I have the hardened shell of a cynic but that’s mostly protective coloration. At my core, I’m a wide-eyed romantic optimist who’s been mugged, brutally and often, by reality.
And yet, when the bell rings, I wobble to my feet even as my corner pulls the stool out of the ring and I move in the direction of guns (if not roses) until after being stunned, staggered and stoned by the often petty perfidy of my fellow travelers I begin counting down hoping to be saved yet again by the bell (Screech sold separately).
This happened over the weekend and in a world where superlatives of description are so often used they become too often over used, I don’t think it’s positive to emphasize enough just how naked the international emperor(s) of government, commerce and society may well be. And how little they actually care that we know it.
The greatest advantage to being a pessimist is I can only be surprised; I can never be disappointed but some situations such as this one get perilously close. There’s an old joke (I’m an old man, what did you expect) whose telling I shall spare you but whose punchline goes, “we’ve already established what you are; we’re just negotiating price.”