Many years ago, (I was an old man of fifteen or sixteen at the time,) in the child labor period of my life, I worked in a slaughter house for an eternity of about one month. (It was possibly less but I am certain it was not more.)

I suppose for some of us certain sights, sounds and experiences accumulate until just the right moment, and then like intestinal gas after a huge plate of beans and sauerkraut they must, no they demand to have the last word, so to speak, therefore I beg your indulgence as I relieve myself of a very nasty case of cerebral flatulence.
I have always endeavored to avoid stinky situations, (There was no way I could avoid the skunk.) but that slaughter house was rampant with odors that are embedded yet in the stone tablets of my memory.

There was the sickeningly sweet perfume of steaming hot blood, of bowels released, of fear, and then, always, there were those bleating and bawling sounds of terror that seemed to go on for an eternity.

And there was the wild expression of terror in those eyes just before the knocker swung his maul.

It seems, perhaps it is just me; that the political arena can at times be favorably, or unfavorably, I’ll let you choose, be compared to that bloody butchering place, a charnel house where our country, its morals and all that we hold dear is sliced up and divided amongst a bunch of immoral, amoral, bloody power brokers.

It doesn’t seem that it is about who can do the most for this potentially grand country of ours any more as much as what they can extract from it for their own selfish benefit and to satisfy their insatiable appetite for wealth and power.

Naming names is not what this is about for I fear that I have already offended some poor sensitive soul with my words and to give offense is not my purpose. (Well, perhaps just a little.)

Hey, just maybe I should write about four legged animals, they are far less dangerous.

You have a nice day now ya hear,

Ratty

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