Riding with George

The ancient, piece of crap car, likely a Trabant, fishtailed around a corner, throwing me against the interior of the passenger door. Oncoming cars veered into ditches, their terrified drivers leaning on the horn while white-knuckling the steering wheel. Righting myself, I turned to look at the recklessly incompetent driver of the car in which I found myself. I half expected to see my now dead father-in-law who, for all of his admirable qualities, was thankfully refused the renewal of his driver's license when his age and aggression behind the wheel had far exceeded his abilities. Instead, behind this particular wheel, I saw a smiling and amiable George Soros.

For a few days before this dream, I had been researching accounts of the effects of the psychedelic drug DMT. I had been, and still am, trying to determine if the eerily similar reports of its users’ experiences are due to common Jungian psychological archetypes, or if something much weirder, and much more disturbing, is going on.

Regardless, I have read enough about it to definitely conclude two things:
1) DMT is not anything that I’ll be doing anytime soon.
2) I absolutely deserved the weird-assed dream that I just had.

A lot of us on this forum live for politics. And for at least one of us, politics permeates our dreams. This second, much smaller, group includes me (and probably just me) because, although it is a very rare occurrence, this would not be the first time that I’ve had such a dream. As I posted previously on this forum (“Dodging a Tap Dancing Bullet”), in the 1990s, I had a nightmare about Bill Clinton and the disturbing levels of allegiance that the media showed toward him. Of course, the media has become far more biased and far more obvious about it since then.

But, back to the car ride.

As George fishtailed the car around the corner, completely oblivious both to oncoming traffic and to how recklessly he was driving, and as I was being thrown against the passenger door, George was rambling in an avuncular fashion, asking me if I was aware of the conditions in this or that far-flung corner of the world.

Suddenly, the car hopped a curb as George drove the probable Trabant onto a ball field, tearing up the grass as he tried unsuccessfully to breach a hill and reacquire the road.

Undeterred, he swerved, hopping curbs again, into the back parking lot of the high school that I had attended. Part of me found that amusing, and I took the opportunity to explain to him how my world view was developed in this very neighborhood. I pointed out to him that right outside of his window was the duplex apartment that my parents lived in when I was born; that the quadplex apartment that I lived in through junior high and high school was a block down the road; that the houses currently looked quaint and well-kept because they were all privately owned, but, when I was a kid, that the entire neighborhood was a slum - because all of the housing was owned by the state and managed by a state housing authority. I explained the stigma of growing up as a “slum kid” in a slum located right behind a high school. And I assured him that the neighborhood, and the lives of its inhabitants, had improved by orders of magnitude when the houses were sold off to the private sector, oftentimes to their then current occupants.

Not that George was listening: he had important places to go, at high speeds. And I was his unwilling passenger.

I awoke, made myself some tea, organized my thoughts before the dream images faded, and wrote down all of the those thoughts. I knew, like those who take DMT claim to know, that what I envisioned was significant.

For months, I have been black-pilled politically: our government is occupied by unelected bureaucrats and charlatans who spend their days carving out tire paths of singleminded, self-assured, and incompetent mayhem. Despite all of their abusive, caterwauling damage control to the contrary, the last presidential election was stolen. And the next presidential election will be stolen as well. Because the last thing that those unelected bureaucrats and charlatans will ever do is willingly surrender their licenses and step out from behind the wheel.

For longer than that, I have also been black-pilled career-wise: my career has found me currently placed in the lucrative financial sector, but I know that those same unelected bureaucrats and charlatans who occupy our government are also steering that very same financial sector to inflationary implosion, to the financial enrichment of themselves, and to the financial ruin of the rest of us. And whatever insignificant role I may perform in my current position, and it is astoundingly insignificant, that role still benefits, and benefits from, those same unelected bureaucrats and charlatans.

So, to me, the message of this dream is quite clear: I and we are all in the wrong car and, when we are actually on a road, we are on the wrong road. For our own mutual self-preservation, it’s time to leap from the careening Trabant at the first viable opportunity.

It’s time to stop riding with George.