Way back in the annals of ancient history, my baby-boomer high school English Class was busy reading George Orwell’s “Animal Farm”. A common assignment in those days, likely because it mirrored the author’s hatred of Communism, and constituted an important part of the “Better Dead than Red” curriculum and The American Empire’s young, impressionable mind indoctrination agenda of that period. Indeed highly successful, for I recall that being called a Commie was an equal insult to one of the guys bragging that he’d been boinking your mom or sister.
The original title was “Animal Farm: A Fairy Story”, and it certainly was an unlikely scenario. Although I have a vague recollection of the anti-Communist aspect of the tale, it was largely lost on me. Rather, the possibility of farm animals pulling off a successful revolution against their abusive owners seemed just too wild to comprehend. A true fairy story. After all, aren’t pigs, cows, sheep, chickens, and turkeys just brainless, walking, breathing meat, with no other purpose in their miserable lives but to sacrifice their flesh to the voracious human masses? They have no sense of purpose, no comprehension of their captivity and meaningless existence on death row. No hopes, no dreams, no passions, or desires. Lesser creatures, and ours to use, abuse, manipulate, rape, murder, and masticate
Admittedly, I turn seventy in a few weeks, and have become somewhat bitter about the likelihood that my final hours will likely help grease the wheels of Pfizer and Eli Lilly, and build more hospitals and crematoriums to facilitate the final processing of this battered bag of bones and meat. I just completed extensive research, and found that there are a humungous shitload of pharmaceutical companies with obscene profits in the gazillions. Meantime, research into disease prevention and that ugly four-letter word (cure) are piss poor to damn near nonexistent.