Plum pits and pit plums

Stray thought – my specialty. But consider. Where did blackbirds perch before farmers provided fence posts? Where did seagulls stand before the light pole came along?
Consider the long generations of deprived feathered kin who had to endure lesser lives without fence posts and light poles. Enough to make me weep, but not for long as more pressing drama presents.
Worms, now there’s tragedy. Consider the wandering worm looking for greener pasture (or future) when it comes upon a flat rock that goes on and on until (if wander-worm gets that far) it plunges to what we call the gutter.
I don’t believe worms understand gutters or sidewalks. And we, I’m compelled to remark, do nothing to assist them in either their quest for understanding.
Foot-flattened and desiccated worms litter many a neighborhood sidewalk and none of us care anymore than we do about the bee turned to mush on the windscreen of the truck carrying our much-needed stuff to market.
Bees die and worms perish unmourned by otherwise alert to all causes activists who have to try that new shade or scent of hair-poo.
OK, this is silly, but maybe there’s a purpose. Perhaps it’s about time we asked the question. Are mimes racist?
In particular I have to point at one of the best known, Marcel Marceau. I flee in panicked terror at the thought of sorting out white face in art. It’s really too damned much to consider. I’d bet my bippie some readers are incensed thinking I’m minimizing-mocking-dismissing things they feel are very serious. Could those reactions be seen as a form of rage, un-colored but rage no less? Theirs is a good question, one I’ll take into consideration soon as I sort out the meaning of maggot coloration.

Maggots are white, but quite non-discriminatory in what they feast on. (From mime to maggot in one short paragraph, how do he does it?)
Another thing best left unpondered is who I can thank for the plentitude of advertising that comes on loud and full of boop-diddy-poop. Perhaps noisy jive has been missing in car sales, though I believe major purchases don’t benefit from rhyme or jargon, man. The boop-boop says it’s all with it, but does not say a speck about value, reliability or other things discerning citizens might want to review.

I wonder, would I be praised or condemned were I to go rampaging and off all the noisy jargon jinglers I could find. Not much of a threat there because pest producers do their work from far-far. No chance getting any in range, is there? But still, the notion has a sweet air of bliss every time I’m assailed with another loudly illiterate advert that assumes buyers are mainly stupid and will buy if the beat is good. Please don’t prove them right.

Another of the pit plum pits to roll around getting every bit of sugary moist meat from the stone is how wonderfully great/good it is to be in a nation so flawed/failed that it frequently rewards people who absolutely cannot sing (I don’t count rhythmic whining as song) the reward and title singer, often for successfully repeating the same word or phrase over, and over, and over in case we missed it the first dozen times.

But I suppose this does give the option to know how good a “song” is by how badly I desire to splat my brains on a wall. Though in another way I’m thankful for the addition of skill and quality diversity in music. Belching the alphabet is musically underrated. And as the Bishop of Salzburg once chided (in the German of the day) “Too many notes, Herr Mozart, too many notes.”

Ah, how the mighty and be fallen, and toppled, too. “No grave for YOU, Mozart!” The composer was taught a lesson he never learned and one he could therefore never forget.
Living, as we do, reasonably close to the border o’ Canada it strikes me as curiously productive to glance south then north and wonder, HMMMMM. One explanation that fits a pit of some sort is one border attracts people wanting to join the madding racist crowd while the other determines to keep the “ethnic trash” out.

Before you get too twitchy over “ethnic trash” it’s borrowed (once again from its original German) from Karl Marx, who said that of the diversity of people in the culturally complex Balkans. The champion (very Aryan in attitude it seems) of the little man didn’t like his “common man” too mixed from of centuries of rule as befell Romania, Serbia, Albania, Croatia, Transylvania, Bessarabia, (weren’t expecting that one, were you, but maybe one to search) Bulgaria and some even include Greece (plus others, the list of Marx’ ethnic trash runs long).

Sew, what do we or do we not with the unlikely state of borders. Is the north rim held froze shut by folks determined to keep their walleye to themselves? Maybe pressure from the non-frozen southern border is meant to send a message of freedom, “Let those walleye go.” I’ll guess with a modest turn of oar we could find something ethnically racist in catfish so why not walleye? Northern fisher-folk rage holding back walleye from the hungry makes as good sense an explanation as many a well-paid source will give you.

My opine is free and worth every penny.
In the mass media (here’s where my worm turns serious) is there any who accept you (your needs, views, past, etc.) as anything more than a target, often called a demographic? Is your life that of a demographic? I doubt it, but the flurry-hurry society we’re tucked and folded into sees us and sells us as “clicks” or “hits” on their service (to whom) or site. What ennobles and improves you more, being a cash generating click or hit?

The system desires you (because that’s how they get paid) to continue clicking and hitting on their lovely ever changing bait like amoeba reacting to stimulus in a Petri dish. I don’t hold readers as amoeba, sew what do you think about that?