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« U.S. News & World Onion? | Main | Democrats and Republicans Alike Have Failed the Nation »

July 17, 2008

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Comments

scratch out SUPERPOWER substitute with (Protectorate under corporate control.)

We need to get this info out there, to friends and McPatriots everywhere. Not to spread "doom and gloom" but simply because people who think they are "Number ONE!" will not work hard to improve things. Why bother if you think this is as good as it gets?

Spread the word, we are now the most obese, illiterate and violent people in the industrialized world. We don't have to be!

None.of.these.statistics.are.really.surprising.to
retired.school.teachers.my.age.and.grandmothers.my
age..The.Goals.2000.program.of.the.Clinton.Era.
destroyed.public.education.and.No.Child.Left.Behind
of.the.Bush.era.buried.it..All.primers.were.ditched;
grammar.and.spelling.books.ditched;.uniform.core
vocabulary.was.ditched.and.children.in.public.schools
were.at.the.mercy.of.the.little.group.in.the.back
room.who.wrote.the.curriculums.willy.nilly.Good
teachers.got.out.or.secretly.taught.behind.closed
doors...Fatherhood.was.detached.from.motherhood.and
family.life.was.reduced.to.the.doctor.and.the.mother's
right.to.go.on.with.life.or.not.Family.meals.disappeared.with.the.families.and.children.grew.up.on.fast.foods,
never.even.knowing.what.a.home.cooked.meal.tasted
like..The.heroes.were.manufactured.in.Hollywood.and
the.youth.were.left.to.write.their.own.values
manuals;only.no.one.ever.taught.them.how.to.write
a.complete.sentence..I.have.taught.children.from
African.countries.who.were.better.educated.and.more
literate.than.half.of.their.American.counterparts.in
the.classroom..The.deconstruction.of.American.education
was.politically.motivated.and.paid.for.by.taxpayer
dollars.from.the.Dept.of.Human.Resources.and.Education.
The.children.of.the.wealthy,of.course,were.sent.to
private.schools,were.properly.educated.and.will.run
the.world;.that.is.unless.the.disenfranchised.wake
up.someday,stop.spending.their.money.on.tattos.and
drugs.and.start.a.revolution.Unfortunately,with.the
exception.of.the.American.Revolution,which.is.now
a.distant.dream,they.usually.end.up.badly.for.all.

Having recently found this blog, I didn't realize until today that it promoted Leftist nonsense. Pathetic. Get serious.

Marion:my God I just found out that Albert Einstein promoted leftist nonsense! what a dummy he must have been!!!!!

Nub City

Times were hard in Vernon, jobs were scarce, so citizens, some of them, began cutting off their own digits to make ends meet, so to speak. "They literally became a fraction of themselves to become whole financially" was how the moviemaker put it.

"Hot damn!" Morris must have thought. Greed, degeneracy, self-mutilation, all set in the sweaty, small-town South. Just the sort of thing that would appeal to discerning film-folks in Manhattan, Los Angles and Atlanta. A winner at Cannes for sure.

So Morris moved in, set up shop, got to know people.

And hit a gothic goldmine.

He found a preacher who rhapsodized euphorically on the number of times Saint Paul used "therefore" in his letters (119 by his count) and who told his congregation that to find peace they needed to have a "therefore experience" of their own.

He met a local policeman who sat patiently for hours, waiting for something to happen, while philosophizing on why it didn’t.

And he discovered a turkey hunter whose passion for the sport took on an ethereal, existential quality as he observed how "you hear a turkey gobble, you forget all about diarrhea and everything."

However, the glue that Morris expected to hold it all together, the characters around whom the story would swirl, were the folks who weren’t quite all there, the amputees — he was gonna call the film "Nub City."

But he didn’t.

Seems that some of the subjects discovered what he was doing and the "king of the nubbies" told him that if he kept at it then the nub would be his neck ’cause his head would be gone. Now, Morris figured that anyone who would cut off something that was theirs would not hesitate to cut off something that was his, so the filmmaker decided to focus instead on preachers, policemen, turkey hunters and such, and be discretely silent about the rest.

---------------
In the late 1960s and early 1970s, the idea of trading body parts for cash on accident policies had just one name among insurance investigators around the country: Vernon, Florida. A backwoods town in the Florida Panhandle, Vernon had a general store, a combination post office/barber shop, one police car, and a main street that stretched only a block and a half. Selling reptiles from a roadside stand was a good business in Vernon, hunting turkeys, an obsession for some. For a time, though, losing limbs, fingers, arms, or legs in freak accidents became the town fashion. More than fifty such cases came out of Vernon in just a few years, a number that becomes all the more unusual when it is understood that the town's total population was less than 500. Investigators refused to name the town at the time, telling newspaper reporters only that they referred to it as Nub City. Self-amputees from the city, investigators said, were casually referred to as members of the Nub Club. “Somehow they always shoot off the parts they seem to need least,” one investigator remarked of the disproportionate number of left hands claimed lost as compared with right ones. Another investigator, John J. Healy of New York, worked cases in Vernon for a number of major insurers and later wrote about it at some length. “The second biggest occupation [in Vernon] seems to be the observation of hound dogs mating in the town square,” he noted back in 1975. “The biggest occupation was the deliberate maiming or severance of limbs to collect insurance money.” … To sit in your car on a sweltering summer evening on the main street of Nub City, watching anywhere from eight to a dozen cripples walking along the street, gives the place a ghoulish, eerie atmosphere.”

Most of the limbs lost in Nub City were shot off at close range with hunting rifles. The contrived accidents were all similar: triggers pulled unexpectedly as victims climbed fences; guns misfiring in the middle of being cleaned or after being dropped. And all of the mishaps involved men. (“Women never do dismemberments,” Healy later observed.) In the late 1950s, when the first claims came out of Nub City, a typical dismemberment was worth $1,500; by the early 1970s, the average claim was bringing tens of thousands of dollars. Over the years, Nub City got under the skin of investigator Healy, a nationally known expert in murder for insurance cases. “As inured as I am to all kinds of maimings and weird dismemberments, Nub City holds a morbid fascination for me,” he wrote. “I keep asking myself: How did it all start? What drove these people to sacrifice their limbs for money?” Healy tried to imagine the conversations that might have taken place between those who had already profited from losing a limb and those who were considering it. One man talks about the ten thousand dollars he got for his left hand and how he could use the money to buy a house or a car or a color television. “The other man looks at his own hand-the hand that probably has not earned him ten thousand dollars in five years,” Healy writes.

It is dirty, worn, the index finger crooked from a fracture that never was set straight. The fingers are tobacco-stained. He looks at it, turning it slowly, reflectively. Ten thousand dollars or more, he thinks. In one fell swoop. That's more money than he's ever seen in his life, probably more than he will ever see. He’s fifty years old and has been doing odd jobs for twenty years. He’s tired. His 1947 Plymouth may or may not start in the morning to get him to whatever job he may have.

In the end, the man completes a calculation that has been made by Americans at least since the depression of the 1890s, and probably earlier. “Does it hurt much?” he asks his friend, now talking more about strategy than principle. And with that, the deal is done, but for the bloody doing itself. A knowing look washes over the man’s face as he weighs the relative merits of knives, axes, or shotguns, and debates with friends the relative anesthetic properties of different brands of whiskey. “I hope I never have to go into that town again and see the mangled stump of an arm or a leg and listen to the old familiar story,” Healy concluded of Nub City. “But deep down inside me, I know that I will.”

From Ken Dornstein, Accidentally, on Purpose: The Making of a Personal Injury Underworld in America, (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1996), pages 265–6, footnotes omitted.

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