Have you ever spent any time around horses? You may have noticed that as the horses work, doing good tasks for humans, there's usually a flurry of fly activity, mainly in the region of the horse's butt (and its droppings), eating, mating, living, and finding great excitement (and purpose in life) in the stinky darknesses of Dobbins' derrier, or on the succulent, steaming piles of disgust left behind by man's good and noble servant.
That's the LIFE OF THE BUTT-FLY !!
People around the Peekskill-Weston Ct area have begun to notice a similar buzzing noise, as issue-insects, bent on making a living in Indian Point's manure pile, have excitedly concocted a scheme-du-merde, involving people first donating broken dolls, and then the insect-enterpeneurs shipping those dolls back out (suitably prepared of course) to suckers....er... customers willing to send a $100 or $1000 check.
Sound incredible?
Deluded?
Weird?
Sick?
The two perpetrators, both men in their late fifties, childless, and neither having ever nurtured a real-life baby, apparently do not realize how utterly inhuman they appear, actively and commercially trading in baby-corpses (albeit counterfeit), and how utterly exposed they have made themselves, after months of laying the nasty groundwork, finally coming to the point, and asking people for cold hard cash.
All becomes clear to blog readers bemused by 6 months of pointless pseudo-rage, and hateful bombast about Indian Point, (rejected by all major activist organizations), and even nasty diatribes against existing activist groups as "not radical", the grubby , isolated, witless struggle for notice, for branding, and for the life raft of a faux activism theme comes to its fruition now in the plea for $100, each, to be sent forthwith, to the dead doll factory at 351 Dyckman Street, Peekskill, where the perpetrator/occupant sits supported by an abused working wife, himself jobless since 1999.
(The second perp lives off his 70 year old mother, in her house, in Weston Connecticut).
So let us all rise up, and either send dolls and money to these birds, or else find a convenient curb-stone upon which to scrape them off our collective shoes.
What say you?
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