Satan and the Politician



While walking down the street one day a politician is tragically hit by a truck and dies. His soul arrives in heaven, standing in front of the pearly gates he’s is met by St. Peter at the entrance. Saint Peter looks at him for a second, flicks through his book, and finds his name.

“So, you’re a politician…” “Well, yes, is that a problem?” “Oh no, no problem. But we’ve recently adopted a new system for people in your line of work, and unfortunately you will have to spend a day in Hell. After that however, you’re free to choose where you want to spend eternity!”

“Wait, I have to spend a day in Hell??” says the politician. “Them’s the rules” says St Peter clicking his fingers, and WOOMPH, the guy disappears… The politician awakes, curled up with his hands over his eyes, knowing he’s in Hell. Cautiously, he listens for the screams, sniffs the air for brimstone, and finds… Nothing. Just the smell of, is that fabric softener? And cut grass, this can’t be right?

“Open your eyes!” says a voice. “C’mon, wakey wakey, we’ve only got 24 hours!”. Nervously, he uncovers his eyes, looks around, and sees he’s in a hotel room. A nice one too. Wait, this is a penthouse suite… And there’s a smiling man in a suit, holding a martini. “Who are you??” The politician asks. “Well, I’m Satan!” says the man, handing him the drink and helping him to his feet. “Welcome to Hell!” “Wait, this is Hell? But… Where’s all the pain and suffering?” he asks. Satan throws him a wink. “Oh, we’ve been a bit mis-represented over the years, it’s a long story. Anyway, this is your room! The minibar is of course free, as is the room service, there’s extra towels next to the hot-tub, and if you need anything, just call reception. But enough of this! It’s a beautiful day, and if you’d care to look outside…”

Slightly stunned by the opulent surroundings, the man wanders over to the floor-to-ceiling windows through which the sun is glowing, looks far down, and sees a group of people cheering and waving at him from a golf course. “It’s one of 5 pro-level courses on site, and there’s another 6 just a few minutes’ drive out past the beach and harbor!” says Satan, answering his unasked question.

So Satan and the politician head down in the elevator, walk out through the glittering lobby where everyone waves and welcomes the man, as Satan signs autographs and cheerily talks shop with the laughing staff.  As he walks out, he sees the group on the golf course are made up of every one of his old friends, people he’s admired for years but never met or worked with, and people whose work he’s admired but died long before his career started. And out of the middle of this group walks his wife, with a massive smile and the body she had when she was 20, who throws her arms around him and plants a delicate kiss on his cheek. Everyone cheers and applauds, and as they slap him on the back and trade jokes, his worst enemy arrives, as a 2 foot tall goblin-esque caddy. He spends the day in the bright sunshine on the course, having the time of his life laughing at jokes and carrying important discussions, putting the world to rights with his friends while holding his delighted wife next to him as she gazes lovingly at him.

Later the politician and his wife return to the hotel for dinner and have an enormous meal, perfectly cooked lobster and caviar, drank champagne, and danced. They return to their penthouse suite, and spend the rest of the night making love like they did on their honeymoon. After 6 hours of intense passion, the man falls deep into the 100% Egyptian cotton pillows, and falls into a deep and happy sleep…

The man is woken up by St Peter. “So, that was Hell. Wasn’t what you were expecting, I bet?” “No sir!” says the man. “So then” says St Peter “you can make your choice. It’s Hell, which you saw, or Heaven, which has choral singing, talking to God, white robes, and so on”. “Well… I know this sounds strange, but on balance, I think I’d prefer Hell” says the politician. “Not a problem, we totally understand! Enjoy!” Says St Peter, and clicks his fingers again.

The man wakes up in total darkness, the stench of ammonia filling the air and distant screams the only noise. As he adjusts, he can see the only light is from belches of flame far away, illuminating the ragged remains of people being tortured or burning in a sulphurous ocean of putrid smells. A sudden bolt of lightning reveals Satan next to him, wearing the same suit as before and grinning, holding a soldering iron in one hand and a coil of razor-wire in the other. “What’s this??” He cries. “Where’s the hotel?? Where’s my wife??? Where’s the minibar, the golf-courses, the pool, the restaurant, the free drinks and the sunshine???”

“Ah”, says Satan. “You see, yesterday, we were campaigning. But today, you voted…”

Alternate History – The Great Depression Hobo Style


Hobo train Graffiti

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Hobo 1930

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Be careful not to call a vagrant or homeless person a hobo — although this is exactly what the word means, it’s considered an offensive term. The end of the nineteenth century brought the start of the word hobo in the Western US. No one is certain where hobo originated. One possible origin is the English word “hawbuck”, meaning “country bumpkin,” while another is the common working man’s greeting or call during the building of the railroads “ho, boy!”

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Hostility against hobos was high across the nation. Teen hobos were discriminated against, as they were widely viewed as bums, liabilities, and bad influences. Most parents forbade their children to speak with the teen wanderers, and most people shunned them and turned them away.

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Furthermore, hostility toward African American hobos was even higher. Residual prejudices, especially in the South, played a role in aggressive acts against black hobos. Lynchings still occurred, and it was risky for African American hobos to travel through southern states.

“If it was white kids, they fared better. If it was black ones, you did not,” states African American hobo boy, Clarence Lee. “Some [landowners] would turn you down and some of them didn’t want you on their premises to go ask for nothin’. But a white one [teenage hobo] was treated much better. They might let them stay in a house with them, but me, I could sleep in a barn with the mules and hay… My worst fears was bein’ shot by some farmer who didn’t want you around.”

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Hobo Ben Fowler wrote, “These three fellas started working a con game so I told them to leave us alone. One of them jumped up and gouged me with a big, long pocket knife and then they took off. If the wound in my chest had been a quarter of an inch deeper I would have died right there.”

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December 1938 Napa Valley CA

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hobo 33Five men in a “hobo camp,” 1913

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3 kida

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Hobo 28Depression 1929, Hard Time, “Hobo Nickle”

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Hobo 27Hobo life during the great depression Library of Congress

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Hobo 6A railroad worker with a club called a “hobo nightstick” straddles train cars

Hobo 7Hobo Camp 1935

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Hobo 13Atlanta Georgia

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Read more about Hobo Life



Parenting Is Directly Reflected In How We Feed Our Kids

Parenting Is Directly Reflected In How We Feed Our Kids
Thanks to Dr. Julie TwoMoon


How we parent our children is dramatically reflected in what we feed them. Filling our kids with fast food, Doritos, coke, ice cream and cookies is not good parenting. Many will disagree, I know, but consider the end goal of being a good parent:

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Conventional foods, aka (those grown with conventional pesticides, in large scale commercial farms, which rely on many poisons and lab made products to produce “foods” which ultimately cause the death of birds, bees, insects, and soil microorganisms as well as cause damage to local water, air and soil) do not support the above tenets of good parenting.


It is impossible to teach lessons of compassion, strong communities, clear thinking and social responsibility while feeding our kids foods that inherently demonstrate and enforce the opposite. Not only does it send a mixed message, but within their bodies, it is also impossible to foster and generate health while the foods they consume are creating serious inflammation—inflammation that leads to nutrient deficiencies, learning issues, behavior problems and brain fog, demonstrated by our growing “need” to medicate our children.

It is of course easier to “feed” our kids without thinking, but at what cost? What does the world look like when filled with adults who were raised by cell phones, video games, and toxic food? What kind of humans can they possibly turn out to be if we have never taught them how to live a life of true nourishment?

The food we eat is more than daily calories and nutrients; it is our voice for what kind of world we want to live in. Choosing Organic, ethically-processed foods has much more to do with fairness, equality, compassion, and sustainable life than it does toxicity or nutrients. Through our actions, we demonstrate a value system that places all life and its inherent position within the planet cycles as being of immediate value to us as well.


Which brings us back to parenting. We have to recognize what our actions and choices inform our children to do. If we support chemical farming, which works without regard for the lives it affects, we are enforcing a dogma of individualism and selfish choice ahead of community. Kids raised in a world where self desire outweighs community benefit will grow to adopt behaviors of self service ahead of community contribution, which is much of what we are seeing right now.

Eating Organic foods not only feeds the body of the child but also sustains the spirit of life-centered parenting. By choosing foods grown with conscious attention to the lives that depend on this food and the needs of the surrounding ecosystem, we enforce a message of earth community and the inherent connections between us all. With this food, we can speak of how everything is linked, how an action in one place affects life in many others, and we can teach lessons of cooperation, of beneficial action, and of heart centered decision making. Thus, we can act as good parents, generating good stewards of our future, who will know how to solve the problems our generation and those before us have generated.

Read more of Dr. Julie’s Articles: See more at at the Good Men Project:

I am My Brother’s Keeper

Thank you to Dr. Julie TwoMoon


I am my brother’s keeper, it is my responsibility to live with my brother in mind. I cannot assume it to be enough to think of my brother when it is time for a tax deduction, or societal applause. I cannot place myself above my brother if I am to be one with my brother, it won’t work. As a doctor, if I am my brother’s keeper, then my medicine cannot be out of reach of my brother for any reason at any time.

I cannot presume privilege because I was born on one continent over another, or on one side of a line than another. For I was given a responsibility to care, that was my mandate for life. It is because I take this seriously that I eat organic food, I plant flowers for bees and butterflies and I limit my spending for cheap material goods.

Some think these actions to be of elitism and money, or of a fanatical desire to live forever, but they are in fact my act of peace and support of my sister. These choices are my way of not participating in the subjugation of my sister, the enslavement of my sister, even if she does not know she is a slave.

I see the bars around my brother’s house, I see the chains at his ankles and I see the blindfold he wears making him think he is free. In front of his eyes, plays a mirage of goods and words of freedom with an always tantalizing option of success dangling just out of reach. I see the story he has been told, one where his life gets better if he just buys a bit more. I see how he has been led into the arena, pitted against his mother, his sister, his father in a battle for something which doesn’t even exist. I see this, and I call out but his ears have been tuned to only one message.

Which is why I choose what I do. I am my sisters keeper and her life is my own. For all my freedoms, for the things I see which she does not, I am not free until she is. My body cannot heal unless she can, I cannot claim victory if she is wasting away. As she is fed modified foods, poisoned with weaponized spray, as she drinks water filled with industrial waste, as she is shot up, drugged, and made ill by those tasked with healing her, I too am made ill.

I am my brother’s keeper, which is why I stand here and will stand speaking this message for the moments in between news broadcasts and reality shows where a second of silence lets my voice through screaming,

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See more at at the Good Men Project:

Read more of Dr. Julie’s Articles:
I am My Brother’s Keeper I cannot presume privilege because Read more…

Parenting Is Directly Reflected In How We Feed Our Kids A better society depends on Read more