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Though your sins be like scarlet,
they may become white as snow;
Though they be red like crimson,
they may become white as wool.
[Isaiah 1:18]

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She and her lawyers had those emails deleted, and they didn’t just push the ‘delete’ button; they had them deleted where even God can’t read them.
US Representative Trey Gowdy

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The keening refrain heard from both Beltway investor-class zealots as well as their on-the-take corporatist-media solons—those, in particular, hand-picked to moderate invitation-only electoral ‘debates’—has to do with the vulgar, obscene, immoral, etc., campaign strategy of the GOP contender.

The argument in play (with a straight face) appears to be that America’s standing in the world, our good reputation and unimpeachable history of benevolence and plain dealing to humankind, east and west, is being raked across coals by a political gate-crasher roué—specifically (and, more to the point)—lacking in the graces and finesse needed to sustain the two-hundred-forty-year-old fraud that is Empire.

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It is not so much that the gate-keepers are harried to the point of undoing by the exposure here, or scandalous revelation there—since they’ve already made up their collective will and narrative to deceive, etc.—“but, by god, man, at least have the tact and polite discretion to bleach your harddrive, so to speak. Our formative years and earliest traditions and counsel are defining moments, and offer sensible cues to earnest, would-be participants: first, hang Mary Dyer…thoughtful, decorous pause…and only then dispatch the Pequots [Mystic massacre overseer: “sometimes the Scripture declareth women and children must perish with their parents… We had sufficient light from the Word of God for our proceedings”].

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“The point is that although to the untutored eye it may seem that we lack a ‘moral compass,’ nevertheless, we do have a certain tacit ‘code’—which you appear oblivious to—and, it is this tone-deaf approach to ‘the American success story’ we find to be…unnerving—we’re sensitive, you know? You may feel hard-pressed to locate ‘sensitive’ in the nativist epistle, but it’s there: it’s a subtle history…

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“Yes, it’s true that ‘the business of America is business,’ i.e., that’s what we’re about here: we make money, as a matter of faith (if only to confirm the meet and abundant blessings which the Creator, in His knowing, yet difficult-to-fathom way, has pledged to our ‘exceptional’ selves). But, we don’t cotton to your ‘conspicuous consumption’ ethos: part of our global, self-anointed role of the exceptional is being beautiful and, well, the dogged pursuit and conniving for capital is…we’d rather not think about it, much less talk about it: in a word, your presence is inhibiting more…’complex’ personalities.

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“No—we do declare that a flexible, ‘compliant’ contender like ‘H’ is more in keeping with the trajectory we’re on (our ‘mission,’ if you will).”

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An ‘idealistic,’ epic lesson in hypocrisy, infidelity, encroachment, abduction and enslavement and cronyism demands, if nothing else (for its survival), the discreet. At the very least, we can limn the charnel house she has in mind by turns of ‘valor,’ ‘sacrifice,’ and even (reliably) ‘deliverance.’

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Yet, there doesn’t appear to be anything honorable, righteous, etc., that we can ‘narrate’ into our penchant (lust?) for capital. Which is why, in daylight, we drive quickly past our mistress and the scene of domestic betrayal (we much prefer identity-politics ‘success stories’ to any discussion of the ruinous, cutthroat class war being waged here), but write paeans and hymns of demented glory, films and poetics by the score about slaughterfests we’ve arranged.

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‘H’ will attempt some redundant, infamous manner of characterizing the killing fields (a variation on ‘worth the sacrifice’?), much as the investor class-configured brothel will curb and divert the rank and file: any crisis they breed or conjure will suffice (will serve to placate, or otherwise defer the mobilization at hand).

We may yet again invoke prophetic verses, but compulsively, to salve a phantom ‘conscience’ (much as an amputee will worry the errant ‘itch’), though, in our death-dealing ‘spirit of 9/12,’ revisited, despising the tedious, banal plea for ‘swords into plowshares’ in favor of the refreshingly pragmatic and forthright ‘wars, and rumors of wars.’

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