Opposed as i stand in the broadest of general terms to the arbitrary and capricious application of the most serious of mortal penalties by humankind, I must say: That wonderful opening cut from the "Greenland" album by Cracker sure hits and heals the sore spot like good holy Gilead balm. Here it is, the Straight Poop the Record Industry Can't Give You Today. Fresh and direct from a lyric-inclined funny-hatted peace-loving and neighborly-inclined Traditional American Valued Old Hippie of an Agribiz Mutant Made Good OK who ain't at all exactly Dead Yet by far: We who have tasted the sweet blessings of Holy Liberty secured even unto our own blessed generation by our forefathers' forward-looking deeds in the service of Imperial America now stand to reap the entire whirling firestorm of the entirety of all that accumulated well of policy-driven payback/blowback/karma/kismet/callitwotchuwill, panderous and profiteerable though it may indeed yet be to its Chief Conservators, these being these notably few material beneficiaries of the BushCo/CheneyInc/Rumsfeld administrative/operative cabal. Into this most massive and still-bleeding breach of all the public trust we ever nightmared at our observation posts and watchtowers of ever one day being in fact sadly sold out from under us all in the ninesey-'levensey aftermath (where everything that actually Adds Up Right is these days still, five solid years on, still most likely shouted down on the Public Forum's media-synch syntho-culture's House Organ and Echo Chamber) and the subject rapidly changed to more4 readily please the Emperor. Um, one who is street-smart and very fortunate to yet live says this: The manner of high-level action consistently observed has one consistent character. That consistently-observed manner of the hardened street con/crim mentality's actual operation in the House of NeoCon is the Dead Giveaway. And now yes, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Witnessing Audience, now into our terribly aghast, awfully shocked and patiently-awaiting presence danceth again onstage the Band Called "Cracker", welcoming "Number Forty-Three" to the State-Sponsored Legal Chamber of Mortal Transition (to put it nicely indeed) with an engagingly adroit rockin' reggae'd blend of light administrative banter and a certain recognizably authoritative intelligence with respect to the actual inclinations and ongoing circumstances of the hapless recipient of all this remarkably efficient and goal-driven attention, soon to reach its ultimate endpoint and final cessation. That final cessation is engineered past the last lyric line and into the closing chords in ways of which I shall speak no more. Only to point out, it is a deliberate, "YOU are THERE!" work of auroacoustic genius in the closing moments. And, one gets to survive it as well. Unlike the recipient, poor little overprivileged and high-handed, flywing-rippin', frog-bustin', DU-exploding, genome-murderin', money-takin' Number Forty-Three. Better times are coming our way. The case is built in Heaven's Great Book, one might well surmise. He unleashed Depleted Uranium upon the entire Middle East with nary a quibble. Two hundred fifty thousand Hiroshima-grade 10-kiloton bombs' worth of radiative mass has now been nano-subdivided and distributed into the very air and water that we all breathe and drink to survive as human beings in these remarkably wonderful tailless and sensuously naked and everlovin' uber-ape-bodies. He lied about exactly everything that he used to put us into war in the first place. He and his father armed 'em all up to begin with, including plenty of mass-destruction agents that never should have (by law but what of that) ever left the country at all. There was never any excuse for following the Kosovo Precedent. No human being in their right mind has ever before done such a massive criminal assault on exactly everyone on earth, including their own descendants, mark my words. As for that poor wornout scum-suckin' phule uvva schmuck who got stuck with No Choice for with those fusty old money-losin' asbestos-laden Trade Center buildings, yo dOOd: Sure was sweet to get out from under all that weight, now wasn't it? Worth cooperating with these thugs and serial murderers and letting a bunch of us Normal Human Beings just stay inside as human sacrifice to your Ritual of Expediency so you too can join the Blood Club with that lawyer-shootin' "Go Fuck Yourself!" VeepBoy and all those other hardcore high-level serial murderers? So how d'ya feel now, d00d, helping start a war to get your money and never ever again have to do the Right Thing except when forced by court order to do so? And now it's "Never Get Me" Time Just Forever, ain't it d00d? Wrong. The Law is coming for you too, and the next "pull" can be of the noose on your neck too. Right alongside Mister Mayor and VeepBoy and RumBo and DuhByuh plus Condi in Jackboots Yet Again, /et/ /al,/ like as not, hm? C'mon, speak up while you still can, hm? Ah, yes. Better times are coming our way. It can become a regenerative anthem, that refrain. Something to keep in mind, to work and pray for day upon day. Prayer is an effective medium of communication, one finds from time to time. Something to use as a lever, a winch with which to pull down and secure a first-taste try-it-on of a certain remarkably humane and herein well-modeled Last Resort Procedure that can indeed remove a certain NeoCancer from the midst of us all, once we screw our courage to that proverbial sticking point and Get On With It. Registering our complaints with the Prosecutor of the World Criminal Court at the Hague is still an option, past all prerequisite address unto Heaven. HE surely of all people on earth must understand that this state of affairs is just as dangerously life-threatening for us as for all the "terrorists" so mutilated in genome, body, mind and spirit, down to the last surviving child. Mister Prosecutor, kindly hear this our genuine complaint unto your esteemed attention: HE pulled us out of the World Justice System - WE did no such thing ourselves. We who retain both heart and conscience as well as our souls would be heard on the record in our rightful complaint with regard to this globally criminal matter of clear and present danger that now stalks us all in the form of Depleted Uranium and Depleted Uranium Oxide in nano-dust form, We pray you find our individual petitions both well-written and given timely. Better Times are Coming Our Way. There is One whom we can all Trust for this - even the Condemned One is entirely free to so trust, even /in/ /extremis,/ should such an wretched one as that so indeed choose even at their last conscious moment on Earth. Better Times. Cracker. Greenland. Worth keeping, I do declare. We the People gonna' need a new national Anthem one fine day - and this one masterpiece of an allegorical cut has incredible minor-key harmonies that qualify it uniquely for that honor's hands-down consideration. This imposed darkness by way of Imperial Bread and Global Circus shall not last at all. Better times are coming our way. Yesss.