Fred:

Thanks, man -- for a first class post. Truly.

There's a sort of band of activity where a person is too afraid to be angry, and too angry to flee, where the whole specturm of passive aggression and underhanded attack, backstabbing, the smiling knife-wielding pissant mewling back-channel underminer -- you know the kind -- comes in to play. Sometimes I think this brand of cat is the most dangerous animal in society --they can do all kinds of artsy arrays to appear as high-toned and uptown as sunrise, and their actual actions are just leaving broken lives behind them. These are the whisperers, the gossips with nothing good to say, the bleating fearful souls who must dissemble to survive. These are the ones who lock on to creative action and somehow turn it into dust, or who make the world appear like an uninhabitable and dangerous place by painting huge generalities designed to induce fear.

They cover themselves with pretenses of virtue, or religious trappings, or strange bureaucratic nounless balderdash designed with full intent to prevent understanding, to distract and misdirect attention.   They come in all shapes and forms, and they wear all sorts of cheery disguises. Big companies are often rich with these weevils.

Frankly, they piss me off.

Or maybe I had already made that clear.

And maybe their influence is one of the common widespread and undetected causes of violence -- folks needled to the point of madness by the secret whisperers of the world.

A