Portfolio prospectus

Protecting your investments during the Apocalypse
(and supporting those writers who just might save your butt)

27th January 2012


Ah, financial advice. You see it everywhere.

Girls in short pants gesticulating from the side of the road with a wiggle of the derriere and a sign begging you to sell your gold.

TV ads late at night show happy Mexicans emerging from check cashing places with burrito grins on their faces, only outside these same storefront Alamos, in real life, when the lights go down low, it's all crack dealers and hookers flittering from car to car, with a soft staccato patter of gunpops in the distance.

Remember all those things your parents bought you? You can't afford to buy them for your children, can you?

Hey, you voted for change. This was the change they had in mind.

Long gone are the practices of sending your kids to the store for a jug of milk, or to the park for a pickup ballgame.

Though many pervs have lately been imported from overseas, America over the last fifty years has principally produced several generations of vampires who cruise behind tinted windows, egged on by neurolinguistically honed technopop preconscious hypostasic programming urging everyone to make some stranger pay dearly for the pain they have endured, and, like cigarettes or booze or anything else inimical to your health that your brain somehow thinks is making you feel better, that's how twisted we have become.

We have been trained to get well on the very things that make us sick. This is who we are, as a society.

You can see it very clearly on the government's overt attack on anything that resembles healthy behavior. They want us all totally addicted to and dependent on them, and that's the very thing that will kill us most surely.

All financial stories are really about health, and health is always about securing our safety from hazard. So the question quickly devolves to ...

How can we protect ourselves from people who say they are our leaders but each day prove that they are our jailers, and, judging by what they do to the rest of the world, our torturers?

With the eerie and invisible cloud of radiation now enveloping the world and disintegrating everyone's respiratory systems, with decades of chemtrails penetrating bloodstreams with preplanned toxic objects, with a poisoned food supply and a trash-filled ocean, fiendish psychocops looking for invisible enemies up the rectums of the well-to-do, shrill news droids drooling salacious satisfaction from the tearing apart of Muammar Qaddafi's body in the bombed out streets of Sirte, and our reassuring leaders confidently recommending more crimes that happened some time ago that everyone has forgotten about as the future shrinks before our eyes with an unmistakable message emblazoned upon our corneas: "Your expiration date is about to come due!"

On several occasions while sending Moneygrams back and forth during dire emergencies, one particular friend and I have often talked about a subject expressed by the statement, "There is no money in the truth."

The maxim has perhaps compelled me to extrapolate that your salary is inversely proportional to the worth of what you're doing, but that of course would be a stretch, as there are plenty of decent people who make money without having to lie about what they do. Right?

More to the point for writers, the relation to payment for thoughts typed or recorded, no matter how tiny the effect, diminishes the trustworthiness of anything produced, and only the writers who make no concessions to this devil-and-Daniel-Webster category can write clearly and without compromise.

The active rule for this is Thomas Jefferson's "Freedom of the press cannot be limited without being lost". One percent of taint is one hundred percent of taint.

Because there is no such thing as a partial truth. Know a partial truth for what it is — a lie.

Everybody else I know is broke, trying to make whatever money they have stretch till the end of the month, trying to keep their cars running and their hovels warm; feeding the family is always the first thing, and the first thing any government should be doing, instead of spending billions on bombs for places we never heard from and never will go to.

So this is neither the best time nor the best way to mount an effective public relations campaign, stressing that the missing piece, love, must be factored into the equation of society, or we're going down the tubes — simple as that.

But that was your financial forecast. Here's mine.

Toward the end of each month, I keep my fingers crossed that a stray hundred dollar bill or two passes my way, which it usually does, mostly from the same five or six people who have signed on for the complete tour, but also, over time, from literally the four (or however many there are) corners of the world, not so much international now since the Jews began clamping down on my story venues five or six years ago.

What I receive each month from people who read my stories and are moved usually amounts to slightly more than I get from Social Security, totaling nowhere near two grand.

I can hang in on this because I have been living at more or less this level for 30 years, but when something goes wrong, I often see the end of my existence far too close to the front of my car, so to speak.

So here I sit pounding away on a new Mac laptop given to me by a trustworthy numbercruncher in Michigan, wearing clothes furnished by a metaphysical weightlifter also known as a psychologist in Pennsylvania, buying food with a regular check from one of the world's most profound tinkerers, and all this is sprinkled with little and not-so-little contributions from people whose names I recognize from other letters years ago, still listening to the keys I push as they go up and down, plus there's this plumber I know who on several occasions has fished me out the drain when I was about to be flushed.

Needless to say, for me, the muses arrived in January 2012. Whatever was holding me back is gone. The only thing holding me back now my own technological limitations and that great black cloud of Jewish censorship that blackens every aspect our lives.

But in the real world, things are difficult.

My 22-year-old car (which I bought for $500 more than two years ago through the intervention of several angels) has received the death penalty from my mechanic, which is what happens when repair costs surpass remaining value. But it's still running well, except for leaving a large puddle wherever it stops, and giving me the willies with the knowledge that the next time it breaks down will be its last. Very fatiguing, but at least I'm staying home more and writing more. Don't dare chance it to take it all the way out to the beach, though.

I'v never done that well at either supporting or promoting myself, always focused on one obscure mission or another. I would say my bank balance hovers below the $500 mark as much as it is ever above it. My financial eligibility for FEMA camp therapy seems firmly established.

It's only when it dips into double digits that I really start to worry, and sometimes when that happens you get a story like this.

But now with the mastery of so much suppressed data it's such a pleasure to explain what's gone wrong, because I've figured out a way to fix it, if everyone would actually decompress a little and really listen to what I've been saying.

In any case, toward this goal will I continue. Unless we all work to see that everybody gets home safely, none of us ever will.

Thanks for all those nice things you said.

One of these days I'll figure out a way to sell you something, but spending time thinking about that takes away time from covering this mess we're in and the clock that's ticking has an alarm which if it goes off nobody's going to be selling anything to anyone.

John Kaminski is a writer who lives on the Gulf Coast of Florida, constantly trying to figure out why we are destroying ourselves, and pinpointing a corrupt belief system as the engine of our demise. Solely dependent on contributions from readers, please support his work by mail:

250 N. McCall Rd. #2,
FL 34223

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