Back in the '60s, “elite immunity” had a different nomenclature in the U.S. Army. The cat who was a PC — the privileged character who did not pull details like guard, KP, or CQ Runner — they were a carryover from World War II when this dismal dude was known as a “goldbrick”. Today we have our Washington “sacred cows” because they are artificially created beings who have the new world vision and are carrying us into a new age. This crap has been around forever and a day. The old term was “riding the gravy train”. A multitude of sins is overlooked for the salvation of the “few” who are already filthy rich, and more than rich, they are “idle”. They get their hair all fixed up to look like “spring chickens”, but they are the Eastern version of the California condor. They have the unique talent of shipwrecking the land bound of us all. The bedrock of their essence is the mooch. You can never embarrass the mooch who, in the form of your brother-in-law, comes to live with you, on the couch with his worldview. Richard Nixon walked down six feet of the Great Wall of China, but this buddy walks all over your CB transmissions of “good buddy”, bringing a six-pack to the house 10–4. I know you can’t prosecute them, but they should hit a lick every now and then. This house of cards is built on only hot talking. All the fat cats do is insult each other and make the rest of the world laugh to no end, but I have a solution: the Hollywood stuntman for Broderick Crawford and so the Washington stuntman who gets into hot action for the eternal blabbermouth. This stud could turn flips and disarm a plant in crowd of a “Make War Not Peace!” sign. They just live in a world of their own. Back then it was Lon Chaney, the man with a thousand faces; now the lawyers at the top not only reinvent the “truth” but also, like David Bowie, constantly reinvent themselves until they get cancer of the liver or something. Then you don’t have immunity. If you take politics and the people who wire the beast up as a reality of some sort of pure religion to save you, then you are doomed. One of my favorite books of long, long ago, when I saw the great writers and not the great professional liars, held the clue of what to do, I fell in love with The Glass Bead Game of Hermann Hesse. True, he died in a nuthouse and the book can be a real downer, but it beats Faust. As Buddy Holly sang, “Rave on!” It is a funny feeling no one is immune from.