“Toxins In Environment Radically Reduce Human Sperm Counts”

Yes the toxic flame retardants on our furniture,  and in so many other places, and the PFAs in food packaging screw with our hormonal development (as well as causing the extinction of frogs et al, when it gets into the water, along with other negative biospheric consequences), so that, among other things, sperm counts are lowered by HALF…It’s horrid and yet, it’s justice. Threatening sperm counts? I’m all for it. If it’s a case of humanity stalling its reproduction, vastly reducing our population–it might be the only silver lining on our disastrous stewardship of the planet. The fewer of us, the  better, at this point. Fewer humans–less damage.

Not only do we not deserve this planet, but if some alien invaders show up, shaking their weirdly-shaped heads over our mindless sabotage of Earth’s cosmically rare  life-diversity, then I personally would cheerfully hand them the planetary house keys.


They DO plan, don’t they.

The GOP and its allies. They plan, longterm and short term. Even if they improvise they agree on where they’re going with it.

Randi Rhodes today played an Edward R Murrow interview with Harry Truman, warning that the Republican party had–this was in 1957–become the party of “special interests” and everything they do is for those special interests. So we see this continuity now, with the party of special interest–and that takes planning.

They planned Reagan, his administration and his deregulation, and all that went with it. They planned how they would take down Clinton and Obama–so they hoped–and how they would exploit Trump. They planned their takeover of talk radio, that is well known. They plan their influence on media. Fox News was planned. Sinclair media was planned. OAN was at least supported by the planners. Special Interests and their puppets planned their use of social media. Not long ago, they took over Newsweek Magazine, formerly a liberal mag. They edged the New York Times more to the right somehow. They are doing the same with The Washington Post.

They are planning, probably, to take over all news sources.

Neighborhood Fireworks

“Let’s do this!” Jimmy howls. He sets off the firework and it boomed against the sky, seething red, white and blue stars over Hazel Dell.

“Whoa, nice one, Jimmy!” Trevor said, lighting the roman candle. Balls of fire stacked up over the yard…

The neighborhood thundered with the heavy fireworks, all over town, like an artillery barrage Dogs howled. Someone cursed them. Jimmy and Trevor laughed and passed the Red Bull Jack Daniels mix and set off two more…

“I love it when the dogs howl!” Jimmy chortled. “You know it’s really cutting through!”

“It is,” said Dave, the old guy who lived next door. He came out chewing an unlit cigar. He was wearing a watch cap and a red terrycloth bathrobe and unlaced tennis shoes.

“Excellent look, there, Dave,” Trevor said.

“Woke up kind of suddenly. Got dressed that way too.”

“It’s only one night a year, old man,” Jimmy said.

“It’s on July Fourth too,” Dave said, looking at another firework. “That one’s pretty. I like fireworks, in the right place. There’s a theory that neighborhoods could arrange a park or some place a fair distance away for this stuff…”

“Why?” Jimmy snorted. “We like it here! It’s patriotism!”

“Patriotism?” Dave asked, music over another colorful burst. “You ever serve in the military, Jim? Oh wait, you didn’t, no. But Mr. Grange did, down the street–three terms in Vietnam. He has trouble sleeping. Especially tonight. Slim Gomez, on 78th–he served in Iraq. He has PTSD. He has to leave town otherwise he gets flashbacks on a night like this.”

“Oh boo hoo, has to leave town!”

“Not easy for him. Lost his legs, no family to help him out. Doesn’t drive. Not a lot of traveling money. His dog, too–it can’t deal with this stuff. It was a war dog, see. It got caught in some bad stuff and never got over it. But then my dogs can’t deal with it either. Hours under the bed crying.”

“They’re just dogs, man!”

“Sure. And they’re the only close friends I have. Laurie Pascal–she’s eighty-nine. Sleeping comes hard to her. And she can’t get out easily, trust me. Her and a lot of other elderly people…Dana Kellaway–her grandchildren are terrified by this stuff. She can’t afford to leave town either–she works tomorrow.”

“Lotta children love it!” “And a lot of children don’t, especially small ones.”

“We don’t ****ing care, Dave!” Trevor said, lighting another Big Boy.

“I know you don’t, Trevor. Why should you? It’s not about you, right? So why should you care?” With that, Dave lit his cigar on the fizzling fuse of the firework, and walked to the house, puffing it…