The harbor pilot

Dedicated to Vincent vanGogh and the 2011 graduating class of every school at every level everywhere in the known world.

3rd February 2011



The captain and first mate were chatting on the bridge, miles from nowhere, and a fog bank up ahead, still low on the portside horizon.

“Religion is such a waste of time,” the captain whined, biting the end of his smoldering pipe, and causing a sharp pang in the throat of his much younger, somewhat evangelical first mate. “All it does is keep you from seeing God how He really is, because they tell you who they say he is, and if you’ve spent any time out in the real world, you know for sure that’s not who He really is.”

The first mate adjusted his microphone. “I’m not so sure the good book doesn’t have some good examples of how people can be good,” he offered timidly, adding, “not to mention it does have good news.”

“It’s bogus,” the skipper sputtered. “It passes itself off as an authority on attributes that people already possess, fetishizes the practice of reminding them of it, and then charges them for doing it.

“Not to mention turning your brain to mush by preventing you from even considering any other frame of reference, most of which are far more relevant and beneficial to your life than the homey, mind-control homilies like ‘render unto Caesar’ that priests are fond of laying on you. Given any thought to the relevance of Jesus on one of Jupiter’s moons lately?”

Realizing for the umpteenth time that he would be beaten badly in any further conversation of these matters, the early 30s first mate tried to change the subject.

He blurted: “I find the sense of what I’d hoped to be much finer than what I have eventually discovered. Therefore, this is proof that we can achieve our future, as our goals continue to evolve based on expanding information. We keep looking, and it doesn’t quite measure up, so we keep looking. This is a great game, when you think about it. We may never get to the end of it, but what a great quest just to chase it, and build on the knowledge for those to follow.”

The wizened old captain yanked the pipe out of his mouth and smiled. “That’s more like it, meeboy! But before we pass out of this channel, and the harbor pilot comes aboard, let me update you on some new information you may not have heard, occupied as you usually are with your various universes on the Universewideweb. This is the very latest news.

“Jesus Christ has come out and declared himself the eternal enemy of all the Christian churches, for all the perfidy they have condoned and the crimes that they have committed over these many bloody centuries.” The captain gnashed onto his pipe and threw a cursory glance at the rising fog bank now seeping toward the port bow. “But besides that,” the skipper continued, “the whole mythology is a farce about control, standardizing people’s beliefs to reduce conflict and increase control over the choices they make and the money they spend.

“The great scam is that humans are bad — it’s the scam of all organized religions and the scam of all governments. If people have enough food, stay healthy, and raise honest children, the only problem that remains is those who try to make money without working who invent scams to live off the labors of others. Only morality in government can prevent that, and that has never happened — at least not for very long — in history, because bureaucracy is always overtaken by corruption when whatever common sense of past generations is not renewed and consolidated by the future. When these historical precedents are carried over into succeeding generations, the message is always diminished, until corruption eventually totally reverses the original message, as we see now in the churches, stressing the nation of Israel as more important than the message of Christ. Instead of spreading His message, they’re erasing it. Remember the words “synagogue of Satan.” Now the church says he’s our friend, and we should tolerate him. Jesus would turn over in his grave, if he had one.”

The first mate regarded his mentor respectfully, and offered, “The Ten Commandments have served us as pretty good rules over time.”

The captain looked at the first mate with a paternal eye. “It’s a scam, laddie. Listen to me.

“I’m going to give you five reasons why humans are a beautiful and reliable lot that will blow your Ten Commandments to hell. The great financial fathers have imposed these rules on us to regulate us so that we won’t rise up against them, and as a result, they have stunted and are stunting our growth. But all they’re doing is covering up the real humans, that are greater, more compassionate and more peaceful than the droids they produce in their God fearing schools who are known for their lying and their hypocrisy after being drilled for years with that insane pious muck that teaches nothing except how to kill on command.”

The skipper, now moderately worked up, took a deep breath and continued. “Humans know the basic things. They don’t have to be told. Maybe if we treated more people like adults there’d be fewer children, eh?”

The first mate settled in for the lecture as the fog bank, now grown to enormous proportions, began to engulf the forecastle in mist.

“The first thing is love. What does the church teach about love? Don’t do it! Isn’t that what you heard? You don’t have to tell humans anything about love, although you do have to constantly remind children of the consequences of certain acts. No church, no philosophy can teach what happens between a boy and a girl about the age of 13. It’s hardwired into the animal, a cultural courtship best observed among brilliantly plumed African birds circling each other on the savannah, but also seen in convertibles at drive-ins snarfing burgers. Spring. It’s about life. And no celibate saint has a goddamned thing to say about it, except to try to take control of it with his regulations.

“The second thing is a mother’s love. Surely you’ve watched a mama bear with cubs on the Wild Kingdom TV show or, God help you, in the wild. It is beyond comprehension, the etheric bond that triggers mindboggling responses from the giver of the care to her young. Nothing in the Bible about that, for sure. And this is the one human trait to be revered above all else.”

“The third thing is how every person in the world, at least those young and fit enough to have moderate alacrity and physical capability, will act automatically to save another person from drowning. Every single one of us. I bet you didn’t know that. The churches try to say to follow their example and that’s why you save someone else, but that’s not it, at all. It’s instinctual and automatic, built into the preliterate human mindset. All preachers try to convince you that you get it from them, but it’s just one of the many lies they tell you to keep you in line.

“And that segues nicely into the fourth thing, instinctual knowledge and unspoken communication, which is best seen in our contact with animals, both pets and enemies. How many old ladies’ lives have been saved by cats and parakeets when otherwise the walls of time would have long ago enfolded said pet owner in certain darkness? How many old men bereft of baublier bank accounts found the friend they always wanted in a hound? And whoever can hear the whales and understand what they say knows far more than any god can ever teach. I’m forever hung up on the story of the elephants in India, who, when one of their kin was struck and killed by a train in a remote section of forest, dozens of them gathered around their departed friend and cried out loud for a day and a half.

“Fifth and final, me lad, is that everybody on this planet can tell automatically and almost without thinking — this is universal no matter what the level of language development — when somebody else is getting screwed, not something complex, but something obvious. The universal feeling is to root for the underdog, to have some inner knowledge that predates all the teaching, to demand justice from the world, which is why so many of us are so often frustrated when that appears not to be the way the world really is.

“So, matey, you can take your Ten Commandments and I’ll take my five obvious facts about human beings and senses they intrinsically possess without any obnoxious religious training, and I’ll tell you this — I’ll have a much better time with more honest people who will try to make me happy rather than berate and inveigle me with complex false strategies to escape the discomfort that pursues them. Did you get all that, my boy?”

The first mate spoke seriously. “Captain, we’re totally fogged in.”

“All stop!” the captain barked. “All stop!” the first mate poured into the microphone in a measured but penetrating way. “Right five degrees rudder,” the skipper added. “Aye sir,” said the mate, tugging on the wheel.

“Is the harbor pilot on board?” the captain asked. At that moment the hatch on the stern bulkhead of the wheelhouse creaked open, and crewmen ushered in the harbor pilot, covered in a yellow rain slicker and wearing an oversized black fedora. Dare I tell you he had a long black beard?

To use a baseball metaphor, a harbor pilot is like a relief pitcher for the captain of any big ship. The harbor pilot knows the idiosyncrasies of his harbor, along with the wind and tidal proclivities and conditions, plus is up on the latest logistical news of other sealane traffic, so that the pilots of the ships at sea can relax a bit in the knowledge that here is a man (usually a man) who really knows his job and can be trusted.

The harbor pilot shook a wave of rainwater off his slicker and announced himself.

“I am Rabbi Fausto F. Frankenstein, harbormaster for the port of New York, capital of the Jewish World Empire.” (The F. we were later to learn stood for Flagellus, famous Phoenician slavemaster during the Punic Wars.)

“I am here to announce that you are under arrest for propagating ideas that are contrary to the Jewish rules of truculent subservience that you have violated repeatedly, especially your continuing effort to lift the wool from sheeple eyes regarding the masterpiece of Jewish death art known as the 9/11 caper, or as we like to call it, the Big Goy Sandwich.”

“What cargo are you carrying?” the harbor pilot demanded to know.

“Supplies for starving people and knowledge about how to escape the Jewish world conspiracy,” the captain responded clearly but curtly.

“May I use your radiophone?” the harbor pilot said. The captain made eye contact with the first mate, then scratched his armpit, something he very rarely did. Harbor pilot Frankenstein spoke into the phone.

“Goymaster One to Base, come in.” The phone emitted a scratchy response. “Send a grade two airship swat squad to the following location . . .

At that point the captain yanked the phone out of the harbor pilot’s hand and nailed him with a stepaway left hook that he’d learned so long ago watching the Canizales brothers (Orlando and Manny) dispatch opponents who never once saw the punch coming. It dropped the harbor pilot to the floor in a heap of yellow plastic and black felt. In short order, the first mate and a couple of boatswains gathered up the Jewish lump of Talmudic hatred, dragged him out of the wheelhouse and threw him over the side into the botulinic brine of New York harbor.

The skipper turned to the first mate send, “I guess we won’t make port here.” “Sounds like a good idea,” said the mate.

“Right full rudder, all ahead one third; when you reverse course, it’s all ahead full.”

“Right full rudder,” echoed the mate. And the ship began to turn around.

“Where are we going to go?” said the mate, relieved but depressed.

“To the place where dreams are made,” the skipper responded. “To a place where we are not ruled by insane people who try to make everybody else insane just like them, to a place where real people do real things and get along with everybody else because it’s such a pleasure, and we can live our short little lives in sweetness and tranquility . . . for as long as we both shall live,” the captain tittered, emitting the closest he could come to a giggle.

“Where is this place?” the mate asked, “and when do we arrive?” At that moment the ship emerged from the fogbank.

“I don’t know,” said the captain, “but I’ll let you know when we get there.”


John Kaminski is a writer who lives on the Gulf Coast of Florida, urging people to understand that no problem in the world can be authentically addressed without first analyzing tangents caused by Jewish perfidy, which has subverted and diminished every aspect of human endeavor throughout history. Support for his work is wholly derived from people who can understand what he’s saying and know what it means.

250 N. McCall Rd. #2,
Englewood
FL 34223
USA


Interesting addendum: My Mac spellchecker wanted to change “sheeple” to “shekel.” Hmm.

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