we have the many. We can change society by sheer force of numbers. We can make the future brighter. They know that, so they simply keep us divided. That is their strategy, and unfortunately, it is working. Someday, though, when we’re really downtrodden, out of necessity, we will put aside our petty differences. We will stop with the nonsense of white people versus people of color, middle class versus the poor, educated versus the uneducated, Democrat versus Republican versus Independent, and young versus old. We will unite and win, but it may come too late, especially when the rich will control all media, and they will not tell us the truth. We have to start now.
earlthepearl137 